Thirteen years ago, I wrote a post On The Pleasures of Adultery. It recounted a tryst I had with a woman in a hotel room on St. Patrick's Day, 2007. The woman is now (and will always remain) my wife. One of our favorite blog comments of all time was brought back up out of the depths of memory in post-coital bliss last night. We showed the signs of age, as we mis-remembered an extra half-hour. I guess it just means that it was really great sex if it lasts longer in your memory (two hours) rather than the more contemporaneous recounting of an hour and a half.
Sideon said...
Plus, we gave Sideon two blinks instead of one, but maybe we were thinking of the **.
Sideon said...
An hour and a half of fucking and only one used condom?
**blink**
March 26, 2007 at 8:22 PM**blink**
No condoms last night, one of the inherent joys of marital sex. And in a nod to the original post and to anecdotal scientific evidence that men want to believe is true for promoting their own sexual agendas: men's semen deposited in a woman's vagina has anti-depressant effects. For my gay brethren, are there any studies showing what the semen deposit in various orifices does for overall mental health? To watch porn movies, you would think that it has some impact as a face cream, ala Oil of Olay, but for purists like me, I'm all for the scientific baking the cream pie.
And in a further nod to the original post, the logical and probably more likely reason for the anti-depressant effects of semen for both women and men (and why it doesn't work as a face cream), is the anti-depressant effects come not from the semen, but the close, biological physical contact between couples that are close enough to share bodily fluids. So much bunk psychology, so little time. Causality people.
Clearly, my exhibitionistic tendencies have not abated in 13 years. I want to pull my fucking out of the bedroom and onto the screen, even if it is only a link I send to Sideon. I'll leave it up to him to share it. Or maybe my wife will. There is something about fucking and then sharing the experience that is compelling. Maybe that isn't so strange at all from a Mormon culture that fetishizes marriage as the great sanctioning of fuck. Nothing is more sexually charged than a Mormon wedding, where if the children have been faithful, you know that a cherry is going to get popped (at least one) and everyone gets in a big group to celebrate. The couple retreats from the temple, a quick visit to the house or apartment and the cherry is popped, and you go to the cultural hall and everyone celebrates with cake and punch. No wonder my sexuality is tied to exhibitionism.
A lot has changed in the last 13 years, not the least of which is the shape of my cock. Early on, a certain vice-like cunt bent the tip G-spot heaven ward. Over the years the cunt has pulled the cock to the left and then straightened it back up, leaving it not only pointing up, but ribbed for her pleasure, albeit a bit shorter.
I also didn't need Red Bull wings to fly and went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth and used mouthwash to cleanse my palate of the brussel sprouts we had for dinner which we ate while watching Knives Out with the 17 year old. I certainly didn't want to imbibe caffeine after noon since it disrupts my sleep cycle and after having invested in a technological marvel of a bed that tracks my sleep and scores me (83 last night since I got to sleep late), I am motivated to monitor those circadian rhythms.
The sexual tension started early in the day when I was at work dealing with corona virus fallout, when a message pops up on my chat screen:
also happy fuck-aversery
Sexnaversary?
i used to know the name of it
the day we first DID IT almost...
wow. 13 years ago
lucky number 13
ha.
I love you.
Fuck-aversery. The celebration (marital style) was on. Thirteen years was a big deal for both of us, since neither of us have been in a long term sexual relationship that lasted longer than 13 years and last night was the night that we passed that threshold. Which weirdly brought images of the man carrying the bride through the door. How had I missed musing on all the sexual connotations of the man entering with the woman?
I filled the coffee pot and set the timer for the morning. The caffeine prohibition does not apply to the morning. I did the ablutions with toothpaste and mouth wash, shed my clothes and climbed into bed, partly because it was cold. I waited for my wife, my woman, my lover, my writing compatriot, to come out from behind the master bath's door (unfortunately not colored green). And it is quips like the "green door" that enhance and fortify marital sex, because within two words there is a world for the couple.
Part of the world is how I have a piece of writing I did riffing on Boyd K. Packer's talk, "For Young Men Only," on the perils of masturbation. My wife has read it and I pontificate on how Behind the Green Door is what the temple ceremony would be like if Joseph Smith hadn't been killed, that the masturbation factory for adolescent boys is a lot like Lucy's chocolate factory, and I play defense attorney in an imaginary church court where I point out the rampant sexual hypocrisy. My wife countered by putting up pictures of green doors all around my office, a visual and sexual image that no one but us (until now, I suppose) knew about.
And isn't that the kind of intimacy that creates great sex? Knowing the other person's sexual quirks, kinks, proclivities, and maybe even more importantly history.
We have a history that is a much more rich tapestry than even old blog posts can convey. It is a history that penetrates the most inner part of our humanity--the positive, the negative, the guilt, the pleasure, the pain, the shame, the elation, the ecstasy, the laundry, the sheets, the sleep, the dreams, the fantasies, and the realities.
To celebrate, she came through the door, wearing the same (or it could possibly be the same) outfit as 13 years ago. Since I was already naked in bed, I had her undress for me at the edge of the bed. She slid off her Levi's, the red and black camisole hid the fact that she wasn't wearing panties. She climbed into bed and in homage, we recreated the moments in the car when I had her put my hand on top of hers to have her show me how she likes to be pleasured.
I should know by now, but the re-creation is also a reminder, that we change, that our needs change, and that sometimes the pressure on the clit needs to be softer, sometimes a little to the left or the right, sometimes the finger goes in, sometimes it does not. The art of intimacy is the ability to adapt on the fly to what is at hand.
And our hands moved with each other. And my hands moved on the keyboard. And our hands moved because of the earthquake while I was typing. My hand moved inside her.
She came. The earth shook. Foundations felt fragile. A flood of motifs-stability, safety, mourning, death, loss, faith, religion, sex, intimacy, selfishness, generosity, greed, charity--all crumbled out of the memories shaken by orgasm and earth.
Everything moves and the little death reminds us of the big death, but in a bed of 13 years of copulation, there is a stability in the hundreds of thousands of thrusts. The movement and waves of intimacy in and out of the calendar.
I enter her from the missionary position. I believe. She believes. I want you to know and believe that this is true fucking. Her flesh baptizes my cock and my belly as we bathe in the flowing waters of her River Jordan. Thirteen years later, in the name of the Cock, the Cunt, and our Holy Spirit our sins are washed away and our sins sink deeper into our skin. Fucking combines and joins our sin and our salvation into our bodies.
After we come, we don't have to get home. We are home. We have been at home for most of thirteen years. We fall asleep feeling each others sacramental fluids as we drift off. The room the next morning remains unchanged. The day begins. I pour her coffee and set it by her desk while she still sleeps.
I remember and feel chunky this morning. I wonder if her clit throbbed at all as I fed her breakfast. And the beauty of marital sex? I think I will just ask her tonight if it did.
