Bedroom Misadventures Episode 8

Sometimes I wonder where time went.  It seems like it was just last week I was grabbing my backpack, scrambling for a lost notebook, and sprinting across campus to a class I was late for.  Again.  But really, that was years ago.

Husband and I have not quite hit middle age yet, but we're already having the not-as-young-as-we-used-to-be feelings.  He's losing his hair and I'm starting to see the first faint line of wrinkles around my eyes.  It's not much, and I know those older than us will be rolling their eyes, but it's enough to know we are changing.  Our we-can-do-it-all teens and twenties are behind us.

After an evening of fun that lasted perhaps a little longer than usual, Husband started complaining about his back.  He had arched it at some point, further than he should have, and for a day or two needed help putting his socks on.  He couldn't bend far enough to reach his feet.

He was sore for several days after.  In fact, he's still sore.  At one point, he was trying to get up from lying on the couch and announced that he felt like a turtle.  Because I'm a good wife and a nice person, I've been massaging his back and helping out when he needs help, but inside I was laughing.  Hard.

And then I woke up this morning with a sore shoulder and pain running down my ribs.  It had to do with me supporting my weight awkwardly during sex.  All of the sudden it's not so funny.

Painless Fellatio Position

Little Deeper Cushion

Husband and I have a varied and healthy sex life.  That includes fellatio.  I don't have any philosophical problems with it, since we believe in variety and Husband greatly enjoys it, but I've always had a physical issue.  Although I've had a bit of jaw pain every now and then, it was fleeting and vanished in a few moments.  However, no matter what position I was in, I ended up with nasty muscle pain in my neck and shoulders.  I could go for about 10 or 15 minutes before the tense pain showed up.  If it was a day where he was taking 20 or 30 minutes, I had two options: push through or stop.  If I pushed through, I'd be sore.  If I stopped, we'd both be disappointed, although Husband always says I'm free to stop if I need to (and sometimes I do).

We've experimented with different positions.  Laying between his legs, both on our sides, him standing with me kneeling, him sitting and me laying, him sitting and me kneeling, me sitting with him standing...the list goes on.  Then I started reading some better sex books, and even some that were all about fellatio.  My technique improved, but no matter what, the neck and shoulder pain came.

And then...and then...I found it.  The position.  A position that I can stay in for a half hour or 45 minutes with no pain and no lasting soreness.  Not only do I not get sore, but we're able to look at and touch each other without anything in the way.

This magic position involves Husband slumping on the couch, with his upper back against the back of the couch, his butt forward, feet on the floor, knees wide.  Meanwhile, I'm sitting on my Little Deeper Cushion with my rear on the higher part, and my legs folded on the lower part.  The cushion is very, very important.  Not a pillow, not a towel, but specifically the Little Deeper Cushion.  It holds me in the perfect position with little to no stress on my arms, shoulders, and neck.  Now I'm much happier and more willing, which makes him happier, too.

And Then I Got a Piercing Part 3

Looking for Part 1 or Part 2?

You'd think that once I had the actual piercing done, there'd be nothing more to say.  Maybe I'd have to deal with some infection later on or something.  But really, all you have to do is take a look at my Bedroom Misadventures to know that things tend to go wrong around me.  Seriously, yesterday I was stepping into my flip flops and fell backwards over a nightstand and into a wall.  Not only that, I am a chronic, obsessive worrier.

So I was lounging with Husband on the bed, exhausted, spent, and enjoying the attention of my hot, redhead husband that suddenly couldn't keep his hands off me.  He asked me about how I thought the piercings look.  I glanced down at them, and was suddenly horrified.

"They aren't straight!" I gasped.

"What?  They look fine."

"No, they don't.  LOOK.  This one is crooked.  It angles this way.  And look, this one angles that way. They both go diagonally inward, like a V.  And look at the left one.  It looks like she got way too far onto my actual nipple."  I was starting to panic that my body may reject the piercings and/or I'd have to have them redone.

He laughed a little at me, but had to admit they did sort of angle inwards, and one did look like the hole was a little far out.

*Sigh.*  This is about to get a little embarrassing, but I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you the whole truth of the matter.  There was nothing wrong with the piercings.  They looked a little odd because, well, skin moves.  And nipples are sometimes erect, sometimes not, and depending on how the skin is laying will affect how the piercing looks.  Later on in the day, they looked like they were angled the complete opposite way.  And the one piercing that looked like it was out too far?  It moved back into it's proper place.

Of course, I still had to get through the day.  Husband kept his promise and took over the more heavy/dirty/sweaty chores from me.  In addition, he did listen to me complain.  A lot.  But something else happened, too.  He kept sneaking glances at me.  Slyly, trying to hide it.  I'd never seen him do that.  I finally told him that he's allowed to look at me, and is welcome to look if he wanted to.  Since then he has occasionally asked me, just at random times, to see the piercings, and I, enjoying his reaction, occasionally offer to show him.  And, the sex has been amazing.  I'm not saying that to brag or be crass, but it's an important part of the story.  I had new, heightened sensitivity (and novelty, and oooh, shiny...) and he had a new visual stimulant.  Doesn't take a genius to figure out how those go together.

But I'm getting a little off topic.  Anyway, in the late afternoon of that first day, I took a shower.  I heard a small sound.  Just the tiniest plink.  So quiet that at first it didn't even register that I heard it.  I was rinsing off, turned around to face the water, and then I saw it.  A teeny, tiny metallic something on the floor of the tub.  For a second, I didn't make the connection.  I looked down at my new piercings.  One of them was missing the ball on the end.  The drain holes on the tub are really big.  Then it all clicked.  I rushed to grab the ball before it was lost forever down the drain and screamed for Husband.

"What, what is it?" he said.

"The ball came off!" I said, completely panicked.

"Oh.  Well, put it back on," he replied, completely calm.

Put it back on.  Sometimes, I'm an idiot.  But my fingers were wet so I had to have him do it.  From that point onward, every time I do the routine thrice daily washing of the piercings, I give the balls a little tighten to ensure this doesn't happen again.

By the end of the first day, I was already feeling better.  Most of the soreness had gone except when I bumped them or cleaned them.  When I did clean them, they became sore again for a little while.  Otherwise, after the first few hours after the piercing, I felt better.

Until bedtime.

I happen to be a stomach sleeper, and the piercings were most certainly in the way.  I spent a fitful night trying to stay in sleeping positions that just don't feel natural to me.  Even when I was asleep, I was vaguely aware of the piercings.  When I rolled over onto my stomach at one point, I woke up minutes later with both a physical and mental agitation.  I slept on and off throughout the night, and when I woke up in the morning, I felt over my shirt for my piercings to make sure the balls had not fallen off again.  I felt nothing.  Panicked, I rushed to the bathroom, flipped on the light, and pulled my shirt open.  Both piercings still there, just pressed against my skin.

A day later, day 3, one of the piercings started aching.  Did I mention I tend to jump to the worst case scenario?  What if my body is rejecting the piercing?  What if I have an infection?  What if I'm getting an abscess?  What if I'm allergic to the metal?  What if this somehow kills me?

See where my mind goes?  Can you imagine what goes on in my head sometimes?  It's exhausting.

