I have stopped having SEX.
That’s right you heard me correctly, NO MORE SEX.
Do I have your attention?
Good, now let me explain myself.
Having a busy life, doesn’t always preface romance: work, home, social, work…work…you get the idea. As a result, my sex life has suffered. The truth is, when it’s good, it’s amazing…most (any) sex is right?…but when it’s gone…it really sucks!
Now, I can hear you already: But you’re in a relationship, what are you bitching about?
What am I bitching about, indeed.
So, I toss it back: What is one thing we, in long-term relationships, know as an inevitability when work, stress, and odd schedules combine? NO SEX, or NOT ENOUGH SEX, which brings up a whole other topic: How much IS enough sex?…but I digress.
The present issue has been identified. And yes, we have all read the Cosmo articles: “69 tips on How to Keep Your Relationship Hot!” Etcetera, etcetera…ETCETERA!
But, the truth is sometimes a little bit of self-reverse-psychology is needed. Perhaps it’s not always about “making it hotter,” through temptation…stay with me here, this is a new concept for me as well…Maybe, just maybe…you have to cool-it-off to heat-it-up.
Sounds sadistic? Well, more like masochistic, remember neither of us is having sex here…no masturbation either (ok maybe once). It’s been a couple of weeks, and while my partner is not the most aggressive individual, I can see the withholding wearing his calm and patience down…a few nocturnal gropes, more than a few nocturnal emissions (on my part at least), and I find myself daydreaming about us naked and entwined, at work, walking down the street, reading, cutting an apple…doing just about anything and EVERYTHING!
The situation is heating up, CLEARLY.
And still, the game seems viable. So, a toast to this Hump-Day sacrifice…because something tells me, the payoff is going to be A NIGHT TO REMEMBER.
English novelist Virginia Woolf says she was sexually abused by her two half brothers. Woolf recorded her experiences in her twenty-four volume diaries and claims that her sister was also molested by the brothers.
Woolf wrote that she did not tell her parents because she knew they would protect her abusers. Woolf suffered from depression and Bipolar Disorder for many years, and it is clear that the incest disturbed her life in profound ways.