by Zibby Owens
Because we’ve practiced, he listened.
When I finally finished my rant, he said, “I hear you and I know exactly what you need. Go. Get out of here. My office is totally empty. Take some time to get your stuff done. Stay off your phone. I’ve got the laundry. I’ll cover the kids, the dog, all the shit you do.”
If you ignore your marriage six days a week, one night out cannot erase the distance that has been created.
Full stop right here. This guy is so getting laid.
Therein lies the power of “date day.” Whether it’s back in real life, or throughout this apocalyptic, altered existence: it’s not about saving up all your romance ammo for a designated special occasion. Being seen in real-time on a daily basis is a powerful aphrodisiac—a daily supplement necessary for any relationship to survive, and ultimately thrive.
Lisa Barr is the award-winning author of novels The Unbreakables and Fugitive Colors.
Here’s How Long It Takes to Have Good Sex
RACHEL BERTSCHE
Busy parents, rejoice!
Here’s the thing about sex: it doesn’t need to take that long.
During my first year of parenthood—certainly for the first few months—sex was off the table for practical reasons: it hurt, the doctor said I couldn’t, and I was nursing what seemed like every twenty minutes. Eventually the doctor gave me the all clear. (“Do you want me to say you need more time?” he asked me at my six-week checkup. “Lot of mothers do . . . but you’re probably better off to rip off the Band-Aid.”) And yet, sex was still a rare event. We were both exhausted. I felt unsexy, still adjusting to this new body that had carried and delivered a small human, and then another one.
As our kids grew up, not much changed. Any attempt at a spontaneous make out was met by kids screaming, “Gross! Get away!” Nights of intimacy were scheduled days in advance, after comparing calendars to find the most convenient evening. Whenever we did do it, we’d find ourselves, afterward, wondering why we’d put it off so long. Still, knowing better didn’t mean doing better, and fitting sex into our hectic lives continued to feel daunting. We spent our evenings playing Candy Land, rushing toward bath time, collapsing from exhaustion. Time escaped us.
As I began research for my book, The Kids Are in Bed: Finding Time for Yourself in the Chaos of Parenting, I came across some numbers that I found comforting. A survey asked sex therapists how long good sex should last. Turns out, according to the experts, the desirable duration of sex is only seven to thirteen minutes. Three to seven is adequate! Any more than thirteen minutes? Too long.
I always believed romantic evenings were long and passionate and involved refueling over Chinese takeout . . .
I was raised on a diet of rom-coms and Beverly Hills 90210, which means I always believed romantic evenings were long and passionate and involved refueling over Chinese takeout (eaten in bed and from the carton) before getting tangled up in the sheets again. Obviously, I learned long before having kids that sex doesn’t actually look like it does in the movies, but I held on to an idea that “quickies”—while convenient and sometimes rebelliously exciting—weren’t good sex.
And then here comes science to the rescue! Sure, foreplay and cuddling are real and wonderful activities, when you’ve got the time. But if you don’t, and you still want to keep that flame lit, it’s nice to know that a ten-minute romp isn’t shortchanging anyone. Because the real problem with sex after kids isn’t that we don’t do it for long enough, it’s that we don’t do it at all. We get so mired in the relentless pace of parenting that we don’t connect with our partners outside of “it’s your turn to change the diaper” or “did you remember to sign the camp permission slip?”
It’s too easy, in parenthood, to forget that there was a time, before any offspring invaded the picture, when you wanted to rip each other’s clothes off. During my book research, I came across Dr. Mary Andres, a clinical psychologist and couples counselor who specializes in sexuality. She explained that a common complaint among people with “amicable divorces” is a loss of passion. She said, “I’ve had people say ‘He’s the best dad ever and I can’t imagine divorcing him, but I’m not attracted to him anymore,’ and those are sad stories.”
The real problem with sex after kids isn’t that we don’t do it for long enough, it’s that we don’t do it at all . . .