The next night, I slept a little better, but still woke up on and off and was plagued by worst case scenario nightmares.  When I felt like I was finally in a deep sleep, Husband snuggled up against me.  It was morning.

"I'm awake!" he whispered.  "I've been awake for a while."

I looked over at him.  "Great.  I'm not."

"Oh," he said.  He felt a little bad.  He really thought I was awake when he, you know, woke me up from a dead sleep.  "You can go back to sleep."

"No, I can't."

"Why?"

"Because I'm already awake and talking to you."

In his defense, under normal circumstances, I would have woken up long before.  As it was, I felt unsteady on my feet but the time for sleep had passed.  I got up, threw on some clothes, and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror.  I noticed my hair was doing a Bride of Frankenstein thing.  I tried to fix it a bit, but gave up.

Husband came in behind me.  "You look tired," he noted.  Boy, was the guy asking for a smack.

The next night I had more nightmares.  I dreamed something had gone wrong and I was trying to call the piercer to see if it was normal or what to do.  I looked at her card, but only found the number of the shop (which in the dream I couldn't call for some reason).  Woke up again, panicked, and again thought my piercings were gone.  Pulled my shirt up and felt for them.  Oh, good, they're still there.  Oh, crap, I just put dirty hands all over my fresh piercings.

I'm tired.  I'm very, very tired.  Mostly because I can't get comfortable at night, and that is definitely affecting my mindset.  Sometimes I think that I am one hot momma, but other times I wonder what in the name of all things I was thinking by agreeing to this.  I'm still working out my feelings on it.  At the moment, I don't love it, I don't hate it, although during different times of day I do both those things.  Perhaps I'll end up loving them.  Perhaps in a few weeks I'll get tired of them and take them out.  I'm not sure yet.

Part 4 to come, but later, after some healing time and when I decide if I like it.

And Then I Got a Piercing Part 2

Miss Part 1?  Find it here.

The morning that would become that morning, I took the kids to school, ate breakfast, chatted with Husband.  Then we went to run some errands together, since he didn't have work that day.  I decided that since we were going out, and the piercing studio would be open soon, we might as well swing by and have a look.

"Just a look," I said.  "I'm not committing to anything other than going there and looking."

"Sure," he said.  But he knew.  Oh, he knew.  An agreement to a trip out there was as good as a yes from me.  He was right, but I wasn't going to say it.

We finished our shopping, although I was having great waves of nausea.  That's my anxiety kicking in.  I knew I wanted to go and at least look, mentally I knew this was my choice and I was making it, but my heart and stomach seemed to have missed the memo and thought I was about to be eaten by a rather large and possibly rabid bear.  Still, I made it through the store, Husband by my side, took a quick pit stop at home, and drove out to the piercing studio.  It's a good thing that it's such a highly regarded place, since it also happens to be the only one anywhere near us.  But, I had done my research and almost everyone had only good things to say.  And I had only really committed to looking.  At least, that's the only thing I had committed to out loud.

We arrived just after they opened.  It was a long rectangular building typical of the older buildings in our area, but had been nicely kept up.  The paint on the outside wasn't very old and the exterior walls were decorated with unique artwork.  There were no windows facing their parking lot, and I assumed it was for the privacy of their patrons.

When we stepped in, I was pleasantly surprised by the atmosphere.  Neat, clean, well-lit.  Posh leather seats in one of their waiting areas, and sleek, modern raised tables and chairs in another, with more leather furniture lining the walls of the second.

A thin, friendly man with short hair and tattoos on his arms asked Husband and I what he could do for us.  At that last moment, my resolve wavered even though I had been sure just seconds before.  I forced out the words, "Thought about having my nipples pierced."

The smiling man didn't flinch, but he did tell us that even though he is one of the piercers and is capable, he prefers not to do female "genitalia."  And of course, being a sex blogger, I immediately corrected him in my head. Nipples are not genitals, I thought.  Going grammar/sex blogger police on him in my head made me feel a little less nervous, which was great, since I had been bouncing between nauseous, generally anxious, and feeling like I may pass out.  I silently tried to remind myself of all the reasons I decided to give this a shot.  The smile I gave the man was the smile I give when I'm very nervous and extremely uncomfortable.

"Our female piercer is running late," the man said.  "I'll call her."  He returned a few seconds later to say she would be there in 10 minutes.  "And worst case scenario, I'll be able to help you," the man finished.  I was really, really hoping that the other piercer would show up soon, not because I cared that the other was a man, but because the man clearly wasn't comfortable with it.  I don't want a nervous person coming at me with a needle.

Husband and I wandered around the shop for a bit, browsed the jewelry, joked about the hipster mustache taped over a poster of an impossibly hot model.  Finally, the female piercer arrived.  She was small, maybe in her mid-twenties, with long hair and multiple ear piercings.  She introduced herself and apologized that she had been held up.  She laughed and smiled and called me hon.  She seemed totally at ease with my request.  I liked her immediately.

"Come on back to the room, and we'll see what kind of jewelry you can do," she said, leading us back to an enclosed interior room, and shut the door behind us.  She gestured toward what I assume would be called a piercing table, which looks kind of like a doctor's exam table, and told me to sit and face her.

"Let me see your nipples so I know what size we need," she said.  It didn't even occur to me to be self conscious.  After two kids and a herd of medical staff gazing at my bits, this did not seem like an odd request.  I undid my bra, pulled my shirt up, and sat as she pulled closed, sterile packages of jewelry from little plastic drawers, and held them up to me.

"You can do these, or these, but honestly, it's been my experience that for your nipples, you are going to want these."  She held up a package with a pair of curved bars that had little balls on the end.  They weren't perfectly straight, but neither was it a deep curve like horseshoes.  Just a slight curve.

"They're a little long," she went on, "but you want that for the healing time.  After they heal, you can change them out for something shorter."

She cleaned both nipple and areola, made a mark with a a dark colored liquid on the end of a toothpick as guides for the needles, and held up a mirror for me to check the placement.

"You're going to feel just the clamps now," she said, picking up a metal pair from her tray.  She latched it onto my nipple.  "You can close your eyes or look away, or whatever you feel comfortable with."  She was short, so I looked up over her head at the wall.

I felt the cold, mildly irritating pinch of the clamps, then the small prick, almost an itchiness, as she lined up the needle with the holes, followed by a sharp, deep pain as she pushed the needle through.  I gripped the table, breathing deep, trying to keep my body from curling forward.

"You're done, you're done, you're done," she said.  By the time I felt the intensity of the pain, the needle was already through.  She left the needle in and cleaned up some blood.

She said something about people thinking blood is gross, but it not being any worse than your period.  I had been nervously babbling all the way through, just talk, talk, talk.  I blurted out, "My period is so heavy I have to use a silicone cup."  Then I realized that her point had nothing to do with periods.  "But...I guess you didn't need to know that.  Sorry, I'm just so nervous."

She laughed and said I was doing fine.

She clamped my other nipple and positioned the needle.  Again, slight itchiness as the point touched my skin, followed by a wave of pain.  Although the second one didn't really hurt more, my body reacted a little more violently.  When I felt the sharp pain, I did curl forward.  My back rounded and my ankles crossed and tucked under the table, both out of pain and so I didn't kick her.  She told me later, though, that she has been kicked in the past.  But just like the first time, by the time I felt the most of the pain, it was over.

