Every time I write about sex, my stats skyrocket to the moon. Well, maybe not the moon, more so a thirteen-story building in a shady part of town, nobody dares go to anymore, but hey, who’s counting?
So here I am, writing about taming the strange, again, and not because I want my stats to skyrocket (maybe a little), I want to skyrocket, in afternoon delight, or something like that.
As I was lying in my bed last night, not having sex. I started thinking about how much the bedroom rodeo didn’t really change much from my twenties to my thirties. Yes, sex got better, but a lot of things stayed the same. So I give to you:
The evolution of my personal sexual revolution, if you will.
I arrived later than most at the break your hymen party. I was two weeks from twenty the first time I made love. It wasn’t as beautiful as I had been promised. It was hell on wheels and extremely painful. But I was in love and intrigued. All the moments leading up to slamming the clam, you know – the foreplay, that was incredible. So I did what any almost twenty-year-old would do, I kept on keepin’ on hoping the next time would be better. It did get better. Thank Gawd.
Sex in my twenties was awkward to say the least. I had no damn clue what I was doing, but I was determined to get it right. I often found myself in the missionary position; just getting laid. It’s not as if I hadn’t practiced all the other parts of sex before my first roll in the hay. Let’s be honest, if you wait until you are almost twenty to do the mattress dance for the first time. You can become quite proficient in finding other ways to please the man with whom you are dating.
Twenty-year-old sex happened whenever, wherever and as often as it could. Most often the back seat of a car down a dark road, (where all the masked murderers from the horror movies hung out). On more than one occasion – said sex was interrupted by a police officer knocking on a steamy window, asking probably the most idiotic question in the world, “Can I ask what you guys are doing out here?” REALLY?!?! Steamy windows, car rocking back and forth, parked down a dark and deserted road. Obviously we are reading our college English literature syllabus. Come on!
Not only was it hard to find a place to lock legs and swap gravy as a twenty-year-old, actually doing the deed was a full-blown Off-Broadway production. Twenty-year-old sex lasted through the night into the hazy bird chirping morn’. And if you could, you would spend the day turning your tiny apartment into a place none of your roommates could walk into without being confronted with – the wall of steamy, sweaty human sex smell. I have been told this is grounds for a roommate to vacate the premises before paying rent. Nevertheless shaking the sheets happened as often as, (at some points) humanly possible.
My deal with twenty-year-old sex is I wasn’t as comfortable with my person as I am now. Pressing the baby button was fun, but it took a long time to find my happy spot if it was indeed found at all. I didn’t take charge in the bedroom, and I somewhat went through the motions. It wasn’t until my thirties, married with two children, that I came into my sexual-own.
Sex in my thirties blew my mind. I remember talking to my younger girlfriends as if I was a sales rep for the two person push up. I would dance around them and shout things like just wait until your thirty, OMG everything changes, it’s so much better now. But some things hadn’t changed, not a lot.
Plus, I found toys, this is a crucial plus.
Married with two children a big beautiful house filled with love, and two toddlers (that never left me alone). I still found myself trying to find hidden places to have adult nap time. I remember having code words that I had to write on the calendar for my husband: Tonight we are Playing a game of Mr. Wobbly hides his helmet <3 <3 <3. But, when we found the time, the sex was so much better than it was in my twenties. I was much more comfortable with my body, all that practice really did make perfect. I didn’t fear taking charge in the bedroom, which, by the way, helped me find my happy spot, over and over and over again.
Being married with two kids did take away from the all night romp, not very often did I find myself awake in the early daylight hours, unless it was to rescue a crying child. Although the love-making was less frequent throughout the evening, it was somehow better. Much more fulfilling. Just an FYI, every once in a while I heard a bird chirp when the kids were at the grandparents.
So there you have it, not a lot has changed, I mean yes the actual deed is better. But in all honesty I am still hiding from people, trying to have all night sex and practice, practice, practice.
And now that I have placed my feet carefully (with much duress) over the 40-year-old threshold. I think gland-to-gland combat will only get better. Maybe sex is like wine; it gets better with age.
*A quick PSA for the fella’s – This my packaged friends has nothing to do with what YOU want in bed or anything to do with your precious ego. It is clear I am a woman, and I’m speaking from a woman’s point of view. Please don’t get your balls twisted in a knot, because ouch.
I am not here to offend, although, sadly enough I have had to pretend, more than enough times for my liking.*