CUT TO: Several Tim Sands–less years later, I was having dinner with friends at a local bar when none other than ole mullet-head arrived and came right up to my table as if we had been in touch on a daily basis. After the “how’s it been going?” was over, Tim launched into a monologue about his TV pilot—the one he had given to Annabelle that I refused to read. Apparently, it was called Hollyweird and was about a bunch of actors who are hoping to get their big break by working children’s birthday parties dressed as cartoon characters or superheroes. By chance, Tim had recently seen me on an episode of Entourage in which I had a very minor role. The director, my friend Larry, had asked me to come in and play the part of an unemployed actor working as a clown at Ari Gold’s kid’s birthday party. The script called for me, at an inopportune moment, to hand Ari my pathetic headshot and DVD résumé, which he used as a drink coaster and then told me to fuck off. It’s maybe all of two minutes of airtime. Everyone in LA has hired wannabe actors at one time or another to work children’s birthday parties. It is one of the most common jokes in town. Nevertheless, Tim Sands had the audacity to accuse me of contacting the Emmy Award—winning writers and producers of Entourage, slipping them his unproduced pilot script so they could steal his “idea” for a two-minute scene that had nothing to do with the rest of the episode. I informed Mullet Man that what he was accusing me of was wrong in so many ways and on so many levels that I didn’t even know where to begin. But Tim wouldn’t let it go. He actually said that if he wasn’t committed to being nonviolent, he’d beat the crap out of me. I had to laugh, eager to please. Annabelle and her structured Friday night playgroup almost got me into a bar brawl with a guy sporting a mullet.
I’m still not quite sure what Annabelle expected to happen with all her parental bylaws and stipulations. Did she really think that Ezra could somehow escape being part of the supercharged modern world of distractions, gadgets, and media manipulation and remain some kind of pure and pristine being? As for me, maybe I’m lazy, too rebellious, or just a huge pain in the ass, but I don’t see the harm in letting Ezra goof off, act silly, eat a little Cap’n Crunch, or even watch TV and play video games during school nights once in a while, and if I’m wrong … we are so fucked.
“Men don’t like to cuddle. We only like it if it leads to … you know … lower cuddling.” —Ray Romano
“no sex, please, we’re married” read the cover of Newsweek in 2002
The magazine reported that many of the 113 million married Americans are too exhausted or grumpy to have sex. Psychologists estimate that 15 to 20 percent of couples have sex no more than 10 times a year; 3 times a week is the number reported by newlyweds, tapering off with time. The average is 68.5 times a year; still, estimates indicate that marrieds have 6.9 more sexual encounters per year than the unwed who are the same age.
the trajectory of passion?
Elle magazine (2006) says that passion fades for 70 percent after the first year together, for 58 percent after two years, 45 percent after three to five years, and 34 percent after six years or more.
Percentage of women over seventy-five years of age who would be happy to never have sex again: 36.
Percentage of men over seventy-five who are OK with that: 5.
Percentage of marrieds who cheat: 22.
Percentage of women who cheat: 15.
Percentage of men who would cheat if they felt they wouldn’t get caught: 40.
“We don’t knew whether people who are happy in marriages have sex more, or whether people who have sex more become happy in their marriages or a combination of the two.”—Tom W. Smith, University of Chicago
* Brazelton: More of the same as Sears, but T. Berry Brazelton is just so much fun to say.
* The APA: Although certain television programs may be promoted to this age group, research on early brain development shows that babies and toddlers have a critical need for direct interactions with parents and other significant caregivers for healthy brain growth and the development of appropriate social, emotional, and cognitive skills. A full 80 percent of the studies done conclude that higher amounts of television and other media exposure are associated with negative health effects in children and adolescents.
† One recent study found that if American students did as well as those in several Asian countries in math and science, our economy would grow 20 percent faster. (Nicholas Kristof wrote about it in the New York Times in 2008.)
8
• • • •
Back to the Pussy
“Suffering, emptiness, darkness are nothing more than interruptions of a cosmic orgasm that grows forever in intensity.”
—I.B. SINGER
In the beginning, there was sex and it was good. In the middle, it became something to schedule, like a tennis lesson or flu shot. In the end, it has to be done with the help of creams and gels, prescription pills, and perhaps even a pulley or two. Our advice: Take full advantage of the beginning. Try to enjoy the middle as much as you possibly can. And for the end, be sure to stock up on plenty of KY jelly.
He Says
If it wasn’t for the fact that I love pussy so much, I’d have given up on the whole marriage thing a long time ago. Ever since the birth of our son eleven years ago, I’ve been on a never-ending quest to get back to the pussy. My wife’s. But getting there is nearly a Herculean task demanding the patience of Mahatma Gandhi, the perseverance of a Chicago Cubs fan, the focus of Tiger Woods, and a mind so warped, so perverted, so single-minded in its pursuit, that it can withstand almost anything. Because what having a child does to your sex life is not unlike what happens when a majestic eagle is hit with a surface-to-air heat-seeking missile. No longer is there spontaneous, stepping-out-of-the-shower-I-have-to-have-you-on-the-bathroom-floor. “What if he walks in and sees us?” No more do-it-with-the-sunrise-I-have-to-piss-hard-on-warm-and-cozy-from-spooning sex, because our kid is right there in bed with us every morning—sleeping in the middle, sweeter than honey on a Hershey bar, cuter than anyone has a right to be, and more demanding of attention than Madonna at a Madonna concert.
