Let’s Talk About My Sex Life

Retrieved from menshealth.com (totally not a photo of me)

There’s endless scientific studies, or maybe it’s research studies? I tried Googling it but I couldn’t find any credible sources. Am I a credible source? Not really. I can only speak from personal experience.

There’s a myth. I’m certain you’ve heard it. A myth that once you’re married your sex life takes a dive. Life becomes mundane. There’s kids, and bills and occupational exhaustion. You settle into a comfort where you don’t get all that hard for your spouse anymore. Of course you love them. It’s just that the va-va-voom is gone.

In my experience that’s not the case. Even as we get older (I’m 44 and my husband is 53) we’re still getting busy. Well, attempting to anyway.

Here is a full on description of typical sex-capades between my husband and I.

We spoon a lot and that’s where it usually starts (oh, except for that one time in the laundry room, my truck, the closet (walk in, of course) and a few other random places).

Then we’ll start feeling each other up while we’re sucking face with soft, wet, luscious kisses. Then the clothes come off. I love the feeling of his hands on my skin. His rough and rugged touch causes me to quiver.

Once our fooling around escalates the same thing always happens. One of us ends up saying, “I feel really awkward with the cats.”

It is awkward with seven cats lying at the end of the bed (with the exception of Lu, #8. She sleeps on top of the dresser.)

My husband is usually the one to man up and kicks them off. It’s equally as awkward though. Now they’re standing in a line on the floor starring up at us. It’s creepy and impossible to perform.

That’s when I get up and shoo them from the room and close the door. I jump back in bed and the sucking face commences.

We try to stay focused but it’s a challenge with all the scratching at the door and meowing. Nico, Lu, Brutus, Boomer, Sammy, Olive, Bones and Viktor have separation anxiety. They greatly dislike being shut out. They throw fits and protest.

At this point you’re most likely wondering, Why the f*ck do they have eight cats? Okay, I get it. It would appear irrational but hear me out. They’re a rescue pack. We’re good people, right?

First came Nico and Lu, then Brutus (Brutus had a twin, Cesar but he ran away). Next up, Boomer. My husband rescued him from the jaws of a dog out in the middle of a cornfield. Sammy, Olive and Bones. I don’t know how we ended up with a set of triplets. One kitten. I told my kids to bring home one kitten. “But they’re so cute and we couldn’t separate them.” Viktor may the the straw that broke the camel’s back. Is that the right phrase? Yeah, we’re not bringing home anymore cats.

There was this one time when my husband had his hand down my pants. Viktor came lunging at us from across the room and well, that was genuinely disastrous. I felt violated.

There was another time when we locked ourselves in the bathroom. My husband propped me up on the vanity. I melted with pleasure until I opened my eyes and saw Sammy starring at me. He was standing on the ledge of the bath tub. I suppose we should have checked behind the shower curtain before we allowed ourselves to be swept away with passion.

I find my husband to be vigorously sexy. He stimulates me in a way that might be too pornographic to describe. I have to say though, when he’s covered in cats it’s a challenge to fantasize.

I feel torn, you know? Like, I made a commitment to our cats to care for them, provide them with shelter, food and love.

I remember the night Olive went missing. My husband and I felt so fearful and consumed with concern. We posted this everywhere on social media and laid cuddled on the grass together in the most nonsexual manner hopeful for his return.

“Our Olive ran off this morning and he hasn’t come home yet. We are worried and sad.

Gray and white Siamese with hazel eyes. Weighs 6 lbs. Hobbies include punching you in the face while you’re sleeping, running at full speed and watching Youtube videos. He’s docile and loving until you turn your back. Then he’ll eat books, furniture, wallpaper, contact lenses and anything else not tied down or locked up.

You can also identify him by his collar. It says “Olive” on it with my cell phone number. He doesn’t come when you call his name.”

Although I made a commitment to our cats I also made a commitment to my husband to love, cherish and get busy with him when the moment arouses. I want that. I want it so badly and I can tell by the way he looks at me with his sensual eyes he feels the same sexual volcano of our love on the verge of eruption.

Then a cat meows, and more often than not we’re both left feeling sexually frustrated.

Newspaper reporter in Eastern Iowa. The views expressed are mine alone.

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