If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that line, the line I’ve never fully understood: “Sex isn’t physical for me, it’s more emotional.” Instant buzz-kill, right? Oh how I wish for the day when emotions would be set on the nightstand for long enough to satisfy the drive. Red Riding Hood is my only partner, my only kiss, my only experience. I don’t wish for more experience, since I’m more than happy to stick with the basics, although I do wish for more. More intimacy, less restraint, more passion, less drama.
Allow me to back it up (twss) for a minute and fill you in on my long, illustrious sexual history. I was born as a man. Not like 40 years old with a beard, but with those instincts that go along with heavy doses of testosterone and a masculine family culture. As I grew I discovered the amazingly vast amount of free internet porn. Every guy does, right? I’ve always written it off as a habit I’ll break someday, but someday hasn’t come. I have no kinkiness or fetishes, but I know my type damn well. I play that psychological game where you live a valiant life in order to pay for the regret you have once you feed your addiction. The goal was to save myself for marriage. By “saving myself” I mean that I turned my nose up at people who lived more physically liberal lives. I never held hands, kissed, sexted, or even really flirted with girls. It was so drastically different from what everyone else was doing that everyone assumed I was gay at one point or another.
Red and I took our time, pacing every little move until it felt like our bodies were going to be ripped apart unless we got busy. She was my first everything, my only everything. As kids with little to no outside influence beyond our families and very selectively chosen friends, we had no physical baggage to carry. That was nice. I don’t regret anything in my life; regret is like picking up the pieces knowing full well that your time could be spent on building things again.
I’ll always remember the first time we went past second base. In my Mom’s car, overlooking a huge canyon. Thank whatever for SUVs and tinted windows. At some point I think Little Red figured out that I would do almost anything to have her. That’s where things get sad and frustrating.
Have you ever waited all day to eat, starving yourself intentionally? Imagine that you go home, open the cupboards, and find food that you’ve made your own. Your body aches for your food. You want more of it, less waiting, more flavor, less guilt. Then the food goes and puts on fucking sweats and a hoodie, grabs some Girl Scout cookies, and settles into How I Met Your Mother reruns? Yup, story of my married sex life. You can’t reason, seduce, persuade, suggest, or tempt the food you crave. Nope, it doesn’t feel like you’ve paid it much attention all day and you “never even take it anywhere like dates.”
Ok, enough of that food stuff, I’m stretching it already.
Sex should be a free-flowing connection that can’t be broken by situational contingencies. Yeah, sometimes I smell like I’ve been rolling in carburetor cleaner and pipe tobacco…because I was. And yeah, sometimes she’s been on her feet for 11 hours at work and the moment just isn’t there. Withholding sex is even more silly than the silent treatment. It hurts. Sex is emotional on both sides. She wants to be shown that I want more of her than only her body, and I want to be shown that she appreciates me by loving my body.
If I had sex 20 times in the last year I’d be surprised. Red should publish a book full of excuses to sell to other wives who hold sex as the carrot to drive their mules insane. At this point in our relationship we sleep in the same bed and cuddle when it’s cold. Sometimes we kiss each other hello and goodbye.
Maybe it’s time to finally define our relationship here on the old interwebs.