I don’t want my marriage to be another sad anecdote for a sex researcher to tell a journalist, or a cautionary tale a couples therapist uses to scare her patients. But the “keep the spark alive” advice I find in magazines—text him a sexy photo during the day! Give each other a massage to get in the mood!—seems to be for people with far less on their to-do lists, or maybe who have no kids at all. My four-year-old and my six-year-old use my phone a lot, and they know how to access the photos. I don’t need them stumbling on an awkward “sexy pic” I sent in an attempt to pique their father’s interest.
What I do need is something practical. What I do need is to understand what qualifies as “enough” during this season of our lives when the margins continue to shrink. One day, we’ll have time to relish in all of the tiny moments that lead up to a big explosion. But for now, sex can be short and sweet—less time than a round of Candy Land, and way more fun.
Rachel Bertsche is a journalist and bestselling author of multiple books, including the recent The Kids Are in Bed: Finding Time for Yourself in the Chaos of Parenting.
When I Got Coronavirus, My Husband Became My Wife
KARMA BROWN
From my sickbed, I coached him on how to keep the household running.
When I got married fifteen years ago, we were still in the place where Dr. Phil’s cutesy advice for marital success and happiness—divide your household tasks into “pink” and “blue” jobs—was delivered unironically and without immediate social backlash.
At the time I first heard this guidance, I was a newlywed, we were childless, and it seemed both practical and manageable. Not to mention, “pink” and “blue” distinctions fell mostly in line with our personal preferences (I liked to cook, my husband did not; he could hang pictures, I sucked at making things level; neither of us was overjoyed by garbage duties, but we agreed he would do that if I did groceries . . .). For some time, this arrangement worked just as Dr. Phil said it would—stuff got done, and everyone was happy (enough) about it.
And then we had a child, and my “pink” tasks exploded. Our house felt perpetually untidy, no matter how much I buzzed around in between tummy time and round-the-clock breastfeeding. Our daughter’s birth also coincided with my husband starting his business. In Canada we are fortunate to have twelve-months of maternity leave (or nine months of paternity leave), which is a wonderful perk, but also meant I had (hypothetically) more time to double down on pink tasks. Suddenly, all the cooking, cleaning, and childcare fell to me. It was hard not to resent my husband during those first few months as I fantasized about going back to work. Taking a shower solo and drinking still-hot coffee felt like distant memories.
When I agreed to this pink/blue divide all those years ago I was a small “f” feminist. Today, and especially as a mother, I’m a capital “R” Raging one.
Before having a child, I had only watched mothers from afar with passing curiosity. Until I became one, I didn’t appreciate how significantly my life would change—and how little my husband’s would. In 2015, 70 percent of mothers participated in the workforce, and about 40 percent were their family’s primary breadwinner. At the same time, women today are putting in more childcare hours than they did in 1965, despite also working nearly three times the number of hours they did then.
I hadn’t understood these nuances of motherhood, or how (in general) society continues to expect women—even those who work as many hours as their partners—to handle the “pink” things, like childcare (and right now during this pandemic, homeschooling). Ali Wong, a comedian who finds plenty of great material for her shows in society’s view of mothers and women, talked about how
when she came back to work people couldn’t stop asking, but . . . who’s taking care of the baby? To which she retorted, the TV!
I have a busy career, yet as the one who works from home, I also continue to handle most household tasks because on paper it makes sense. Groceries; cooking and meal planning; most of the logistics when it comes to our child—including being the one to drop work when she’s sick, fall to me. I also manage the “emotional labor,” like birthday presents, gift cards for teachers, and neighborhood meal trains.
Though I actively agreed to all of this, albeit somewhat naively, I was forced to confront the decision about a year ago. I had declared a (one-time) strike on dinner, and my daughter said, “But that’s your job!” A flurry of emotions hit me: panic, frustration, anger, resolve. That night my husband made scrambled eggs, and I explained to my daughter I was not uniquely skilled at cooking (or any other “pink” tasks) because I was a woman. How, yes, our house was divided up a touch stereotypically when it came to gender roles, but that was due to logistics versus our belief system. I realized that night I hadn’t lost my voice, I had simply forgotten how to use it.
