Letting Go Sex

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Sex to you means:

Release

Satisfaction

Something to do on a Friday night

Orgasm

Happiness

Closeness

For you sex is something other than it really is

For we both know

I could be Sally or Jane

Or any number of other women

Who you would like to seduce

Any number of women who are younger, skinnier

And who have better knees with which to ride

The bucking bronco

Sex to me since you said you did not have “the love and passion necessary to sustain our relationship”:

Confusion

Sadness

Silent tears fall

Embarrassment

Thinking I’m not good enough

Wanting to protect myself

To wear flannel nightgowns like my grandmother

Anger and despair

Not wanting to move during the act

In order to reduce mutual pleasure

Building walls

Thinking about doing my nails as we engage

I don’t understand

We have always had great sex.

Still do

No fake orgasms here

But the dynamics are changing

And after 30+ years

I find that I am dreading it

That I no longer want you that close to me

To be that intimate within me

Or connected to me

Enjoying me

Exploring what is left of me

Since you have wrung me out

Physically and mentally

I want someone who will enjoy

This sexual living being

Who gives of myself

So easily and well

As we roll over the sheets

A woman who knows how to pleasure a man

And who gives all of herself in the endeavor

So the next time you look at my face

While you are indulging

Know that I am beginning to float out of my body

And into the arms of a lover

Who will once again treasure all that I have to give

Sexual and otherwise

Because while you may not appreciate what you have

There are plenty who will

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I Got Me Some

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Last month I bought a SEX calendar. No, not one with one position for each day of the year but one to keep track of just how much sex we were having after a not so great comment from B about “slipping back” where sex was concerned. I was pissed as it appeared that the blame was being leveled at me and I was determined to do something about it if only to prove a point. This calendar now hangs on the bathroom wall for easy access so no one “forgets” when we did the dirty deed. Problem is with three teens in the house one just can’t be writing SEX all over the place especially special days like their birthdays. So I have had to become inventive in order to keep track of who did what to whom.

My first entry “B fixed the closet” was a little farfetched but I figured it would work until I wrote it a second time and Gracie said, “What is wrong with your closet and why is dad always having to fix it?”

So I then went to a capital S with circle around it. Andre asked me why I was marking Superman on my calendar. Although it may fit B in the bedroom I quickly got the point that I needed to change my records keeping ways.

Paul asked with the star was about and if it had anything to do with the cycles of the moon.

Frankly, all this calendar watching by the kids was  getting to be a tad annoying. I mean can’t we have any privacy even if it is just on paper?

So I have had to invent a series of codes

IDIOT-I did it on top

GHO- Got him off meaning there was nothing in it for me

GMO- The crops have come in and it was all about me

FTD- F***** twice in a day (we have yet to need this one yet)

BS-B was sick (yeah I am not taking the rap for not having sex when you have a fever and fall asleep at 2 pm

CASS-I was sick.

And so it goes.

Unfortunately, we have not had much chance to use these secret sex codes as of late. Between freezing in Tibet, me in Chicago for a week, Nicole with grand babies here necessitating Gracie sleeping in our room, B being sick, me being sick…well, let’s just say the odds have been stacked against us. But yesterday Nicole left, Gracie returned to her own room and late at night we had sex. Finally. Happy, Joyous, Lovely. SEX.

Let’s just say the earth moved and the richter scale said it was a 5.0  which was not bad for two old folks with kids in the house.

Onto my calendar went GRITS

But in morning after taking the kids to school as I was cleaning my bathroom  I noticed handwriting scrawled on the calendar other than my own. It read “Can you keep it down please some of us are trying to get some sleep!”

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How embarrassing! I think we will buy the little dears ear muffs for Christmas next year!

 

 

 

 

Is It Proper To Have Sex In A Monastery…and other unanswered questions

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Let’s start out with a full disclosure…this is crass post and I wonder if I should be asking about this at all but… I yam what I yam.

Since we are traveling sans children to Tibet I have been wondering…is it kosher to have sex in a guest house monastery? There appear to be no written rules of etiquette written about this. In my own experience I have discovered the following:

Secluded beach…okay

Movie Theater…not okay

On a horribly long airplane flight…how often do they clean the blankets?

10th Floor of the Hilton in the elevator…okay if you don’t get caught

In front of the police station in your car…definatly not okay

In your parents house when you are unmarried…oh gross

In your parents house when you are married…oh gross

At the Boy Scout Camp at 3 am in the shower? Probably not but it is a little titillating.

On the roof top of a certain hotel in Vegas…oh yes…please!

But a monastery? Even one with a guest house? I just don’t know. It almost seems sacrilegious like “doing it” on the alter or worse… with the alter boy.