"You're done, you're done, you're done," she said again.  She inserted the curved bars into the ends of the needles and pulled them through.  That didn't hurt so much as was uncomfortable.  She screwed the balls onto the ends, and set to work cleaning one of my nipples that was still bleeding.  She assured me that there is often one that bleeds quite a bit.  She had me hop of the table and take a look in the full length mirror.  At this point I was just so glad it was over I didn't care how they looked.  I remember looking at myself in the mirror, but not really registering what I was seeing.  I wasn't sure yet if I was glad I did it.

I was still bleeding a little, so she gave me some gauze to tuck into my bra, all the while she was praising me and telling me how good I did.  She tried to clean me up a little more, I got redressed, and we headed out of the room and to the front to get my aftercare instructions and pay.  Steel jewelry, the actual piercing, plus H2Ocean aftercare spray and tip: $120.

I only vaguely remember leaving.  I was distracted by a constant, deep pain in my breasts.  It hurt to even breathe, but not in an unbearable way.  More like a really, really annoying way.  I happen to carry ibuprofen in my purse and took a couple as we made a few more stops.  We picked up a few more shelf camis and a movie that I love.  Then we grabbed lunch.  We almost never eat fast food, but snagged some burgers and fries on our way.

When we got home, we ate and I just collapsed into my favorite chair.  I was exhausted.  The stress suddenly shed and I felt that all I wanted was sleep.  I looked at the clock.  Thirty minutes until I had to put on my good mommy hat, pick up the kids from school, and help with homework.  No nap for me.

Part 3 still to come.

And Then I Got A Piercing Part 1

I've made no secret about the kind of person I am.  By sex blogger standards, I'm pretty conservative.  It's part of what makes me, me.  I'm fairly traditional in most regards.  I bake, sew, do laundry, and care for kids.  I volunteer.  I even consider myself religious (hold your gasps, please, I've said that before).  I have no tattoos, don't wear large jewelry, and the only piercings I had were one in each earlobe.  It's not that I care if you have tattoos, wear large jewelry, and have 20 piercings.  Other people's bodies are their own and I don't judge.  It's just that those things aren't really me.

I don't really like change.  I agonize over each haircut.  I thought I was taking a walk on the wild side when I painted my toenails red.  I think you're getting a picture here.  And then Husband asked if I'd consider getting my nipples pierced.  What?  Nipples pierced?  No.  No.  Not ever.

And then I started to think about it.  Why not?  Was I afraid of the pain?  Please.  I gave birth without meds.  Surely a piercing couldn't compare.  I started to do research on the matter and found that some claim a piercing made nipples more sensitive (in a good way), there were lots of options, and many people say that piercings don't hurt as much as they originally thought.  Some people claimed that nipple piercing was getting more and more popular among moms looking to spice things up and regain lost nipple sensitivity.  On top of that, Husband got that devious, mischievous look in his eye when we discussed it.  I love that look.  At first I said yes.  And then reality hit me.  Healing time can be up to a year, sometimes more.  Pretty significant risk of infection.  Piercing care would be just one more thing for me to do, and I changed my mind.  Husband was disappointed, but he made it clear that he wouldn't attempt to force me to do anything with my body.

But the thought was planted.  I spent a few days doing research, planning, and thinking.  Some days I thought, yes, I'm going to do it.  Other times, I decided no, it's not worth it.  But what if, what if...

I started leaning towards yes again.  My brain tends to jump to worst case scenario and after some thought I realized that many of my fears about it were kind of outlandish.  And I would get so much out of the piercings, mostly a private celebration of sexuality.  None of my real life (physically present) friends or family would know unless I told them.  It's such personal thing, a way to decorate myself, and the fact that Husband finds it hot is just gravy.  And, since the healing time is so long, if in a few weeks I decide I didn't like the piercings, I could just take them out and let the holes close.

Then it turned out that Husband had a few days off while the kids were in school.  It almost never happens.  Since I most certainly wanted him to be with me, it was a now or never situation.

We came to an understanding.  Since we both wanted it, we needed to come to an agreement of what a piercing like that meant, as far as responsibility goes.

1. I would go to the piercing place and look.  Even though our local studio is very highly thought of, if I didn't like what I see or didn't trust the piercer, we walk out.
2. For a while, any sexual activity or position that would put pressure on my breasts is off the table.
3. Until I'm mostly healed and can handle it, sweaty chores like mowing the lawn (which I had been doing for the most part) are his job.  This may sound like I do more than my fair share around the house, but he does dinner almost every night, as he's better at it.  Me doing the lawn was a happy trade-off.
4. Caring for our veggie garden, which requires a lot of bending over to water and weed, will be his job until I can do so comfortably.
5. I get to have new, comfy shelf camis to help me through healing time.
6. He will listen to me complain about any and all pain with good humor.
7. He will go with me to get pierced.
8. Should I get an infection bad enough that requires a doctor visit, he has to go with me.
9. If, in a few weeks, I decide I don't like it for any reason, I can take it out, no questions asked.
10. Because of my anxiety, there was a good chance that IF I decided yes, it would be spontaneous and it had to be my idea. (Pre-planning increases my anxiety.  More time to think = more time to worry.)
11. I will be taking a few days off of heavier, in depth housework until I can do so comfortably.

These are the terms that we agreed on, but I thought that I still wouldn't do it when it came down to it.  I mean, as fun as having a private piercing sounded, I couldn't imagine willingly allowing someone to push a needle through my skin.  And then, all of the sudden, I said it:  "Well, let's go and check the place out.  It doesn't hurt to look, right?"

"Riiiiiight," Husband replied, with that look on his face.  The devious one.  The one where he's about to get what he wants and is barely containing his excitement.

Part 2 still to come.

So, having sex every day is news?

It seems that about every 6 months to a year a blogger makes big news by doing one thing: pledging to have sex every day for a certain amount of time.  People go nuts over these stories.  Now, if you've been paying attention, you know that I personally feel that having an active sex life is really important in relationship health, but not being a sex therapist or educator, I can't really say anything with any authority.  All I can say is that Husband and I are super cranky if we go without sex too long, and are generally happy people if we are going at it often.  Friends of ours that are having...marital problems is too strong a term.  Let's say they are easily irritated with each other.  We've noticed those friends often have a very infrequent or nearly non-existent sex life.  But which came first?  Is not having sex leading to irritability, or is irritability leading to not having sex?  Or are they completely unrelated?  I have no idea and wouldn't even venture a guess.  All we know is a good roll in the hay (or lack of it) affects us (Husband and me).

Once upon a time, we tried the whole sex for a year thing, really just so we could say that we did it.  We quit because we have sex almost every day anyway, sometimes twice a day, but knowing we had to felt too much like work and not enough like joy.  And then we got to wondering, for the sake of the experiment, what counts as sex.  Vaginal intercourse?  Oral sex?  Any sort of penetration?  Does one or more of us have to orgasm for it to count?  We sort of figured that since we have sex almost every day anyway, this experiment wasn't worth the frustration it was giving us.