When I recovered, I noted an interesting shift in our marriage: our formerly divided tasks were now in one bucket.
During the early days of this global pandemic, when life as we knew it came to a screeching halt, I found myself quite sick with a probable case of COVID-19. When I was unable to get off the couch for nearly two weeks, my former blue-job-focused husband had to pivot. He had been forced to temporarily close his businesses to help mitigate the spread, so luckily he was home at the time. For most of those few weeks he took on everything, including all the cooking. I coached him through recipes from my sickbed and he kept our household running, now tuned in to the realities of being a work-at-home parent (children are mess tornadoes). When I recovered, I noted an interesting shift in our marriage: our formerly divided tasks were now in one bucket. Some eleven weeks into lockdown we are a purple-hued household, and it’s hard not to see this as a positive by-product of quarantine life.
This won’t be true for everyone, as it’s estimated women will lose their jobs at a three-to-one ratio compared to men due to this pandemic. My own story likely has a few more chapters, because with no school for the foreseeable future and a husband who will be going back to work, I will soon be trying to work and parent simultaneously once again.
When I agreed to this pink/blue divide all those years ago I was a small “f” feminist. Today, and especially as a mother, I’m a capital “R” Raging one. Raising a young daughter in these times means my husband and I can’t be flippant as her role models. Our girl is watching, listening, and learning. I do hope she’ll be part of a generation that eschews these stereotypes once and for all, but in the meantime, we’ll be seeing more Dad-made dinners on the menu at our house.
Karma Brown is a journalist and bestselling author of multiple books. Her most recent is the novel Recipe for A Perfect Wife.
Your Orgasm Could Save Your Marriage
V. C. CHICKERING
I’ve always felt that sex should be fun, like dancing or badminton. Something to look forward to. It’s free, requires minimal gear, and better yet, demands no season pass. Wouldn’t your life be easier if you enjoyed it?
Men have reached glorious climax, practically each and every time, since the dawn of mankind. Fast-forward to the 1970s, when women collectively demanded, “Enough of this. We want ours, too.” Enter a kajillion books, Cosmopolitan articles, pamphlets, “personal massagers,” Esther Perel, and TED talks about women’s desire. And here we are in 2020. Has your partner sought it out? Have they glanced at a diagram lately? Some have. But most? Yeah, no.
Once upon a time you wanted to rip his clothes off, marinating in your hormones and desire. Then, around eighteen to twenty-four months in, those sweaty impulses withered. But he was a good guy with a solid job and your parents liked him, so you tied the knot and bought the two-and-a-half bath. Here you are, now, three kids in. And there he is, over on the couch, because a myriad of social forces are endlessly inserting themselves, wedging too much space between you and your sex lives. Enter the infamous “rough patch,” code for: we rarely sleep together anymore. Why? Because there’s not enough time? I don’t buy it. Maybe it’s just not fun for you.
You deserve more than a tepid comfort zone. You’re making it work, because you’re a woman and that’s what we do. We make things work. Perhaps you’ve convinced yourself that sex was never really your “thing,” and now it really isn’t. But it still could be. In the same way you research tutors, coaches, and summer camps, it’s high time you researched your own orgasm.
You’re making it work, because you’re a woman and that’s what we do.
Type “tips for better female orgasm” into your Google search bar. I dare you. Then read up! Because it is your job to know how to please your body just as much as it is your partner’s. Ask your closest girlfriends what works for them. See this as an investment in your emotional and physical health—an investment that will simultaneously fortify your family. Believe me, claiming your orgasm could very well save your marriage.
