I have a weakness. One that causes me a lot of distress. I’m pretty good at covering it up I think. I mean, I’m only passive aggressive when I don’t get it about 70% of the time. The rest, I’ll get pissed or clean the bathroom, cook some veggie burgers, basically, find anything I can do with my hands that lessens the internal, constant, chatter from inside my head.
Did you guess it?
I’m constantly, and I mean this sincerely and without apology, constantly horny! I think it’s a mental illness to be honest. It’s not that I want sex all the time, I know you have to eat and pretend to care about the economy and shit but I definitely want it more than say, watching telly, making money or socialising with family and friends.
If you’d have asked me a few years ago how much sex could you actually handle? I’d probably have said sex for breakfast, mutual masturbation for lunch and a slow candlelit sensual massage and oral sex for tea. And a bit of rough play for dessert. Oh and really naughty sex after a few drinks once or twice a week as well would be lovely.
Although, it’s fair to say, I’ve changed my opinion on this subject somewhat recently. When we were trying for our son, sexy time was on the menu everyday. At first, I thought it was amazing.
‘Right, come on,’ she’d say.
I’d be over in a shot. Kissing, cuddling, fondling our way to the eventual orgasm. It was bliss. For about a month, my life was so sweet. Then one day, it all changed!
‘Right, come on,’ she said.
I dropped whatever I was doing like a sack of spuds, rubbed some warmth into my hands and flipped a fresh mint into my grinning mouth while Dirty Dancing my way over to the bed. Smooth as fuck. I lent down and took in the sight of my beautiful wife. I placed a loving hand on her cheek and kissed her tenderly on the lips.
‘What you doing?’ She said.
‘No time for any of that, just get on with it.’
‘I’ve got a uni assignment to finish.’
Wow! What did she think I was, a piece of meat? How rude. I must admit, as I began taking my pants off I felt a little used but I love my wife so I did what I was told.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Just this once.’
I can’t lie, I struggled to enjoy it. She made it worse by constantly checking her watch during but I’m a trooper and with a lot of concentration, I powered on through. A bit like an athlete completing a marathon or a neurosurgeon removing a tumour.
This became the norm. From then on, even if I was tired, or if I wanted to talk about her day, or my feelings goddamit! It didn’t matter. She might as well have had a whip, cracking it on the floor around my feet, ‘Perform for me,’ crack-crack-crack, ‘now!’
My favourite past time became a chore. I’ve never been the type to cry after sex but it was getting close. My penis looked like it had been used for Chinese burn practise but she didn’t care. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d snuggled. She didn’t seem bothered. Who was this beast? This woman on a mission was not the woman I’d fallen in love with. She was a machine. A sperm collecting machine and if I hadn’t have given it willingly, I think she would have taken it by force!
‘I’m a bit tired.’ I said one night.
‘Haha. Funny.’ She said.
‘Seriously, I’m knackered.’
I turned away so she couldn’t see the tear escape from the corner of my eye as I lay on the bed like a good slave. And that was it. That was the limit to my fight. After she’d had her way with me and told me to clean myself up, I realised something. Women are cruel when they want a baby!
Of course, that story is only partly true but what I’m trying to say is, be careful what you ask for because when you get the quantity without the quality you’re left with a shadow of the experience in which you enjoy.
When my wife became pregnant, things settled into a calmer rhythm. We were back to love making and tenderness. Plenty of kissing and fondling and always time for a spot of foreplay. My wife nor I ever had any qualms about having sex while pregnant. We didn’t try the wheelbarrow position or swing from any chandeliers but the intimacy and togetherness we shared during that period brought us even closer together.
Now the little pudding is a toddler and wakes up thirty times a night demanding to be breast fed, our sexual relationship has changed again. It makes me feel a bit shit sometimes. Fundamentally, I’m the same person and I struggle with the animalistic urges inside me. My desire for my wife remains the same and I expect more than she’s able to give. She knows when I’ve turned inwards for one of my little sulks and she gives me time to become “normal” again.
I don’t want sex every day, I’ve experienced that and it wasn’t fun in the end. About three times a week and maybe an extra one at the weekend would be ideal. Maybe with age, the urges inside me will fade or maybe they won’t? Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me but the truth is, most men and other dads don’t talk about this part of their lives so I don’t have anything to compare my experiences with.
If anything I’ve said resonates with you, please leave a comment below because I would love to know what you think.