Trigger warning for way TM of the I and lots of nerdy sci-fi and fangirl crap.
I feel fairly confident James Spader stole my orgasm.
Let me back up.
I’ve always had a health sex drive and have been able to enjoy sex. These days, as exhausted working parents, my hubs and I focus on quality over quantity. Our sex drives have slowed to a cruising speed that match each other and we are satisfied with having sex three or four times a month. I jokingly call this “our quota”.
We have a pedestrian, no-nonsense style that works for us.
A friend of mine was talking about trying to jazz up her love life and she asked me for some ideas. I shrugged and said that I usually just flash an asscheek at him from across the living room and ask, “wanna’ bang?”
Or I remind him we have a quota to meet and he almost always eagerly obliges.
Like I said, no-nonsense works for us.
Of course it is nice to be intimate and feel close with one another after days of working and child rearing and basically forgetting about one another’s existence. It is nice to connect.
It is also nice just to get off while The Walking Dead records on the DVR. Then we can fast forward through all the commercials as we bask in a post-coital glow and watch zombies bite it.
But lately, there has been something missing for me. Namely, my orgasm. Not every time. But more frequently than ever before, which was never.
I don’t know if it is just being really tired, or lazy. Or maybe it is the darker days and the chill of winter in the air. Maybe it is that my lower back is sore or that my hormones are shifting with the finality of weaning Em.
I’m not exactly sure how or why the thought that James Spader stole my orgasm came to me with such rampant certainty. Maybe it is just an easier and more adorable explanation than the complexities of mid-age.
Pregnancy. Birth. Aging. It all changes shit up.
When I had my miscarriage, in between Jack and Emily, I felt truly betrayed by my body. It was like what I had come to expect from the vessel in which I lived for so long was suddenly not guaranteed. I had trusted my body to gestate that fertilized egg, and it didn’t. No. Instead, it expelled it in a crimson torrent that lasted for over a month, sent me to the hospital ER on more than one occasion, and culminated in a pricey emergency surgery.
I was so angry with myself. I felt like a failure, which is more or less the Siren Song of my entire life, but the fact that my very own body let me down so deeply. . .
This morning I felt a shadow of that betrayal as something coated my legs in a sticky trickle as I poured my coffee. This cannot really be happening, I thought, still half asleep. But as I peered into my pink, terry robe, I saw it really was happening. My menses was adorning my kitchen floor.
WTF? I thought as I raced into the bathroom. I calculate my cycle down to the moment, and there is usually a gradual build up to the, uh, heavy days.
Again, let me state, this is something that has never happened to me. Ever. Never.
It sort of wasn’t that big a deal. I kicked my hubs out of the bathroom and hopped into the shower.
But on the other hand, it just felt crazy that I was getting this gushing period out of the blue, completely unprepared.
My cycle has been like clockwork, even if it is every 23 days now. So, it is yet another stupid change in the laundry list of my body getting freaky because I’m in my forties.
WTF, Body? What? The? Fuck?
Of course my anxious mind takes this minute change of getting a surprise period and turns it into the realization that this is life. At any moment, anything can happen. We can trip and break a hip. We can burst an appendix. We can pop a hernia (which I am pretty sure I frequently do, and ouch!).
We can get cancer.
And god I love James Spader with all my heart (I mean not quite as much as I love the hubs, but. . .) but if I fucking get cancer, I will probably blame it on him too. And the hernia while I’m at it. Let’s just blame that fucker on Spader.
Don’t ask me why. I don’t really know. I think it is probably just as good a rationale as any, that a movie star on whom I’ve crushed since the 1980s (OMG, Steph in Pretty in Pink– SWOON! Yes, I had a “thing” for “bad boys.”) could be remotely causing my ailments.
Maybe it is a phenomenon Mulder and Scully can investigate in a special, new episode of the X-Files Revival. (Pssst! Call me Chris Carter!) Or, more likely, maybe I have just been watching too many old X-Files in preparation for said X-Files Revival. (Cue X-Files theme music, in three, two. . .)
At any rate, it feels a little less scary to blame Jimbo than to admit I’m aging and crippled with stress and debt and maybe I made some half-baked career choices.
I know. I know. It is really not very mindful of me to be shaming and blaming a celebrity as opposed to taking responsibility and being in the moment, softening and accepting my pain and fears. I actually AM mindful of that one detail.
Sometimes being mindful is hard, and I just don’t wanna’.
Eventually I’ll get around to that breathing, allowing, and acceptance stuff. Eventually I’ll chat with my husband a bit more about these changes and see if bedroom accommodations can be made. Eventually I’ll have my doctor check out the painful thing that intermittently protrudes from my side.
But for now, I’m just going to blame the Spades.
Anyway, all he will have to do is bat those golden lashes and maybe do that thing with his tongue, or bite the inside of his cheek and I will forgive him. Which is way easier than I ever actually forgive myself.
See how that works?