Sex is a Strange Thing

It'’s one of the most basic animal urges but, like food and shelter, we humans have taken it so far beyond a basic need that there are huge industries built around satisfying it. Himself and I have enjoyed a rich and colourful sex life since the inception of our relationship, and it’'s an important part of that relationship. For me, it’'s also been the touchstone of the strength and rightness of it, of us.

As I'’ve mentioned previously, before Himself I had never had much interest in sex. It was just something I didn'’t get, along with surrealist films, fried mushrooms and scotch. I tried to be wild during university, but an inability to drink to excess and a general lack of physical arousal meant I didn'’t get very far. It just didn'’t seem worth it. So I played D&D with a bunch of geeks every Friday and Saturday night, and marveled at the poor treatment my friends were willing to tolerate from their dates because the sex was great.

In a way I was lucky, I suppose. By not falling for the wrong guys because they were great in bed, I was spared a fair amount of heartbreak Unfortunately, I did eventually fall for the wrong guy, and it took us almost 9 years of marriage to figure out that it wasn't going to work. For him, I learned to fake it reasonably well, although in the last few years when we argued, he had no qualms about throwing my frigidity in my face. I never told him the whole truth, either - that I had never been enamoured of sex with him, and that I only did it to please him. In hindsight, the whole faking thing was probably a mistake. But I was young, naïve, and trying to do the right thing, to respond the way he wanted me to. And I thought there was something wrong with me, and wanted to hide it.

When I met Himself, we were both at the end of rapidly disintegrating marriages, both had young daughters, damaged egos, and not a lot of self confidence. Both of us expected to be alone. But he took a chance and asked me out. And the first time he held me in his arms, I understood desire. It felt like there was a current running between us, setting all my nerves alight, and I couldn'’t get close enough to him. He gifted me with my first orgasm, then my first multiple, and I realized there had never been anything wrong with me. I just needed the right man. And I thank whatever deities there are that I found him. Because as incredible as our sex life is, it'’s the least important part of our relationship.

But I treasure it because whenever I have doubts about myself - and I have many at times -– I can remind myself that if I was wrong about being frigid, I can be wrong about the other flaws I see, too.

* * * * *

So why am I sitting here writing now, instead of curled up in satiated sleep?

Because I'’m feeling guilty for wanting more, and for telling Himself as much this evening. He has always been wonderful about playing out my fantasies (fantasies, I might add, that I never had until he came into my life), which generally involve being helpless and at his mercy. I enjoy feeling like I am not responsible for my own pleasure. I don'’t know why this is, what drives my desire to not be in control, but I no longer worry about it as we both enjoy playing. We have amassed a reasonable collection of toys that Himself applies to great effect, and I adore feeling wanton and desirable and slightly scandalous.

But we have children, and careers (well, he has a career, I have a job, but it suffices for now), and a household to run, and blogs to blog, and we don’'t spend a lot of time playing any more. Partly out of concern that someone short will interfere at an inopportune moment, creating the need for some potentially awkward explanations. Partly from lack of time and energy. Partly, I suppose, because we've been together for over 6 years and this is what happens. So our toys languish unused, and I miss our bedroom adventures.

It'’s not that regular vanilla sex isn'’t great -– it is, the 4 or 5 times a week we indulge. Which puts me well above average for women my age, and I shouldn’'t complain. And I'’m not, really. I could happily handle sex like this for at least another 60 or 70 years.

But I suffer from a small internal voice that nags and harangues me whenever I let my guard down -– a running monologue that threads its way through my voluntary thoughts. I'’m getting better at dealing with it, largely thanks to Himself'’s support and advice. But it pipes up at the most inconvenient of times, including when we’'re making love. Sometimes it just murmurs a running list of things I need to remember, or meant to tell him during the day -– but it'’s irritating and distracting at a time when I wish to be neither irritated nor distracted.

And the one thing I could rely on to shut it off completely was playing with my beloved, being a plaything for my beloved. Letting myself be helpless in private made me feel stronger in public; giving him control over me gave me more control over myself.

And I worry that I'’m being selfish, greedy for wanting more when I already have so much more than most.