All of this brings me back around to my main point.  Since we have sex almost daily, I'm always surprised when I see yet another blogger in the news pledging to have sex every day for a month, year, or other period of time.  After the latest one (which I admit was actually partially about body image, so there was a whole new dimension to the experiment that I fully applaud), I looked at Husband and asked him point blank why this is news (the sex every day part.  Not the body image part).  Doesn't every healthy married couple have lots and lots of sex?  Barring emotional or health concerns, of course.  I mean, aren't we the picture of average?

"It's news because not everyone is us.  We're not average," Husband said.

I always forget this.  Always.  Our frequency just feels so natural and comforting that I never remember that we're the exception.  A friend I confided in even told me once that Husband and I simply have too much sex.  Another friend told me I must be the best wife ever for giving my husband sex that often (I had to correct her and told her that we both have high sex drives.  I'm not sacrificing.  We're both giving and receiving).  And yet, I always forget these conversations that indicate that we're not average.  According to the Kinsey Institute, our age group generally has sex an average of once a week to a few times a month, and the youngest married couples (18-24) average about 2-3 times per week.  But with so many sexless marriages running around (an estimated 15-20%), I figured the average among happy, sexual fulfilling marriages must be higher.  It must be that 5-6 times per week (sometimes as much as 14) that Husband and I have, right?  RIGHT???

I made a quick and dirty informal poll of both my mom friends and my sex blogging friends, all happily married, all in relationships that are by no means sexless.  I expected to see at least 4-5 times per week, probably more.  Maybe as much as 7+.  I expected to see that answer from just about everyone.

That's not what I saw.

The average among my friends of a wide variety of ages was still (drum roll please) 1-3 times per week, with only a couple of exceptions.  I'm trying to wrap my brain around this.  Maybe we are odd after all. And somehow, I don't care that we're the oddballs.

When Depression Rears Its Ugly Head

I'm under a bit of stress.  The kids are out for the summer, which means I'm not interacting with other moms (or other humans) on a day-to-day basis.  I didn't think I'd miss it.  With Husband and I sharing a car, my days are pretty monotonous while he's at the office.  I play with the kids.  I pick up toys.  I do the dishes.  On and on it goes.

Some days are packed with work.  Here's a sample of my days, a la Wednesday: Get up, make and serve breakfast, do the dishes, do laundry, make bread, make and serve lunch, more dishes, more laundry, mow the lawn, break up fights between the kids, serve dinner, do the dishes, more laundry.  By the time the kids went to bed, I was exhausted and frustrated.  I had gotten some bad news about something I was looking forward to, I felt isolated without my daily interactions with other parents, and I was stressing about an upcoming vacation (travel gives me anxiety attacks).  I was feeling really, really down.  I pushed myself through the days, knowing from experience that if I just kept going, the horrible feeling will pass.  I'm no stranger to it; I struggled with depression and high anxiety as a child and teen.  Both problems just about disappeared around the time I met Husband in my late teens.  The less I was home, the better I felt.  When I left for college, I never really returned to my parents' home to live.  Husband and I were married at the end of our junior year.  Anxiety and depression evaporated (mostly).

Occasionally I get just stressed enough, lack just enough sleep, have just one too many things to do, my hormones are just ever so slightly out of line and it happens.  Depression and anxiety show up at my door with their dirty laundry and asking to crash on my couch.  It's different than just feeling sad or overwhelmed.  It's a deeper feeling.  Husband noticed and kept asking me what's wrong.  I kept trying to explain that I felt depressed, anxious and somewhat isolated, but not having experienced such things, he didn't understand.  I tried to tell him that sometimes I just feel this way and it will pass.  He wanted reassurance that he had done nothing wrong and struggled to find a reason for my feelings and what he could do to make it better, aside from getting another car.  After being asked one too many times, I looked at him and said, "Do you not see how dead these fish are?"  He laughed because he understood the reference.  [If you don't, in short it means he was trying to help me "solve" my feelings, but it doesn't work that way.]

Let me remind you that we have a pretty active sex life.  When Husband suggested we have our intimate time, I'm not going to lie.  It was hard to get in the mood.  Then it was hard to stay in the mood.  It was very difficult for a couple of days.  Husband was very understanding and offered to skip any activity.  I decided to give it a shot anyway, knowing how difficult it is to get back in the groove once a few days have passed.

I know this feeling.  And I knew it would pass.  I handled anxiety with breathing exercises and waited for the depression to end.

Today we had to go to a work function for Husband where I chatted with some of his workmates and (Oh, thank goodness!) a woman I knew from the kids' school.  Just the talking about nothing in particular made me feel so much better.  When I got home, I got some exercise in.  I made plans to get together with a friend next week at my house.  By 7pm, I was feeling much, much better.  Back to my normal self.  I'm thankful that I don't live with depression daily, but only have it for a few days at a time when I'm particularly stressed.  My libido is back, I'm laughing again, and I've even made peace with going traveling.

The (Sometimes) Importance of Being Blunt

It had been a few days for us.  If you've been paying attention, you know that we don't do well with dry spells.  They make us cranky and eventually we fall into a rut that takes effort to get out of.   Husband was busy being a little stressed over what (if anything) vacation may entail this year, plus extra stuff at work and trying to find the mystery noise in the car.  Needless to say, he was a bit distracted.

"We plan on having sex tonight, don't we?" I asked him one afternoon.

"I think so," he replied.

That evening nothing happened.  Work and stress and chores got in the way.  Eventually we just watched TV.

The next afternoon, I said, "We're having sex tonight, right?"

"Probably."

"Good, because I could really use some time with you."

"OK."

That night was a repeat of the night before.  The next few days were the same.  More stress, more work, more exhaustion, and a stunning lack of sex.

Finally, while sitting next to him one afternoon, I said, "If you don't have sex with me, I'm going to kill you."  Yeah, I get that it looks a bit dramatic on the screen.  Of course I was being factitious.   I don't want anyone to get any strange ideas.  Stay with me for a minute.

Husband looked up from his computer screen.  "Well, finally!" he huffed.  "It took you long enough!  Why didn't you say anything before?"

There isn't an eyeroll big enough for my feelings.

Mother's Day 2013

I always have weird feelings when it comes to Mother's Day.  It's partly because my relationship with my mother is not really that great for reasons I won't go into here.  I remember a few years ago sitting in church on Mother's Day and crying.  I felt like my mother was lost to me.  It's complicated.

Today's Mother's Day wasn't too shabby.  I mean, the kids don't seem to understand the concept of sleeping in, and right after breakfast Husband asked me to help fix some sort of pulley thing on the car. I'm pretty sure pulley thing is the technical name.  Oh, wait, Husband tells me that it's actually called a belt tensioner, not pulley thing.  He may or may not have laughed at me when he corrected my phraseology.

Side note: Shut up.  I'm not actually stupid.  In fact, I have a very high IQ.  I just know nothing about useful things, like cars.  However, if you'd like to discuss Shakespeare, psychoanalysm as it applies to literature, deconstructionism, or play a nice game of chess, hit me up.  Only I suck at chess. 

Roughly 3/4 of my "helping" involved standing by and praying that Husband didn't smash his fingers and lose use of his hands forever.  Then I'd have to do everything for him.  It would be hard, but we'd adjust.  I also tried to plot what I would do if he did smash his fingers.  Did I even remember how the jack works?  But he didn't smash his fingers.  Then he asked me to help him get the belt thingy back onto the pulleys.

