Sex. One of the major fringe benefits of marriage. It’s fun, entertaining, free and it feels good. Everything else that comes along with marriage? Sometimes notsomuch.
Remember the good old days? Back in the beautiful budding relationship stage. You followed your golden rule, no sex until the third date. Oh wait, was that just me? Once you started, you just couldn’t stop. All day, every day…well, maybe just on the weekends and bank holidays. It didn’t matter where or when. Living room, curtains drawn, noon on Sunday. The neighbor that lives a split hair away is out “watering his garden”. No, he’s not watching your naked bodies gyrating on the couch. But you don’t care, you’re young and in love. And you? Even swallow.
Months later, you’re excitedly making wedding plans in-between the rounds of the best sex of your adult life.
Your virginal white wedding is here. You’re decked in white, despite the fact that you’ve been actively having sex since two weeks after you turned 16 with that hot football player from the Senior class at the rival high school.
Now you’re married. Sex? Is still great. No, it’s better than great. It’s fabulous. Because you don’t need to use protection anymore. You’re…sigh…married now.
Low and behold and OH so shockingly, you find yourself pregnant 2 months after you returned from the honeymoon. And…you’re already 8 weeks in. Hmmm…do the math.
There’s going to be a little you and him. Awww.
Pregnant sex. Good lord, no one ever told you how intense those pregnancy hormones can make your orgasms. You’re still enjoying sex like newlyweds. Until you get a little mountainous and the baby’s head is practically hanging from your vagina.
Things start to change. And by things, you’re giving your husband more blow jobs than ever before. Because you? Aren’t allowed to have sex right now for fear of the baby being poked in the head by your husbands pecker.
Baby comes along.
No more quickies. No more sweeping aside the Chinese take out and banging on the kitchen table.
Six weeks later, you try to rekindle the passion. But you’re still bleeding and you’re both exhausted from a colicky cutie-pie. Not to mention, this breast-feeding gig has your nipples split open like an overripe watermelon. Which, ironically, is how heavy they feel.
Things settle down. You get used to being tired, it becomes the new way of life. The bleeding stops. And you want each other again.
The baby is sleeping soundly. You pounce on each other, mouths move over places they hadn’t been in ages. Hands exploring. Juices flowing.
The baby, who had been sleeping SO SOUNDLY YOU SWEAR TO G-D…
Damn. Damn. Damn.
You nurse the baby. He falls asleep and you lay him down in your bed. And you and your husband…throw down on the floor. Oh yes, nothing is going to stop this interlude.
This continues for a couple of years. Sex on the floor is more common than in the bed. And that’s ok. Because you’re still having sex.
A couple of more kids later.
He’s bringing home the bacon.
You’re frying it up and quite possibly burning it in the pan because you got sidetracked due to blogging and twittering AND mothering.
The kids grow. You fit in sex when you can.
Suddenly and without warning, it’s back to how it used to be. OK, maybe not as much but sex is more frequent and holy crap, is it SATISFYING.
No more screaming babies.
Now you have preschoolers walking in during your mid morning romp. “Yes honey, Mommy and Daddy are hugging.” “Yes honey, we like to be naked when we hug.”
Now, you have teenagers walking in mid 69 wondering where their brush is.
Then. One day. They are all gone. All that’s left in the family home are the original founding members of the family.
You’re back to gyrating on couches with drapes open and throwing Chinese take out off the kitchen table to do some schtupping. Only, maybe without as much energy.
No one is there to interrupt you anymore.
OH, the things to look forward to. Minus the wrinkles.
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