Truth: Sex In The Real World

Watching movies as a young girl gave me a warped sense of sexual relationships. I was already deathly afraid of STD's and pregnancy but I longed for the day that I found the right guy and we would have slow, sensual sex in our beautifully decorated loft apartment. I would be fit and wear a white tank and a black thong around our loft, he would be muscular and lift me over his shoulder while I laughed all the way to our bed. There we would make love all day, the sun sweeping over my long dark hair while he kissed my large firm breasts. We didn't have to work, it was a movie, so we would sometimes nap after our orgasmic sex sessions and he would make dinner and pour me wine while I showered and put on a clean thong. It was magical and we were so in love that we never had to wear clothes or clean the house. Then I grew up and got married.

To my knowledge, there has never been an accurate portrayal of what married sex is like after the first five years. My guess is that no one wants to see it. In married sex, there are no lofts or beautiful bedrooms, there are only locked doors and granny panties. You don't have sex all day, you dread sex all day and then you when you finally get your kids bolted in their rooms, you pray for a quicky or hope he fell asleep. He's physically fit all right, for a sumo wrestler, and the only thong you are acquainted with goes on your foot. As you step over the pile of laundry from last week, you realize he isn't asleep and he's postured for a lovemaking session. Which looks the same as when he is ready for a basketball game on TV. He's sleepily rubbing his chub, decked out in holey boxer briefs and asking you to take off that robe and sit over here. There is no avoiding it now. No one has showered in 8-10 hours, shaving hasn't occurred for a month, and if he brushed this morning, it's completely unnoticeable now.

Once the humping commences it's one labored breath after another, random thoughts of whether or not you fed the dog and enough sweat to put a marathon runner to shame. Then it's over. You each head for the nearest towel and while you cover your saggy physique in a dirty hoodie and ripped pajama pants, you hear your lover go into the toilet. He proceeds to leave the door open while he empties his bowels and you suddenly realize that you will never live in a loft with some buff dude. There will be no dinner and wine.  You will never wear a sexy thong or make love all day.You will live in suburbia with a guy who shits with the door open, but what did you expect? This isn't a movie.

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