"Time to get your hands dirty," he said.  I didn't move from my spot.  "Did you hear me?  I said it's time to get your hands dirty."

"Oh," I said.  "I thought you meant the general 'you' and were just announcing what you were doing."

Husband laughed.  "You, Kif!*  You get your hands dirty!"  And so I did.

We finished up and Husband went to pick up some ingredients for lunch.  He brought the grocery bag in and set it on the counter, then disappeared.  In the bottom of the bag, I found this:

Nom.  My favorite.

The day was looking up until I voiced some concern about some suspicious looking spots on the coconut I was about to crack open.  He looked at me, chuckled a bit and said those were the eyes where you poke the holes to drain the water.

And I just looked at him.

You see, I know exactly what those depressions in the shell are for.  They were not what I was talking about.  I tilted the coconut and showed him a few small, grey spots on the shell that were the cause of my trepidation.

"Did you really think I was talking about those eye things?  I know what those are.  You must think I'm some special kind of stupid if you think I was talking about the eyes.  I know what the eyes are for." (No offense to those that have never had or seen a whole coconut and don't know what those eyes are for.)

"It's just that you've led a very sheltered life," he said defensively.  "I didn't know you knew."  Well, he had me there.  We weren't allowed out much growing up.  But I don't so much call that sheltered as...well, there's no word I can find to stick here that quite means what I want.  Let's just stick with sheltered.

We had a lovely chicken dinner made from a Jacques Pepin recipe with mashed potatoes and roasted carrots from our garden.

And then, and then, something horrible happened.  You see, I've recently started to write again.  I don't mean blogging.  As the kids are getting older, I've decided to make another very serious go at being a novelist.  Before you snicker and say my writing isn't nearly polished enough, I'd like to assure you that it is.  See, to me, blogging is like talking.  It's informal.  It's how I would speak to you.  Novel writing is something completely different and I assure you that I'm capable.  Being a novelist was always the plan.  It's been the plan since high school.  Except now I am able to carve out the time needed.  But back to the terrible thing.  My laptop died.  Like, died.  So long, bye-bye, it is no more.  It's been making some wheezing sounds, then occasionally would turn itself off, then finally it no longer recognized the internet or its own power cord.  It's dead, Jim.  And it's horrible.  I don't have to fight the kids for the use of my laptop because it's, well, my laptop.  And Husband wouldn't have to come find what I was up to because I was right there, in my big chair, with my laptop.  Very visual.

The good news is that I had a feeling this was coming.  The same way I felt the washing machine was about to bite it and started researching the crap out of replacement models.  So one of the very last times I used my laptop, I backed up the partially finished novel previously mentioned.  I don't have to start over.  That'd be awful.

So, we're winding down Mother's Day with a pretty nasty headache trying to turn into a migraine that I'm managing with ibuprofen, herbal tea, and diluted peppermint oil.  After 15 years of chronic tension headaches, I've learned a few tricks.  Also, Husband and I spent some time snuggled on the couch and watched Storm Chasers.  That was awesome.  The cuddling I mean.  Storm Chasers is OK.  And then Husband made me eggs benedict just because I was cranky and had a craving.  The man loves me.



*For you non-geeks, it's a Futurama reference.
Zapp Brannigan: "Have the boy lay out my formal shorts."
Kif: "The boy, sir?"
Zapp Brannigan: "You, Kif!  You lay out my formal shorts!"
The "You, Kif!" meme is something we say a lot in my house.

Bedroom Misadventures: Episode 6

My hormones have been really wonky.  They get that way sometimes.  There's nothing wrong with me, it's just that my body likes to screw with my mind.  I'm also a week late, but am 99% sure that I'm not pregnant.  My own system hates me that much.  I've been checked, and I remember the doctor shrugged, smiled, and said, "It's just the way you are."  OK, actually he said, "It's just part of what makes you adorable," because I was an extremely new mom at the time and he was trying to be fatherly and calm me down.  I remember him as a friendly, older gentleman that actually gave two craps when you talked to him, but not in the creepy way.  But I digress.  Anyway, when I've had about as much hormone-induced panic as I can take, my body mysteriously rights itself.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

My libido has been very bizarre because of it.  Sometimes it's kicked into overdrive; sometimes it's nonexistent.  Over the weekend was one of those crazy hormone induced (and probably partly literature and toy shopping induced) overactive sex drive times.  It lead to a long, wild, passionate happening.  Happening?  Yeah, it was kind of unique (to us, anyway), so I'm going to go with "happening."  I came out the other side of the evening relaxed, peaceful.

And bruised.

Parts of me (exterior parts, thanks) were a little sore and stiff when I went to bed.  When I woke up, I found I had bruises on my wrists.  Bruises that are almost unnoticeable, since my skin is very tan due to lots of outdoor time recently, but still there.  To a scrupulous and nosy eye, they look suspicious.  Would they turn darker?  Become more noticeable?

"What's the big deal," you might think.  "Who's going to notice?"

Well, probably the people at my kids' school, for starters.  I have meetings there this week, and I'll be sitting in very close proximity to other moms who notice everything.  And I'm taking notes for the meetings, so my wrists will be front and center.  Would they notice?  What would I say if they did?  I could say, "I walked into a doorknob/doorway/wall/chair/counter."  It's plausible.  I do that all the time.  Walk into things, I mean.  But it would be lying.  But what choice do I have?

You know what I'd like to say?  "We got a little wild and had one of the most intense love making sessions we've ever had.  I can't wait to fall into bed with the man I love and do it again."  That would the be truth.  But you can't freaking say that.  Because kids are all born in cabbage patches or brought by storks and sex is just a word people say on TV.  I don't like that.

How I very nearly stopped blogging, tweeting, and reviewing, and why I'm still here

I walk a fine line here.  I'm not as straight-laced as my parents (not even kind of), but I am a bit more conservative than other sex bloggers.  This has lead to times of indecision, uncomfortable discussions with other bloggers, and once or twice I've been shamed by bloggers that considered me on the outside (I'm not going to name names.  Don't ask).  At this point, I don't care.  I am what I am, I write what I write, I think what I think.  Still, I can't help but notice that as not fully a sex blogger, not fully a marriage blogger, and not fully a review blogger, I don't quite fit.

A few days ago I woke up and found several contacts I had with companies had quit, lost their jobs, or simply stepped down from their positions, and several perks and discounts I relied on for my reviewing hobby were disappearing.  This was going to deeply impact how and how often I receive toys for review, how much I would pay for them, and what quality I was going to be able to afford.  I thought about joining some affiliate programs, but after talking for a while with Husband on the matter, we decided it is not something we want to get involved in at this moment.  That aspect of the blog is something I'm still trying to figure out.  But to be honest, the reviewing was only supposed to be a bit here and there anyway.  I know there have been a lot of reviews lately, but that's just because I happened to try several new products fairly close together.

Then there is the rest of it.  The part where I actually talk about sex.  The part where I talk about marriage.  And occasionally, the parts I talk about kids or why something in the news/magazine/internet has greatly pissed me off and I felt it needed to be discussed.  I'm sure you remember last time that happened.

