I love my dear husband. I am one of those rare creatures who loved him from the minute I saw him across the room at a frat party at the ripe old age of nineteen.
Even though I was hot and heavy with someone else, we locked eyes, danced on couches to J-Lo and Ja-Rule’s “I’m Real,” and by the end of that jam, I was his for evah!
Truly, I hit the jackpot with Sam. Sure, we hit our rough patches in those early years. I mean, we were teenagers, for crying out loud. But he has developed into an amazing professional in health care and an even more incredible dad to my girls.
They are so incredibly lucky that they have him as their first male role model. They are able to grow up watching him be successful, loving and fun. I could not have dreamed up a better daddy for my four little princesses.
That being said, daddy is a total horn-dog. The first 5-7 years, this trait was tha bomb! I couldn’t get enough of this guy. We were in our twenties and living it up at what, in my opinion, is one of the best party schools in the country. Michigan State Spartans For Life!
Fast forward fifteen years and four kids…yeah, four…later. He is the same horn-dog and I am fucking exhausted. It’s like he lives in a sex time capsule and he still thinks daily romping is totally encouraged.
News Flash, Hubs: Daily romp denied. What did I do to give you the idea that I, too, was horny?
Was it the spaghetti and snot all over my t-shirt, the frizzy mom-bun that I have been rockin’ for 12 straight hours, or the screaming orchestra of girls that sent you into a mood of lust?
No really…I must know. HOW ARE YOU FUCKING HORNY RIGHT NOW??? Jesus! How can you even think of sex in this house of anti-boners? That is a talent if you ask me.
Now, I am no idiot, and I understand that needs differ. Therefore, I have given some analytical thought to the process of sexual balance and have spent countess hours figuring out what works for the both of us. This is what I have come up with:
1. First, one or two times a week of sexy is just not cutting it for anyone.
A sex-deprived daddy is a grumpy ass-hat, and this ass-hattery has a direct effect on my world. He punishes me in ways that are totally juvenile and kind of hilarious.
I have done my research and noticed that when the sexy time drops to once or twice a week, the hubs is more likely to “forget” his breathe strip. This little thing is key to my survival. When hubby spends the night snoring, I spend the night bed hopping. Because sleeping beside him is completely out of the question. It is not a restful sleep, to say the least, and I swear that his pouty ass does it on purpose.
2. Second, I can’t be making major purchases when the sexy time count drops below three times a week.
I know…it sounds super whore-ish, but it’s the truth. If I want those new couches, I’m gonna have to put in those vaginal hours come hell or high water.
The irony of the whole situation is the Hubs has never actually denied me anything or put a halt to my spending that I can think of. I am not a frivolous wife, and I consider myself fairly rational in terms of spending. It feels so much more justified making major purchase when I have met my imaginary sex quota. My va-jay-jay and I earned those new couches, dammit!
3. Third, if we gotta hit those big numbers — and yes, at this juncture in our lives I consider three times a week a big number — do we have to be so cliche about it all?
I much prefer the morning quickie or the mid-day sneaker to the cliche sexy-times that you are trying to throw at me. Therefore, I do NOT want the following:
-To get tipsy at dinner, talk to teenage babysitters.. — or worse, Grandma — and have half coherent sex with you. That game was fun when we were 20, but now all I can think of is whether or not there is leftover pizza in the fridge and how badly I will pay for that last drink come morning. At least let me eat that cold pizza and chug some Tylenol first!
-To have sex in the car. Dude, we have kids…and people know us now…and I don’t want to be one of THOSE people. I am no longer carefree and sexually adventurous. I am a mom, I have a PTA meeting tomorrow and a casserole to bake for the School Hospitality Committee. Don’t try and fuck me on the way home from the 8 pm chick flick we were just lucky enough to sneak out and see. If car sex is gonna happen, believe me, I am gonna be wasted and I will let you know. There will be no guessing. My drunk, naked mom butt will be clear as day.
-Soiling nature. It is not sexy to sneak off and make love in the bushes. That is only hot in the movies. When you do it in real life, you end up with scratches from rough branches and poison ivy in your hoo hoo. “Oh please, sign me up for this shit.” Said no woman ever.
-Light candles and slip into a tub. I know…I am so unromantic. Believe me, I have given this one a whirl a time or two. It seems easy enough, but oh, what a fallacy. The water gets e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e. Splish-splash sexy time! Nothing turns me on more than knowing a chore or two lay directly in front of sex. Who gets the pleasure of mopping the water up that our hippo-like bodies are churning up? You guesssed it. Meeeeeeee! The candles make me anxious, not sensual. What if we forget to blow them all out? What if your hair catches on fire? What if MY hair catches on fire? Oh, Lord have mercy. NO CANDLES!!! I can NOT get turned on when I am constantly thinking of my hair catching on fire.
So three times a week seems to be our magical number, at least for the time being. Clearly less than that and Hubs is a total bi-atch, and any more than that will make me borderline murderous.
This article was original published by Kristin McCarthy at Suburban Misfit Mom
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About the Author
Kristin is the cynical mind behind Four Princesses and the Cheese and SAHM mom of four little blonde girls—ages 8, 6 and identical twin 2 year olds. Lover of cheese, craft beer, top knots and BRAVO. Hate of Thomas the Train, Caillou and laundry. You can find Kristin and her little Blonde-tourage hanging out at popular Suburban hot spots like the local Target and Home Depot and as a regular contributing writer for Suburban Misfit Mom.