“Agghh! My back! Why did you do that?!” I gasped.
“I was trying to be sexy,” Alex admitted sheepishly.
“I am a 41-year-old woman. You cannot treat my lower back like that.”
“I’m so sorry I hurt your back.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at your penis.”
“Yeah … he’s done for the night.”
And so ends another hot and heavy weekday sexy time. We are middle-aged, we’ve been married for almost 19 years, and our kids are old and always, always awake. Sex has become a bit of a conundrum.
A few months ago we agreed to start scheduling. Certain nights of the week are sex nights, because the calendar is getting away from us. I’m not telling you which nights, because you guys couldn’t be cool about it and my daughter’s friends on Instagram would see and start reminding her what her parents are doing and she’d have to emancipate herself and never speak to us again. No one wants that.
We do it in the basement, in a little bedroom with a low ceiling and a recurring rodent problem. We lock ourselves in and try to ignore the sounds of teen brontosaurus feet above us. The conditions are not ideal, you guys, but our choices are limited. Our upstairs master bedroom, with its paper thin walls and vaulted ceiling, might as well have surround sound, pumping out, “WE ARE HAVING SEX. SEX TIME IS NOW, NOW, NOW, NOW.” We could get rid of all our kids, stop having sex because it’s too hard, or push through and make this happen, come hell or lower back probs. READ MORE