I was in a pretty big funk.  I thought that I really had nothing of value to say except for the review part, and with reviews possibly slowing down in the near future perhaps it was time to call it a day.  What could I possibly offer?  Does anyone even read the nonsense I type out?  It was time, I decided, to hang up my sex blog hat and walk away.  It was fun while it lasted.  So long and thanks for all the fish.*

Small bouts of depression will do that to you.  Not that giant, suicidal, life is not worth living depression, but the small little thunderstorms that make you doubt yourself.  Make yourself a cup of tea, listen to Mumford & Sons, have a good cry, and move on.  You'll find a new hobby.  It's the same self-doubt crap that's been occasionally rearing it's ugly head since I was a kid.

"It would free up more time for you in the evening," Husband said.  I agreed that it would.  He wasn't sure how to advise me, and I don't think he felt he should be giving any direction at all.  This, he feels, is my thing.

In retrospect, it all sounds very silly.  Big deal if my reviews are a little further between.  I've got other things to talk about.  But that's where I was.  I was ready to end this aspect of my creative life and go back to focusing purely on my mommy blog.  (Yes, I have one of those.  Shut up.  Don't judge.)  The plan was to finish up the reviews for products I had, say whatever came to mind, and that's it.

And then it changed and I knew that if I ever decided to stop, now was certainly not the time.  You see, a friend was taking a human sexuality class and asked if Husband and I would be open to being interviewed about our sexual history and current sex life.  We both readily agreed.  To us, it's just sex.  It's something everyone does.  She thanked us several times and told us her classmates were having a heck of a time finding couples to interview.  No one, it seemed, wanted to talk about sex.  We don't understand why.

Sex sex sexity sex sex.

Where was I?  Oh, yes.  This particular person knows that I'm Batman my true identity and that I run this blog.  Occasionally, she reads it.  (Hey, there.)  Now, I can't remember if this was part of the interview or just small talk, but she did ask me some questions about the blog.  Husband chimed in, telling her that I've been a big help to some people who have been able to open up to their spouses.

That's when all the self-doubt and worry and plans to pack it in came crashing to the floor.  As Husband talked about me and this blog, I realized that he was right.  I thought about all the messages I've received from people.  All the questions I had answered.  The people that were actually opening up discussions about sex with their spouses because the read something I wrote.  I was succeeding at doing exactly what I wanted to do: make sex normal and open up frank talk.  Allow spouses to see that they can, and they should, be open with each other.  That it's perfectly fine for friends to swap tips.  That sex in and of itself is not shameful.

I realized that I don't give a flying flip if I only have 20 people--5 people--2 people reading what I put out there as long as those people are taking something away from it and opening up to each other.





*It's a Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy reference.  Kudos if you got it.  You know where your towel is.

Of Removing Wedding Rings

This morning I'm making bread.  We almost never buy store bread anymore, and Husband and I both both have our particular recipes that we like to use.  (When we try to use each other's recipes, no matter how close we follow the guidelines, they always fail).  His recipe can be kneaded in our stand mixer, but the recipe I use is too big and I have to knead it by hand.  I don't mind kneading.

As I started the dough, I took my engagement and wedding rings off.  For some reason, this shocks people.  I always take my rings off when I'm about to do something potentially icky or gunk inducing, especially baking or working with raw meat.  I do it now more than ever since last time I had my engagement ring cleaned the jeweler looked at it and said, "There's...something in it."

"Yeah, that's dough," I had to admit.  "I bake a lot."

Husband doesn't wear his ring at all.  He used to, long ago before he was Engineer Husband and was Works For a Shipping Company Husband.  After just a few days working for the shipping company, his ring was covered in dents and dirt.  He took it off.  That was almost 10 years ago and he hasn't put it back on.  He's left-handed and finds it gets in the way.  And lest you think he's not fair about this issue, he has told me that he doesn't particularly care if I wear my ring or not.  We're married whether or not we wear our rings.

Some people, though, have very high emotional feelings about removing wedding rings.  Even though many wives and husbands remove their rings at certain times or don't wear them very much due to allergies, comfort, weight loss or gain, fear of losing them* or getting them dirty, there is still the pervasive idea that removing your wedding ring for any reason is somehow immoral.  I've talked with some people that even worry that removing their rings, even for a second, will somehow indirectly and cosmically cause a divorce down the line.  They don't take theirs off and don't like to see other people taking theirs off.

Obviously, taking off a wedding ring has a lot of cultural symbolism.  If you do a quick Google search about taking off wedding rings, you'll see a lot of images that are meant to hint that the person in the photo is about to have a go at adultery.  If you look further, you'll see many discussions about who takes off their wedding ring and why.  And then we have products like the Anti-Cheating Ring, which is engraved on the inside so that if a would-be cheater removes their ring, an impression that says, "I'm Married" is left on the skin.

It seems that there are a lot of people who feel that taking off a wedding ring is either asking for a divorce or signifies the intention to cheat.  What about you?  Is taking off your ring a big deal or no?


*One time I was just wearing my wedding ring when my engagement ring needed repairs.  I had lost weight since my wedding and my ring was huge.  I looked down at my hand and found it missing.  I searched and searched for it, wondering if I had just put it somewhere, while a friend of mine questioned me as to the reason that I would dare to take it off long enough to loose it.  It turns out it actually fell off my hand when I was doing laundry.  I found it in the washer.

Women hate sex...right?

Today, I am angry.  No, I am more than angry.  I am livid.  I am sick to death of the same nonsense being repeated over and over.  It's in movies.  It's in TV shows.  It's in books.  This thought has become so pervasive that we've started repeating it to ourselves and each other.  This ultimately damaging and potentially relationship-wrecking thought is this:

Women hate sex.  Or, more recently, it's related cousin: Women don't make sex a priority.

Let me tell you, dear readers, nothing gets me inflamed faster except olives on my pizza.  It is an outdated, stupid, and lazy line of thinking and people are believing it.  I will not stand for it.

Confused?  Let's back up and take a look.  Some weeks ago, I blogged about a commercial that played on this same tired stereotype.  A few days ago, I blogged about the infamous vibrator gift.  If you recall, what really inflamed me about that last one was not what happened, but this generalized statement:

...he forgot that for most women, orgasms come second to foot massages, books, chocolates and anti-aging facials.

No.  No no no no.  Most women?  Seriously?  I'm trying not to type in all caps here, and I'm finding it very, very hard.  But, as Penny said in O Brother, Where Art Thou, "I've spoken my peace and counted to three."  The end.  Until a fellow blogger showed me this: 25 Things Moms Would Rather Do Than Have Sex 6 Weeks After Having a Baby.  Particularly, this statement:

 ...getting back in the saddle again and resuming an active sex life usually isn't a huge priority for new moms.

Look, I get babies are rough.  I know.  I have kids, too, and I know that sometimes you just want 10 minutes to yourself.  And, to be fair, the study that particular author references does say that most moms wait longer than six weeks to engage in intercourse, but it also said that 53% had some sort of sexual activity before six weeks, just not intercourse.  For the love of all things, read the whole article.  Despite what the 25 Things author hints at, they aren't holding out because sex isn't a priority.  They wait longer because they are waiting for birth injuries to heal.  That's a big difference.  To say sex life isn't a priority for new moms --not some new moms, not a few new moms, but simply "new moms" -- because of that study would be like saying, "I'm sick so I can't have sex right now," and "Having sex is no longer a priority in my life," are the same thing. They are most certainly not the same.

