So I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately. Okay, for a month or two. Because, well, I miss sex.
Sex has always been a central feature of the relationship Nico and I share. When we were young, we never had sex, per se, but we made those first steps into the sexual world together. He was the first guy to take off my bra; I was the first girl to go down on him (lol, the way he tells it, I, in my novice-ness, kept stopping and saying, “Are you going to come?” as if I was nervously awaiting a bomb explosion . . . I don’t remember that part but, uh, I think his retelling is accurate). When we got back together in our mid-30s, that feverish need for one another’s bodies was still there. After we finally had sex, we both kept asking one another, “Why weren’t we doing this all along?” It sounds like cliched romanticism, but it felt like our bodies were meant to be together. I actually had an orgasm when he’d only been inside me for about three seconds on that first night–which seems like a physical impossibility, I know. It was a confluence of things, though: the rekindling of my sexual awakening all those years ago, the intimacy of having the person who knew me better than anyone inside me, the perfect physical match in terms of his size and my preference.
I guess living in two different cities had something to do with it, but whenever we were together we couldn’t stop touching one another. Watching TV, sitting at a bar, walking up to a restaurant, riding around in his Jeep . . . we were *always* touching. And then there was the sex, too. I think in all that time we lived apart that there was only on night I spent with him when we didn’t have sex. We had sex in his bed, on his couch, in his kitchen; on his mom’s couch, in his nephew’s room, in his Jeep. Oh, and once on the hood of Nicole the Whore’s car. We just had this need, not merely a want, to connect physically.
And then we moved in together.
So, I know my life is exhausting. Having two kids with autism running around doesn’t make for a quiet, simple life, especially when my younger son had some significant freak-outs about all the new things and new places around him when we first moved to Metropolis. And it’s not just the kids who make the house chaotic; therapists show up four days a week to work with the kids. I’m always running around, the kids are always running around, the therapist are always running around. My house is a three-ring circus.
Maybe it was that circus. Maybe it was the familiarity of living together. Maybe it was the health issues Nico encountered. I dunno. What I do know is that every night when I curled up next to him that I still craved him . . . and he was content to kiss me goodnight and roll over.
I wasn’t deterred. I seduced him frequently. Sometimes it was rather overt; sometimes it was subtle. Eventually, I started to get resentful; we were having sex, but I always initiated it. And he was starting not to get my subtle seductions. And even on a couple of occasions he rejected the overt ones: “It’s 2AM, love.” I’d never had a man turn down sex with me because it was late.
I wanted my boyfriend to crave me, need me, and I tired of seducing him–I wanted him to seduce me. So I gave up, for the most part. There were times when I wanted him so much that I couldn’t sleep next to him, so I slept on the couch some nights instead. We started having sex once every one to two weeks and had one three-week plus stretch. I talked to him about it, of course. “I miss you not being able to not touch me, I miss you craving me, I miss you coming up to me in the kitchen and needing to be inside me right then.” But there’s a point when sharing how you feel can start to sound naggy, and I sure as hell didn’t want to nag my boyfriend into having sex with me. So I stopped saying much about it.
And then came the worst part.
It was a Friday night, and the kids were out of town. I put on the black lacy thing that I’d had sitting in my closet for about a month and struck a sexy pose in the bedroom doorway, waiting for him to turn the corner and see me. Which he did . . . and then he went to the front of the house to turn off the TV and turn off the lights and lock up the doors. Then he came back into the room . . . and plugged in his cell phone. LOL, I was so sure that he’d take one look at me, scoop me up, and throw me on the bed. Yeah, not so much.
I had a “what the fuck?!” look on my face and he asked me what was wrong. I told him that he’d turned off the TV and plugged in his cell phone. “I knew we were done with the living room for the night, and I knew I’d forget to plug in my phone if I didn’t do it now.” Um, sure.
So there was some back and forth, both playful and serious, and he kept trying to convince me that he wanted me and I kept trying to convince him that he was a dumb ass. Eventually we did get to the bed, and he started touching and kissing my body. Worst oral ever. Not because he was doing anything wrong, but because despite all his practical reasons for not responding to my alluring black lace immediately, I felt heartbroken.
Maybe he was responding to my disappointment, but the past few days have been good. We had sex on Thursday night. We had sex in his home office during the middle of the day on Friday. We had sex last night (granted, I did say when we got into bed, “Let me know if you wake up and want to be inside me”). Phew. But at the same time, I wondering if he’s just trying to appease me.
I’m left wondering, am I just an over-sexed woman who wants too much? Nico does tell me about 80 times a day that he loves me, so should I be content with that?
What do you think–is it normal for sex to drop off when a couple gets past the two-year mark, or should a woman be worried when her partner’s interest drops off?