But eleven years after our son’s birth, one would think that maybe, just maybe, my wife and I could resume our mutual desire to get her off. I mean, how long could she keep using that “I just had a baby” excuse anyway? The truth is, Annabelle’s high tide of horniness began to recede innocently enough just after Ezra was born when she began to take antidepressants. The SSRIs dovetailed nicely with all the recently acquired anxieties caused by Ezra’s health complications and created a perfect storm of lack of libido. The antidepressants had beneficial results for Annabelle, and sure, she might have been able to function better in her career, but was it really worth it? I saw the drugs as working for her the way the Hoover Dam operates. They stop up the flow of lust and then carefully funnel it to generate more stability for her to use effectively in her workplace, in better ways of dealing with her parents, in coping with the garden varieties of daily stress, and generally in not succumbing to bouts of low self-esteem that were once so fantastically channeled into sexual energy. Annabelle readily admits that she often used sex in very self-destructive ways, as did all my favorite girlfriends. I immediately picked up that scent of self-destructive sexuality and wanted it in the worst way. It goes without saying that sex is always hotter with crazier women. How did I miss Annabelle’s slutty years! She’ll counter that if I’d got them, we never would have lasted and is that something I could live with? (I won’t answer that—dead giveaway.)
When it comes to sex, we definitely do not see eye to eye, crotch to crotch, or even eye to crotch. I want to have sex every day; Annabelle wants to do it only once a week. So we compromised: we have sex once a week. (If I’m lucky.) However, once in a great while this can actually work to my advantage. Because our lives are too complicated and chaotic to pick a set date to have sex, every day brings with it the possibility that today could be the day it happens. And because I’m the one who always initiates the sex process, I try eve
ry chance I can. Sometimes Annabelle forgets we’ve already done it once that week and we actually do it twice. (That’s the way I stick it to the man, or in this case, the woman.)
By this point in Annabelle’s life, many things have changed both inside and outside her pants. No longer is she just horny for horny’s sake; she’s a mother and homeowner, a talented, hardworking, ambitious career woman who is very, very—and I can’t stress this enough—very tired. Yet this fatigue is just the beginning of obstacles I have to wade through if I am to get back to the pussy.
The only time we have for sex is at night, after Ezra has gone to bed. However, our son doesn’t like going to bed. It is as if, in some brilliant Oedipal tactic, he delays his sleep to worsen my chances of getting into the body from whence he sprang. Each step of his bedtime process is met with a determined resistance the likes of which haven’t been seen since the Battle of Britain. Moving through his homework, bath, brush, snack, pee, and good-night reading, he has to be begged, badgered, bribed, and cajoled every inch of the way. Getting him to bed is an act that utterly drains our life force. And by “life force” I mean my wife’s desire to have sex. After the epic bedtime melee she inevitably asks what time it is, and when I offhandedly tell her it’s almost ten p.m., she moans, “Already? That’s like one a.m. for me.” Let me explain: ten at night is one in the morning for her because she spent a day or so in New York earlier in the month and now she’s permanently on East Coast time. It’s not really possible to be jet-lagged two and half weeks after spending less than forty-eight hours in New York, but she is.
Because of our regional time difference, if any sex is to be had, there’s precious little time to get it on before she literally passes out. At first I casually hint, “Oh, c’mon, please, I’m begging you. Lord God, have mercy; I need some!” Then I hunker down for the rehash. The rehash is a retelling of the day’s events, which I’ve already heard; future scheduling details we’ve already discussed; and a laundry list of what’s going on in her life I already know about. “The new tiles have come in for the upstairs bathroom.” “Yes, I know.” “I have an audition tomorrow, so you’re going to have to pick him up from school.” “OK.” “Did I tell you I read that Bonnie Hunt still claims to be thirty-six years old?” “Yeah, twice.” “Oh, and we have to get Ezra into a summer camp as soon as possible.” “Sure.” “I’m not kidding.” “All right.” “I mean, seriously, like right now.” It’s the “right now” that bugs me. Right now? Like it can’t wait until, say, tomorrow morning so we can take this precious brief time to please, please get back to the pussy!
OK, so I completely blow the rehash. It’s already two o’clock in the morning her time so I have to regroup fast. Time for … the massage. The massage is a foolproof way to relax and put Annabelle in the mood. I start with the feet, work up to the calf. Then I rub the neck and shoulders and finally the head. At this point in her life, my wife prefers a head massage to getting head, claiming it “gets her out of her brain and into her body.” The massage works; Annabelle closes her eyes and says, “Do you mind if I’m a lie-backer?” The lie-backer is when she’s too tired to do anything else but lie back and let me do everything. I don’t mind the lie-backer. It makes me feel like a conductor on a sex train: “Station stops at French Kiss, Nipple-Suck, Clit-lick, Anal Stimulation, Vibrator City, and Orgasm. Last stop, Orgasm, all aboard!”