Now, the author of the 25 Things article does eventually say, "At least it was for me..."  But then she ruins it by this statement:

Having sex was probably the furthest thing from my mind at that time -- to the point where I really can't understand how ANY new mom would rate having sex as being high up on her "to-do" list.

Aaaaaaaand we're back to angry.  Personally, it was really hard for me to wait the whole 6 weeks after the birth of my children.  Most of the moms I know say the same thing.  The thing is, yes, some women don't make their sex life a priority.  I will stand up here and shout it from the mountain tops and mean it.  But guess what?  Some men don't, either!  For every husband you point to that complains that his wife doesn't have the time or energy for him, I will show you a wife that says the exact same thing about her husband.  I run into them all the time!  Heck, I was talking to one yesterday!  It's not a woman thing.  It's a people thing.  It's a relationship thing.  It's so easy -- and by easy I mean ridiculously lazy -- to look at a sexless or near-sexless relationship and blame the woman because women just don't like sex.  You can say it, but it wouldn't be true.  It's not about women.  It's about people and how they navigate their relationships.

So stop.  Stop tolerating this nonsense right now.  Stop telling each other this.  Stop telling yourselves this.  DO NOT let media or other people tell you that not only do women not like sex, but that it's somehow "normal" not to.  Women, in general, don't hate sex.  Women, in general, don't even think it is a low priority.  Yes, some women do.  Some men do, too.  We just don't talk about it because it is just so much easier to rely on stereotypes for the diagnosis of sexual problems.  If there is a sexual problem in a relationship, it is time to open up and *gasp* talk to each other.

The Gifting of the Vibrator

Husband does not get hints.  If I make statements like, "I really like silver jewelry," and "Oh, look, Kay's is having a sale!" he will NOT put those things together to mean that I would like a piece of jewelry for my birthday.  Such information must be given to him bluntly and subtlety most certainly isn't his thing.  That's not a complaint, just an observation.  It sounds mean, but seriously, think Sheldon from the Big Bang Theory.  No, I'm not kidding.  He even has his specific seat on the couch that is molded to him.  That being said, sometimes he fails at gifts.  This led him to ask for specifics when I want something.  He doesn't want me to say, "Oh, I'd like something to help me relax," or, "I think I might like to go to dinner."  He wants me to say, "I want a massage stone," or, "I'd like to go to dinner at that new restaurant."

Eventually we all may have a bit of a diva tantrum when it comes to gifts.  I once received a kitschy cat mug that at first filled me full of rage.  Long story short, it was the kind of thing my mother would have collected, I'm not on good terms with my mother, and just seeing something that reminded me of her set me off.  I eventually liked the mug and now I actually use it.  See?  I'm not perfect.  Neither are you.  Or anyone else.  We all have our lapses in maturity when it comes to gifts.

I now want to point you to the article, My Husband Bought Me a Vibrator for My Birthday. It makes me a little sad.  You are free to go read it, but I'll give you the highlights: She hinted to her husband that she wanted something for her birthday that would help her relax (she meant something like a facial, but...), her husband thought she would enjoy a really expensive vibrator*, he felt he did a really good thing,  he thought she was going to love it, she hated it and let him know in no uncertain terms that she did, he was confused, and she was super-pissed at the price involved.

Long story short, springing a sex toy as a gift on someone who hasn't shown an interest in them is probably not a good idea, but she probably should have been a little more grateful if he really had her best interest at heart.

However, my main point is not gratefulness in gift giving.  The main point is the repetition of the old idea that women don't like sex and don't care about orgasms.  She even says in the article that her husband gave her the "boy answer, not the girl answer."  The thing that irritated me most about this article is this statement:

And then I realised…that’s exactly what he did. He bought me the ultimate gift for relaxation except he forgot that for most women, orgasms come second to foot massages, books, chocolates and anti-aging facials.

Um...says who?  I might be going a little too TMI here, but if Husband and I don't have our sex and orgasms, we, yes WE, he and I, get pretty cranky.  I don't care for an anti-aging facial.  I could go for some chocolate but an orgasm is better, I like books but Husband is pretty awesome, and I can get a foot massage anytime but want an orgasm sooner.  What "most women" is she talking about?  I'm pretty sure I'm not in some tiny fraction of women that actually enjoy sex with their husbands.

I'm just sick of being told, and even women telling each other, that sex life in marriage is not a priority.  I'm tired of hearing that it's not something we are meant to enjoy.  I'm tired of hearing that I as a woman should not think it's important!  How, how, how could people still be telling themselves and each other that these things don't matter?


*Note: He claimed that the vibe was around $200 Australian, which is around $206 US.  I'm pretty sure he's either lying about the price or he was taken in.  There is now way that thing should have cost that much.  Please, always buy from a reputable dealer.

More often? No, just better.

Husband and I are big believers in the idea that a big part of marital harmony has to do with sex life.  We've had friends come to us and complain and complain about how horrible their spouse is at [spending time with them, remembering to take out the trash, not being selfish, keeping up with the housework, putting their spouse above their friends, not being negative, not picking fights, not being passive agressive, etc.] only to find out that sex is non-existent.  As a logical person, I would think that it's the negative behaviors that are causing the lack of sex, but upon talking to these people, we find it's actually the other way around.  The lack of intimacy came first, then the negative thoughts and behaviors.  This is why Husband and I make a point to not let any longer than 4 days go between intimate encounters, but usually we have intimate time at least once a day.

Since we discovered that I am, in fact, capable of vaginal orgasms, it seemed like our frequency has increased.  Then I realized that no, the frequency hadn't increased.  It was the quality that had.  See, since we realized I can have vaginal orgasms (they're just way weaker than my clitoral ones.  So weak, I didn't notice I was having them) I've become much more in tune with myself.  Now that I recognize the sensations, we've been experimenting with different positions and toys.  Before, when I started to get the feeling that I now recognize is impending vaginal orgasm, Husband had changed positions and was speeding up.  Now that we know what to look for and what positions to start in, we're both enjoying ourselves and each other even more than before.

Arguments

Even Husband and I have the occasional spat.  I'll admit that it isn't too often that our fights go any further than one party saying something unkind, the other getting upset, and then apologies being passed around.  Harsh feelings between us don't last all that long.

Husband has been working unusually long hours lately.  He doesn't want to; it's just a busy time at work.  Longer days for him often mean longer days for me.  I'm caring for the children on my own for longer spans of time, making and cleaning up after two separate dinners, and not being able to finish the housework until 8, 9, or 10 pm, at which point I'm exhausted.  And he's exhausted.  Tempers are running high and we want both to be with each other and to be left alone to rest.  It's a very volatile combination.

A few nights ago, fueled by exhaustion, stress, and irritation with the long hours, we both woke up in the middle of the night and had an epic argument.  Neither of us were even fully awake for some of it.  There wasn't really even anything to argue about.  We both just reached the point of hostility.

In the wee hours of the morning, we went to separate rooms.  We stayed apart for an hour or so, both awake, unable to sleep, and fuming.  I recognized the situation, fed by anger that wasn't really there.  We weren't angry with each other, necessarily.  We were angry at two weeks of very long days and not having the energy to make time for each other.  I went out to the living room and asked him to come back to bed.

