No Kissing Allowed
We’ve been so exhausted lately, my girl and I. We usually fall into bed soon after we get home, which usually is not at the same time by a long shot. We have come to covet the heating pad for our stressed-out backs (and take turns using it every other night) and have taken to wearing furry socks because the heat in our Brooklyn apartment is not working and it’s getting colder by the day.
It’s not a great scene for romance. But, recently I pounced on my lover early one weekend morning and initiated sex. “Don’t kiss me,” I announced, “I have morning breath—no kissing allowed, just fucking.”
I penetrated her deeply with my fingers and fucked her relentlessly. She came hard in a climactic release full of pent up stress from work, strain from carrying all her work on her back and weeks of only passing glances from her girlfriend. Me.
We laughed afterward. “That’s a great way to start a weekend of more work,” she smiled. I thought so too; lovely to feel my gal’s juices on my fingers once again and waking the neighbors with her screams.
We went about our independent business: her running out the “the city” to grade papers at the NYU library and me writing and editing first in our home office and then going my day gig, even on the weekend. One day runs into another. I have a live recording of Janis Joplin, “It’s all the same fucking day, man,” she slurs form the stage, a bottle of southern comfort likely somewhere within her reach.
Our bathroom is piling up with dirty clothes, the sink is full of dishes, our kitchen table is full of unopened mail and we are scrambling this way, working every day, to pay the rent. We are committed to paying the rent first and foremost just as we are committed to communications with each other and not losing the spark.
It’s now been two years together and two months in our apartment. We’re busy, yes, but still loving on each other and more attracted than ever. Making time for sex is of the utmost import to us. Neither of us think exhaustion should be an excuse to put off sex, which then gets pushed pack and ignored until one—or both—partners become frustrated, but the sensual and sexual communication has been lost. It’s then the tired becomes angry, anger becomes rage and rage becomes the vengeance of an ex-girlfriend.
This is why my gal and I are also committed to “tired sex”. This is when it’s after 2 a.m. and we are beyond exhausted, but still feeling frisky. This is when we need the all hours before dawn for sleep, but we also need to feel each other’s warmth and fulfill our desires. We have a lot of tired sex these days, which is very satisfying. To know, that in the middle of our writers-trying-to-make-ends-meet in hectic New York City life, we can find each other’s sweet spot in the still darkness of a cold autumn night is extremely gratifying.