Libido-Schmibido…
In peri-menopause, my maturing ovaries ruled my higher brain function. Those wee organs were in the driver’s seat for a long time. Many, many, many months.
YEARS‘ worth of months.
Years where I would catch sight of young fit bodies playing beach volleyball on a Tuesday night, and my ovaries would sing out, “Hello, Sailors!”
It was a purely physiological response. My ovaries clocked those hot male bods and sussed that they had healthy sperm, and lots of it. My ovaries wanted that sperm. They wanted a last kick at the impregnation can and they were pretty fucking adamant about it.
I found myself possessed by ancient fertility goddesses. All of ’em: Mesopotamian, Greek, Egyptian, Indian, Celtic, Norse. Each and every single one of them clamouring for me to get down to business. “You’re WASTING your eggs!” “Make ALL the babies!!” “Leave NO man standing!”
Ignoring those impulses was like a tug-of-war with a horny hippopotamus. But, to quote Madonna, “I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through…” And by wilderness, I mean acres, nay hectares, of beach volleyball-playing, sperm purveyors.
Cut to present day – fifteen years later (ish) – where I am pretty much asexual. Thank the gods, David too, seems to identify as such. That’s not to say that we don’t EVER have sex, it’s just that now, there’s a waaaaaaaaaaaay longer on-ramp to the act.
We remain intimate, love being romantic. We knock that shit out of the park. Hand-holding, cuddling on the couch, spooning in bed… Just generally being adjacent to one another, naked, sans sex. It’s all good. Neither one of us is pining for the physical act.
“We should have sex this weekend,” I say, yawning as I tap the page turn on my Kobo.
“Definitely,” says David, his eyes cut to mine and he smiles.
I smile back. “Saturday afternoon, before a nap?” I suggest.
“Yes!!” He turns back to his own book.
I read another page, before glancing at David again. “Is it wrong of me to anticipate the nap more than the sex?”
David shrugs. “Nah. Never underestimate the appeal of a good afternoon nap.” He reads a bit more. He puts his book down and turns on his side to face me. “That’s not to say that I don’t love having sex with you! Sex with you is always good!”
“Undeniably,” I agree. “It’s NEVER a bad thing. Consistently fun! I have never said, ‘This was a waste of my time.’ “
“Exactly,” he says, brushing my hair behind my ear. “So…” He kisses me. “Saturday?” He kisses me again. “Say 2:00 ish?” He waggles his eyebrows.
I snort before sneaking my own kiss. “Oh, yeah, baby. After our lunch has had…” Another kiss. “Time to… settle.”
It’s his turn to snort. “And…” he rubs his nose against mine. “We… warm up first.”
“Yes! We stretch EVERYTHING, crack our knuckles and get down to business, baby!”
We give each other an awkward high-five.
I pick up my Kobo, he picks up his book.
“I adore you,” I say.
“Back at you,” he answers.