We laid in bed for a long time not making any sort of physical contact.  This is strange to us, as we usually sleep right up against each other, often a tangle of arms and legs.  Eventually we both just let it all go and curled up together.  I cried, he held me, and we both finally slept.

The next morning, we exchanged our apologies.  In our waking hours, we knew what had gone wrong.    We just needed a little bit of a break from the world.  We needed each other.  We needed to be able to let it all go.  And, of course, make up sex isn't a bad ending to this kind of story.

It's finally happened!...sort of.

I know that scientists and sexual health experts say that 2/3 of women can't have vaginal orgasms.  That didn't keep me from trying over and over in the past several years, and with very little success.  Oh, I can have a clitoral orgasm just fine, but I want a vaginal/G-spot orgasm.  Everyone says they are mind-blowing and the best thing ever.  I knew it had never happened for me, and I was most likely incapable of it, but I kept on trying, and Husband kept supporting me.  We both held out hope that I could have a vaginal orgasm.

Now, before I continue, let me say this: it doesn't matter whether you, personally, can have a vaginal orgasm or not.  Really, it doesn't matter.  I mean that.  The reason we kept trying is we want to know everything that we can do in the bedroom.  We want to know everything our bodies are capable of.  If I can have a vaginal orgasm, well, I want to know that.

Moving on.  Remember when I got the Njoy Pure Wand?  I thought if anything could give me a vaginal orgasm, this could.  The Pure Wand has been revered.  Celebrated.  Adored and sought after.  I had high hopes for it, and Husband and I decided I should use it and see what happens.  After a little while, my arm got tired.  The Pure Wand is stainless steel and heavy.  I wanted to keep going, since it seemed to most definitely be working as intended, but I just couldn't.  Reluctantly, I paused.  Then it happened.  I felt the familiar, rhythmic, involuntary pulses of my muscles that usually accompanied my clitoral orgasms, but much weaker.  But there was no feeling of release afterward.  No clear plateau, no clear resolution.  It merely felt good, then this weak pulsing.  I wondered if that was it.  I wondered if I just had a vaginal orgasm.  I did it again.  Same result.

Husband and talked about it.  What, exactly, had happened?  Pulsing, but no release?  What's up with that?  Nevertheless, involuntary pulsing, even though it's weak, does seem to signal orgasm.

"Is that it?" I asked Husband.  "Did I really...?"

"I think so," Husband said.

Honestly, I feel a little cheated for two reasons.  One, I've been having that sensation for years, I just never equated it with orgasm.  There's no resolution and feeling of release, and the muscle contractions are so weak I don't feel them unless I stop moving.  I had no reason to equate those sensations with orgasms until I happened, seemingly by chance, to stop moving when I had the same sensation.  Two, I was promised mind-blowing, darn it!  Where is the amazing, nothing-can-top-it feeling everyone raves about?  This is it?  A few minor muscle contractions?  Well, darn it.

This the point where I remember that everyone is different.  It would appear that I just have weak vaginal orgasms.  There's nothing wrong with my clitoral ones being much, much stronger.  But then I wonder if I can ever get to the point of amazing vaginal ones.  I'm going to work on my kegels and see what that does.  Or, maybe this is it.  I also wonder if more women are actually capable of vaginal orgasms but don't know it because they are so weak.

Bedtime (and I mean sleep!)

Whenever we watch a (modern-ish) sitcom and they show the husband and wife climbing into bed at the end of the day, the couple always lays a foot or more apart with their backs facing each other.  I understand that they're actors and they of course aren't going to get uncomfortably close, but it always made me wonder about the sleeping life of other couples.

Some people seem to really need their space when they sleep.  Others have to be right up against their spouse.  I've wondered which is more common.  For Husband and I, we have to sleep right up against each other.  Whether we are spooning, have our backs against each other, or even just have our feet touching, we have to be in contact.  The more contact the better.  If we aren't making contact or if one of us rolls away in our sleep, neither of us sleep well.  This is big problem when it's too hot in the house to cuddle.

We've been fitful in our sleep recently.  I've had some things on my mind that have caused me to toss and turn, while Husband can't seem to stay asleep.  Between his constant waking up and my restlessness, we're exhausted.  We haven't been able to lie still enough for any sort of cuddling in the past few days, which has made him wake up more often and me roll around even more.  We're hoping tonight will be better.

Little Things

Husband and I were sitting at the table eating dinner when he reached across me and pushed my plate back.  Why?  Because I didn't notice that it was hanging half way off the table.  Then he looked at me and gave me this wink.  His special wink that means "I got this," and "I love you!" together.

You see, I'm a grown, college educated woman with an IQ in the 140s.  In short, I'm crazy smart.  However, despite these facts, I'm also an idiot.  And clumsy.  Sometimes I'm both of those things together.  This is why Husband knows to push my plate back.  This is why Husband occasionally checks the washing machine to see if I've left anything in it.  This is why he asks if I remembered to send the water bill.

Tonight I was making a snack for us.  I pulled a plate out of the cabinet and started to walk away.  Another plate came flying out of the cabinet at me.  Like the idiot that I am, I stood there trying to put together how this happened.  Husband, sitting in the living room, just laughed.  "I got hit all the way over here!" he joked.  Thankfully, it was a plastic plate, but it was not salvageable after it's suicidal leap from the plate shelf.

That man...he knows me.  I'm not going to say that we haven't had rough times.  We have.  I think every relationship will face a bit of a crisis if you give it long enough, but that's part of the craziness of being human.  For the most part, though, he knows how to calm me down when I feel like I'm going to explode.  He knows when I just need a break.  He knows that sometimes I just need a cuddle.  He just knows.

Bath Time

A few days ago, our washing machine broke.  We knew it was coming.  The unconscionably expensive thing started to go down hill very fast as soon as the warranty was out of date.  We bought a new one that--get this--sings little tunes at the end of each cycle.  Yes, I know, it's not exactly a selling point, but come on.  It sings.  And now, I can do full loads of clothes and they come out clean in just one cycle!  It turns out that being able to significantly cut down on the amount of laundry I'm behind on puts me in one heck of a good mood.  A friendly mood.  A nice mood.

I was going to go get a shower and Husband was coming with me.  We do that often.  It's a habit we got into long ago, and 99% of the time it's not a sexual thing.  Just a habit we have.  It's a time where we stop, talk about our day, our plans, and just reconnect for a few private moments when the kids are in bed.  I felt like doing something special for him, and whipped up some more vanilla lemon sugar scrub to use on him.  I washed him with a new, fluffy wash cloth and some eucalyptus mint soap, followed by exfoliating him with the sugar scrub.

It's amazing how just the simple act of washing each other, that simple act of care, affection, and love draw us together, no matter how far apart our minds had been a few minutes before.  The stress of the day just melts and for a few moments we are simply together.  There's no pressure, no worries, no responsibilities dragging us in a multitude of directions.  We are simply sharing a small space and being who we are together.  We feel comforted, calm, loved.  If we make love after these moments, it is often the best we have.  Taking that time out allows both of us to be in tune with the other's needs and desires.  Sometimes we try something new.  Sometimes we fall on old, comforting standards.  Either way, that level of connection can't be beat.