Skip to main content

It's all about sex, baby...

Pre and post marital sex are such different things they should come in completely separate, not sub, categories. And then there's post-children sex... an entirely different, erm, ball game....

Show me a couple who have been together for more than five years and are still having inventive sex on a regular basis and I'd bet my favorite handbag they're getting some form of external assistance; yes, I'm talking the full smorgasborg of carnal delights, the kind of stuff Channel 5 obsessively churns out tediously titillating documentaries on.

Show me a couple who have been together for more than five years, have toddlers in the house, and are still having inventive sex on a regular basis and I'll eat my favorite handbag (Italian leather and very chewy, that's how sure I am about this).

Let's face it, you've been with the same person for a thousand years, you know every single button to push, and you know the formula for what gets you both off in the quickest time in order to avoid the possibility of being interrupted mid-shag by a wide-eyed and possibly disturbed-for-ever child - who then spends the next three years telling the neighbours about the night Daddy took his clothes off and beat Mummy up in the middle of the night (don't take that as an admission of strage sexual practices in our household, just think about it from the perspective of a three-year-old).

So, it stands to reason that the days of re-enacting that scene from 'The Postman Always Rings Twice' is going to be a distant memory, something to be pulled out of the dark recesses of your mind at the most inconvenient and ultimately unfullfilling moments, such as when on the tube or in the middle of an annual performance review. Then add the fact that your other half has experienced you in the throes of childbirth and you're getting into intensive therapy territory. Oh yeah, and not having time for the pre-child(ren) intensive wax, blow dry and general beautifying routine can't help much; hairy calves, hoof-like feet and enlarged pores are not conducive to acts of mind-blowing lust.

So, what can you do about it?

Well, apart from hiring round-the-clock nannies and an unshockable beautician ("You had your last bikini wax when?"), I'm not sure there is an easy solution - especially if your temperament isn't suited to group sexual activity (and from what I've seen on TV, participants in this particular pecadillo tend to have similar levels of physical attractiveness to that of the House of Lords).

But there is hope; apparently you can expect a vast improvement in the quality and quantity of your sexual activity when the kids leave home. I plan to start buying shares in Viagra now.


Manhattan Mama said…
How about trying to find time alone for escapades when you SHARE YOUR BEDROOM with your rabbit? Until she was 2 -- we lived in a one-bedroom apartment, of course with a large living room, that had one of those cool, but deeply uncomfortable couches...dining room table time and all can be fun -- but not for 2 years, and not when the table has a wobbly leg from years spent in a rectory.... Even the bathroom was off the bedroom -- ie, no bathtub time per due either...When we finally moved, and got our OWN room(!!!) that helped things immeasurably...but now it's been 9 months in the new
oh mm, I forgot about the shared bedroom thing! Now, THAT is seriously effective contraception... and yeah, I guess the novelty is starting to wear off now... is there much of a swinging community in NYC?? :-)
Kelly said…
Great post. I've been married for almost five years... and....
Well. Let's just say you couldn't have said it better!
Sugarmama said…
On a different note, there's something comfortingly easy about sex with someone who knows exactly what to do to you. Sex can still be an option, even on those nights when you're bone-tired (so to speak). You know it'll feel good and you'll sleep better, but it won't take so long that you resent losing the sleep. I'm saving the more creative acts for, well, I don't know when. But I'm sure I'll have the energy and imagination for them again one of these days!
Moonface said…
ylm - i doubt you'll have to eat your handbag, if we are talking about NORMAL couples, and not some glitzy hollywood type of people with full time nannies and what not.

sugarmama - so true!!!
hi kelly - glad I'm on the money on this one. I'd hate to think it was just me. :-)
hi sugarmama - true, but that just doesn't do it for me. Let's just hope we all remember how to do the creative acts when the opportunity arises again. I have a feeling it might be like being a born-again virgin. :-)
hey moonface - glad to hear that, because it is a very nice handbag (despite the fact that the girls have drawn on the lining, gah). Yes, maybe I should have differentiated between normal and glitz. Mind you, I do know one woman who fits between the normal and glitz divide - but her husband is insanely rich which I'm sure makes a big difference. We're talking her not working but still has nannies to look after the kids, regular beautician visits, a weekly 'date' with her husband... but you know, she has all this opportunity and still manages to be so sexually repressed it's quite ridiculous. The mean bit of me is pleased but the nice bit of me feels really sorry for her, because at least the rest of us have the hope that her lifestyle is the answer to our sexual prayers...
Kim said…
Last night I sat on our lounge in pyjama pants with snap-lock bags of peas on my boobs. Chef just laughed and shook his head. I mean seriously it's an area where there's no point even pretending there's hope.

Apart from that, tomorrow, at 9.30am I am booked in for my first leg and bikini wax in 8 years. Yes EIGHT years.

Don't worry, I'm not a feral, there's been shaving or Nair in between, not to mention the moment of complete stupidity involving an Epilady. But my bikini line is not so much a line now, but more like a trench. A very wide trench.

Look Away! I'm hideous!

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …