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By willtobe1 Date: 2003 Nov 02 Comment on this Work [[2003.11.02.13.12.2055]] |
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Women coo and gleam and twitterpate about soulmate love and they damn and glower with brimstone scorn the dick-thinking jerks who don't know a good thing when its right there in their own bed, but I honestly think (and herein lies some of the problem!) that women don't have the foggiest idea what it means to take on a male libido full time. Here's what sex with you has been like since we had the kids - five-or-so years of barely varying cycles: First, the dry spell. I try to be understanding because I know you need your sleep because you are tired because you're having so much fun using yourself up on the kids, and I know this because I am, too. So I try to be nice but its so hard because you are so damn beautiful and even more so now somehow with the little extra baby-fat curves and your less-done hair and then you come to bed with that gossamer thin old T-shirt that shapes to your breasts so *damn!* and almost-but-not-quite covers your *argghh!* ...but I'm trying to be good and this is just part of life, right? and I had all those years of all-I-could-want right? and so I do my best to make up my mind to just get used to it. Then you almost-but-not-quite get in the mood. We get home from work and you grin and grab my crotch and talk dirty in my ear behind the kids and say, "Can I get me some of you tonight?" And then (and this happens again and again and AGAIN!) about eight o'clock you start to yawn and your eyes are half closed and you stretch your head sideways with sleepy smile and say, "Can I go on to bed?" And I say, "Of course," because I love you and anyway I want to wait till you really want me, want IT ('cause that's what I truly live for, your sweet desire) and I'm just trying to get used to it I'M JUST TRYING TO GET USED TO IT, OKAY?!?!? And then about the time I think I'm getting used to it there comes a night and you knock my sox off. I mean, you KNOCK MY FUCKING SOX OFF! BAM! I'm getting everything I want and you can't wait to give it and give it but I'm not buying this, oh no, I'm not buying it because tomorrow night it'll be back to "Can I go on to bed?" and then there I'll be, so I'm not buying it. And then the next night comes and BAM! you knock my fucking socks off AGAIN! and I start thinking, "Okay, so maybe I can have marriage and kids AND a rich, satisfying sex life!" and I start thinking about how to take it to the next level ('cause I'm probably a closet borderline sex addict but what man isn't? and, hey, just think of all the things I do for you, right?) and I'm going frickin' crazy just thinkin' about it and then... You're gone. You're just gone. Deep into a book. I never get any time to myself. I'm sooo tired. Late long phone calls from friends. TV shows about twins conjoined at the head or some sobby shit. Dammit, I started. I'm sorry honey. Do you wantcha some before I go to sleep? Gone, gone, gone. Two or three days of fruitless sexy T-shirts later and I'm ripe as a gumboil for more of the good stuff, but it'll be another seven to ten days AT LEAST before you hit critical mass again. Broody thoughts begin to plague me. It seems like you don't get horny till I've been horny so long I've given up, like as long as I'm horny then one of us has it covered and you don't have to be. In the meantime, I'm welcome to whatever I need as long as I don't expext too much, but that just prolongs the agony and besides I could get tolerance from a magazine and a handful of jelly. Lovemakíng should be an active cultivation of shared pleasure, but it seems like we only have sex when we can't stand NOT having sex any longer, like its just a base function to be sated like eating or smoking or taking a crap. Thoughts swirl and darken. I dunno. Maybe mine is the sin of overwrought expectation. Goodness knows I probably get more and better than most other men on the planet. I try so hard to have the serenity to accept that which I cannot seem to change, but the fact that you don't want me nearly as much as I want you provides a steady background of pain to our otherwise blissful existence. And after the friction of many mismatched cycles I begin to build a cyst around my need. I say snide and mocking things when you grab my crotch. I race you to be the first one to go to sleep. I start planning little divorces from what I usually give up for you: I'll go riding instead of going to church; I'll work on the building instead of going to your family's house for the day. I hide my eyes under the brim of my cap so I don't have to look into the eyes of your increasingly obvious but oh-so-whimsical need. And its somewhere along through here that I usually wake up fucking you. What irresistable subterranean forces can get me well into a highly complex and motivated act before I'm even aware of myself I have no idea. It starts with me going to sleep tired, dull, romantically numb except for maybe a kind of barely palpable background humming, like the machinery in the walls in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Sometime later my mind struggles up through the cottony peripheral fog, dragging my body in humming headrush "VVV" esthesia behind it. My awareness rushes into my mouth rushing deeply, repeatedly, reciprically into yours. I can feel your flesh ripple and bunch under the pressurized headlong rush of my pent up passion and need. Broody baggage is blessedly nowhere in sight, as if this midnight tempest had blown us whole upon a new-wrought isle of naked need. I'm so absorbed by your incredible readiness that I could not even tell I was in you if I were not just so completely fucking INTO you, like my whole body was trying to cram itself into your every need. And yet I'm somewhere outside myself, too, in slack-jawed third person awe at the strange goings-on. This is midnight wonderland, moonglow ecstasy. This is one of the miracles of love unlooked-for, like the ready-sweet tang of your breath that overcomes anything when the readiness is all. But this is also "fucking," and advisedly so (for I try not to use the word lightly): a no-holds-barred, anything goes unleashing of the too-gathered forces. Nothing given but taken, nothing taken but needed, nothing needed but all, all given passionately. To ride the storm out on it's own terms seems like merest survival strategy. Sex is the little monster under everybody's bed, a still-quickened ghost out our misty distant dreamtime, older even than love. We may dress the bulk of it up in crepe paper wedding bells and euphemisms like "lovemaking" and pretentious poetry and whatnot, but a beast at either end it ever was and will remain. Suppress it (or give it full reign) at your peril. I'm glad we have someone to roar to in the night. (What in the world do they do who don't?) And I'm ever so prayerfully grateful (in my own nondenominational way) that it's you and me we have. ...The thunder roils to a climax and rolls away, the peaceful night floods back in, and then it's a crisp blue sky-after-a-storm morning and the only thing left behind by the tempest (besides the lingering kiss at the corner of your grin) is the knowledge that we're about to start the whole damn process all over again. And you won't even seem to notice. |