All that remains between me and the lie-backer is … the minefield. The minefield is a series of questions and/or statements my wife lays in front of me like land mines. If I answer them in the correct manner, sex will follow. “I feel bloated.” “You don’t look bloated.” You get the game. But if I respond improperly: “Is my butt looking bigger? “No bigger than usual.” “So, you’re saying my ass is fat!” “No, I—” Click. I just stepped on a land mine and boom! “Great, you think I have a huge ass! Well, maybe I’m just too busy working and helping Ezra with his homework, and paying our mortgage, and doing our taxes, and sorting out our medical bills, to focus on getting my ass in shape every second of the day? Sorry it’s not good enough for you. Thanks a lot!” By this point, I’m just a defeated, dejected, despondent shell. I surrender: “I love your ass, but you’re tired so why don’t you go to sleep and I’ll go downstairs to watch SportsCenter and down Pinot Noir until I pass out.” But now she’s all “I still want some action.” And then she surprises me by assuming the lie-backer position. This is it, now or never. I dive into bed anticipating all the exciting station stops ahead on the liebacker express, just as things are picking up speed between the nipple-suck and clit-lick, she pulls the emergency brakes. “I have a right to be tired, right?” Shit, a last land mine. “I shouldn’t feel bad about being tired, right?” “Say nothing,” I tell myself. “Say nothing!” But she keeps at it. “I work hard, Jeff. I do a lot for this family. I’m entitled to feel tired.” “Say nothing, say nothing.” “Don’t act as if I’m the only wife in the world who gets tired. A Pew research survey recently polled working mothers and found out …” Christ, it’s no use. I can’t control myself any longer. “Hey, do you want to do this or not! It’s like four o’clock in the morning your time and I can’t take it anymore. Be tired, be more in your brain than you are in your body, be any way you want. Just please, for the love of all that’s holy and sacred and good, can we please, please, get back to the pussy!” And then she’ll say, “You know, I can’t have sex when you’re so angry at me.” And it’s SportsCenter, bottle of Pinot, here I come.
She Says
My husband says that “he can’t get back to the pussy often enough,” but like many men and women, I suspect that we have a very different idea of what having sex often actually means. In the first few years after our son was born, it’s hard to remember if we had any sex at all. Ever since Bill Clinton tried to redefine what sex with “that woman” meant, there have been lots of definitions of what constitutes sex. In addition, in some parts of the world, mere skin-to-skin contact is considered illicit, so if you count collapsing on top of each other in exhaustion as sexual contact, then, yes, we had lots of it. But once we hit eight years of marriage, once a week, as a fail-safe number, seemed like an acceptable amount to me; however, Jeff feels it would be perfectly reasonable to have sex at least twice a day, a scenario that would leave me bedridden with cystitis. Admittedly, I’ve always thought of sex as a great way to get to know someone and have struggled with seeing sex with the same person as a compelling activity. I am willing to give it the old college try, although that may not be a terribly appropriate phrase to describe this effort, because in college no one had to try very hard to get me into bed. So perhaps the most significant part of this equation is the amount of time and energy I can devote to the pursuit of an orgasm at this point in my life.
I am going to give an example of my average day at the time when Jeff and I commenced our relationship.
Wake up at eight a.m., check clock—too early—get back in bed. Get up at nine-thirty, pet cat for an hour—she’s the cutest thing in the whole world! Go to yoga class, meditate, drop by Farmers Market for a coffee, browse around—I love patchouli. Go to an audition where I read to play the artsy English teacher of a young actor named Ryan Phillippe in a failed pilot that I get offered on the spot. What a great day! Drive home, stopping to look at antiques in a quaint little boutique, but I don’t buy anything because I’m a free spirit and I don’t want to own too many things. Arrive at apartment, spend close to an hour looking at my hair color in mirror—should I go more red or not? Not sure. Go to acting class, work on relaxation exercises and imagining a really icky smell. Come home, take a leisurely bath, and then try on five different outfits for date with Jeff—I want to look great for him. Spend half an hour placing candles strategically around bedroom, pick out perfect music to have sex to—hey, what about some Portishead? Dance around the house for a half an hour, throw extra clothes in a heap into closet, and voilà, I’m ready. Answer door to Jeff; we see The Sheltering Sky, the most moody, weirdly
erotic, and slowest-paced film ever made by Bertolucci and that’s saying a lot. A perfect date film—we debate its meaning for an hour, which gets us so turned on we have to rush home and have sex, still talking about how we love Paul Bowles and how maybe we’ll go to Morocco one day. We’re going to roam the world and never lead boring middle-class lives—we’re unencumbered by traditional roles and values and we might just go and live in Morocco, only with bank accounts and better plumbing. We fall asleep wrapped tightly in each other’s arms. We wake up, go out for coffee, and afterward have sex again; we both pet the cat for an hour and make plans to have more sex later that night. Hot!
You Say Tomato, I Say Shut Up Page 14