Fun in bed yields a close, viable connection. You two are the architects of your marriage and convincing yourself he doesn’t need sex when he very much wants it is a doomed path. Your relational chasm will only widen. The tension will only increase. After all, you’re ignoring a very horny elephant in the room.
How can you turn the ship around?
Try saying, “Hey, honey. I want to have sex more often, so let’s figure out my orgasm. I’d like to up my average so it’s closer to yours. Let’s try a few new things to see if we can get me there.”
Don’t ask permission! Tell him that this is the new plan. Suggest he learns how to make a good margarita, the kind with fresh squeezed limes. Then tell him to do some research, too. (No, porn doesn’t count.) Psych yourself up. Remind your brain how good it can feel when it’s all over, when you’re panting and relaxed, quiet and still, listening to the birds outside your window. The kids are fine, somewhere else.
Next step: make it happen. The same way you make all the other things happen. Find the damn time and then ask for what you need. Dim the lights and keep sipping that cocktail until you stop obsessing over all your perfect imperfections. Your body is a masterpiece of curves, soft and near.
Whisper, “Hey, try this.”
Suggest some new things you’ve recently learned. Ask him to vary his approach, his rhythm and combinations. Position yourself where it’s going to work best for you, even if it’s missionary style. It’s fine. He’ll survive.
In the same way you research tutors, coaches, and summer camps, it’s high time you researched your own orgasm.
You know that incredible explosion your partner feels when they climax? You, too, deserve that every time. And if you figure out your mechanics so that you orgasm more, you’ll want it more, too—it’s a win-win! Use simple language, no apologetic vernacular, no dismissing or undervaluing the mission. Be the coach of your body. Be supportive of his efforts, but stay on him and guide him to victory.
The goal is to be a wife and mother who still enjoys sex, reveling in the little adventure for what it is: a brief way to lose yourself, to giggle, and to maintain closeness that can feel extraordinarily amazing. Empower yourself to figure out what gets you there. Then, make time for it and let loose.
Sex is best when we own our desire for pleasure. So, claim your orgasm, my friend, and go get your fun.
V. C. Chickering is the author of Nookietown and Twisted Family Values.
Yes, But Not Now
WILLIAM DAMERON
When I walk into the bedroom wearing only a towel after my morning shower, Paul sits up in bed and asks, “Is there a show?”
After ten years of marriage, he still acts as though he has never seen my body, which is adorable, if not entirely believable. Part of this is habit, these things Paul says. The kids and I call them, Paulisms.
Like clockwork, they are as consistent as his sunny, good mood, which we have decided to find charming, if not entirely welcome—especially on a Monday morning.
“No,” I mumble, “there is not a show.”
He raises an eyebrow and cups a hand to his ear.
“Sorry,” I say and then repeat another Paul-ism. “Yes, but not now.”
We met a little over twelve years ago, on a Tuesday night in late November at the Cheesecake Factory in the Burlington Mall. I thought Paul was one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen. With his tall frame, handsome, symmetrical face and big toothy grin, he possesses an effortless charm that both women and men, especially gay ones—the lechers—admire.
At forty-three, I had been out of the closet for six months and could count on two fingers, maybe three depending upon your definition, my sexual experiences with men. Sitting across the table from Paul and his perfectly arranged face, all I wanted to do was kiss him. I lie. There was more I wanted to do, but I’m not that kind of writer.
This may come as a shock, but if you lock two half-naked, gay men in a bedroom, the end result is not always sex, though it used to be for us.
I held out until our third date, having learned from the previous two, perhaps three, encounters with other men that appearing too hungry and desperate terrified them. Paul made dinner for me, a succulent pork roast in red wine sauce, and afterward by the fire we had “dessert.” Three servings. Honestly, I thought he was out of my league and that he was too kind to say no. So, in my best Oliver Twist accent, I kept repeating, “Please sir, I want some more,” which is what Paul wants now as he watches me getting dressed.
“Show me something,” he mouths.
I zip up my pants.