In researching the issue it appears that for a person who is seeking to live a monastic life the answer is a definite NO. According to the teachings of various Buddhist monks, that by ridding ourselves of lust and greed we liberate ourselves from unnecessary suffering. And if the intention is to rid ourselves of suffering we must also rid ourselves of those things that cause suffering and sex would obviously be high on that list. BUT…

I am not seeking to live a monastic life, I will be in a guest house and the most important thing…I will be without children. How does this change the dynamics? I do not know. But one thing I do know is I am not going all the way to Tibet to only use my pilate muscles for trekking up a mountain. I only hope we will be smart enough not to get our body parts frozen to things not easily removed.

Oh and FYI whatever you do NEVER google… sex in a monastery…just sayin’…gross!

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Shhh…Don’t Say A Word

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This weekend we have hired a sitter and will be without our darling children for 24 hours…I can’t wait! But before we go away I will be telling B something that he needs to know to make our time together perfect.

“Shhhh…don’t say a word.”

Don’t say a word as we walk towards the bedroom. Don’t utter a sound as we pull back the sheets. Don’t whisper a word as we undress (unless you want to tell me how sexy I look). And PLEASE, JUST PLEASE, don’t say anything (nada, nothing) while we are making love.

I know a lot of women like to hear sex talk while they are indulging in adult time with their partner. I am not usually one of them. Okay, maybe sometimes I am, but definitely not tonight. Frankly, I don’t want to hear your fantasies while we are trying to create our own. Worse…I don’t want you intruding on the fantasy that is going on in my own head by imploding/imposing yours onto mine. Believe me they are two totally different shows. Mine is opera and yours is grunge heavy metal. Mine is A Walk In The Clouds while yours is James Bond. Tonight, I just don’t want to hear “it”…I want to hear “you.”

The only external thing I want to hear soft sax music in the background. Besides that, I just want to hear your heart beating as I lay my head on your chest and I want to listen to it quicken when I put my hand between your legs. I want to hear that sigh you make when we first connect with one another and I want to see your blue eyes sparkle at that instant we reach deep into the most intimate of places. I want to eavesdrop on your body’s reactions as we touch one another deeply and passionately. And I want to hear that rumble that starts in your soul and spreads through your body before we both explode.

I want to hear all of you tonight. So please.. “Shhh…don’t say a word!”

Mrs. Hot Pants…304 Days To Fix This

If there is one thing that makes me quiver in fear it is costumes. The kind of sexy-for- your-eyes-only, see-through, leave-nothing-to-the-imagination…oops my nipples are showing type of ensemble meant to be worn in the bedroom and not in public unless you are seriously, seriously drunk. I hate them. My thighs are too fat, my legs too short and my head too big. They are meant for 25-year-old girls who eat a piece of lettuce for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and that’s only when they are indulging. When I was 20 years younger and untold pounds thinner I could do this. At this age, I just think I look like Winnie The Pooh Stuck In the Honey Tree with a dash of Miss Piggy in a wetsuit thrown in. (Yes, we woman are too hard on ourselves but we will save that discussion for another day!)

Unfortunately, my husband recently told me that he misses seeing me in this type of attire. He’s a visual kind of man he tells me. He’s a I wanna’ see before I touch kinda’ guy and so I began to peruse the “can’t-touch-this-sexy-momma” online store and did I ever get some ideas.

Unfortunately, I could not find the “this-is-the-one-to save-your-marriage” type of look though with the mid-life crisis component of the “let-me-marry-my-younger-than-my-daughter-aged secretary” being all the rage in men these days; the innocent school girl look just might do. Unfortunately, I suspect on a 55-year-old woman it might be more reminiscent of a Catholic priest in drag than anyone B used to date in high school. Yep, this one is definitely a five drink minimum proposition before I would even consider reliving my teen years again.

I considered the sexy santa suit/wear but with the twelve animals that would have to imported and the fees associated with the mandatory quarantine… well… it began to feel a somewhat sacrilegious to me. And in truth, making that “bowl-full-of-jelly” scene appear in real life would probably make B swear off Christmas for the rest of his life. Besides, red isn’t my color.

The policewoman outfits were kind of attractive but it is doubtful that I could get B into a pair of handcuffs because he knows that with the mood I am in I might be charged with “unlawful entry” when I got done with him. He’s smart enough not to take the chance.

The French maid was adorable in the photo. And the genuine feather duster, I must confessed turned me on. In fact, that whole maid idea got me so excited I decided to hire one next week to clean my house. But I’m willing to bet she won’t be French and won’t have cleavage that enters the door one minute before the rest of her.

Many afternoons I spent in search of the perfect “look-I’m-trying-to-make-an-effort-to-turn-you-on”clothing. Finally, after I had just about given up, I came upon the obvious choice. What with my skills used for fighting for truth, justice and the American way, leaping over a minefield of toys in a single bound, and having perfected my mind reading abilities in order to determine which child is the culprit;  I realized there was only one costume that would do…

The one…

The only…

Superhero…

For mom’s everywhere…

Wonder Woman.

And it works because I AM the original wonder woman creator of the “perfect” family and even more a “no yell” kind of world. Even better, the costume fits me perfectly too…but unfortunately for B I don’t look like her in it!

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