I’m Calling Off the Hunt for Sex

In any family structure, or in any family unit, the mom and the dad play a different, and yet equally important role.  Without the other, the family unit simply does not function as well as it does when both mom and dad are “gelling.”  Call it the ying and the yang of the family unit.

For instance, the man is responsible for investigating any strange sounds in the middle of the night.  In fact this has twice led to me running around the main floor of my house buck-naked wielding a baseball bat.  Hey, I sleep naked, and I’m not about to take the time to lace up my sweatpants and adjust my hoodie if I honestly think someone could be breaking into my house.  Come on.  Frankly I’m hopeful that the sight of my beans and mash dangling like a pair of dice from the rearview mirror . . . okay small dice . . . but just as fuzzy . . . . would be enough to frighten any would-be robber away without having to swing the Louisville Slugger.

And guys are also responsible for bringing a little levity to most family conversations.  For instance if my wife is grilling my older son about school work and grades I typically chime in with a “hey dude, as long as the chicks dig you, you’ll be fine . . . why do you think I went to school . . . look at your mom . . . yeah . . . she’s with me, and I can’t add.”  Or if my wife is reminding my younger son about the importance of teamwork I crack off a “little man, I’ve seen your team play . . . they’re awful . . . there’s no ‘I’ in team, but there is in Kick Ass . . . so let’s go.”  It’s just what guys do.  That’s our role within the family unit.

Women, on the other hand, are responsible for making sure the family gets to events/parties/activities on time, or at the very least on the right day.  My wife is notorious for being late, and as a result our family is often times late to functions, but she at least gets us to things on the day of the actual event.  I’d get our family to a Saturday party on Tuesday.  And of course the woman is responsible for rebuffing much of the man’s “levity” to ensure that kids know what’s really going on, and what really needs to be done.  And this usually can be accomplished by simply reminding the kids that “Your father is a moron and barely has an 8^th grade education, so go ahead and laugh at his silly comments, but you’re better off listening to me when it comes to things like school work and eating your vegetables.”

In the end, kids are smarter than you think, and most of them realize that dad’s funny, but mom’s smart.  And that’s what makes the family unit work.  It’s the best of both worlds.  After all, you can’t have two fun parents. . . . otherwise it’s a carnival, and that just doesn’t work.

But outside the family unit, within the actual one-on-one relationship between a man and a woman, there are still defined roles that each person plays.  And unlike the responsibilities that both the man and woman have within their family unit, the
responsibilities they have within their own relationship are much simpler.  Well, simpler in the sense that they are basically both responsible for one thing, and one thing only.  The man is responsible for reminding his wife that “it’s been awhile since they’ve had sex,” and the woman is responsible for telling her husband that “it actually hasn’t been that long, and bugging me about it won’t help matters.”

That’s it.  That’s all the man and woman have to do within their own relationship.  The man has to go . . . well . . . . hunting for sex, and the woman has to . . . . well . . . . shoot the hunter down.  Now every so often the woman has to green light a little “activity” just to keep the hunter interested , though the hunter NEVER loses interest . . . . EVER . . . . he may become frustrated, he may become ornery, he may THREATEN to lose interest , though this is a total joke and actually should NOT be used as an actual threat towards the woman.  Remember, she could call your bluff.  He may even begin to “accidentally” bump into you as you’re bending over to take something out of the oven . . . . I’m just saying it could happen . . . . but he’ll NEVER LOSE INTEREST because it is definitely the man’s job to keep hunting for sex.  It is NOT the woman’s job.

But recently a funny thing has happened to me, I’ve stopped hunting for sex.  I’ve stopped bugging my wife for it.  Now I still want it.  By no means have I lost my sex drive.  Far from it.  I’m as horny as ever.  And I’m absolutely 100% attracted to my wife (she’s still smoking hot at 40).  But I’ve stopped the on-going quest for sex.  I know it will happen at some point.  We’re not done having sex, but I’m just done reminding her that it’s been awhile since we last “did it.”  And this isn’t one of my ploys to get her more interested in me.  Oh, I’ve tried those before.  Tried the whole show complete disinterest in sex to see if I could get her more interested in it, and it failed miserably.  Hell, I was basically on my knees begging the court for mercy three weeks later.  This is something altogether different.

Maybe I’m just ready to concede that most men and women are different.  Most men want sex all the time while most women want to wait for a special occasion . . . . like the Summer Olympics or when the Cubs win the World Series.  This used to be a real problem for me.  But maybe now it’s not.

Or maybe this is a larger step in my on-going goal to grow up (which I’m still struggling with).  Maybe it’s time to admit that I no longer have what it takes to stay in the big leagues.  Maybe it’s time to accept the Triple-A assignment.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think it may be true.  Maybe it’s time to stop hanging out with Derek Jeter and swapping high-fives with Alex Rodriguez.  Maybe it’s time to grab a seat on the bus next to the clown mascot as we head to a game somewhere in Ohio.

I don’t know?  Honestly I’m trying to figure it all out.  I’m not sure what’s going on, nor am I sure why I’m blogging about this (as no doubt my mother is going to have some choice, and probably uncomfortable comments about this one), but I am definitely switching gears here.  I’ve gone from asking my wife for a Flying Camel, A Dirty Sanchez and a ball rub under the table the next time we’re at Friday’s, to not really caring whether we have sex or not this coming weekend.

Huh?

Maybe I’ve realized that there’s more to a marriage than sex.  Nah…I think I have just decided that I’m not going to let it control me.  I’m going to say shit to my kids about their baseball ability without worrying if it will cost me sex.  I’m going to tell my wife that I don’t want her parents’ bedroom set even though I know she wants it.  I’m going to put the kibosh on scheduling “fun” social events at our house over the holiday weekend.  Now I know that agreeing to those events will get me laid, but I’ve decided that I don’t care.

Go Clay!  Now, this “stand” I’m taking is definitely freeing, and making me feel manly.  However, I have to say that it isn’t doing much for me in the sex department.  And eventually that is going to take precedence.  Maybe tomorrow, in fact.  Although we have two baseball games and a soccer game, so we’ll be exhausted by the end of the day anyway.  Low percentage opportunity.  Maybe the next day?  I may have to green light that Memorial Day BBQ at our house afterall.

Love, Kids & Sex . . . Pick 2

In my late 20’s and early 30’s I worked at a downtown advertising agency on the account service side of the business.  Like a lot of advertising agencies the pace was pretty hectic, and when the client said “jump” you pretty much asked “how high.”  And while our number one goal was trying to meet every single client demand, at the end of the day you pretty much had to tell the client “You can have it Good, you can have it Fast, and you can have it Cheap . . . now pick two . . . because you can’t have all three.”

Now obviously we never said that specifically to the client, who of course ALWAYS wanted ALL three, but when push came to shove you knew you weren’t going to be able to deliver all three.  And if you think about it, it makes sense.  You can have it good and fast, but it’s not going to be cheap.  Or you can have it cheap and fast, but then it’s not going to be good.  And I guess you can even have it good and cheap, but it may not be that fast.  It’s a silly saying that I have to imagine is muttered in the hallways and conference rooms of all sorts of different client service like businesses, but again, it’s fairly accurate.

So the other day when I nuzzled up to my wife and whispered a few “sweet nothings” in her ear (and by the way that’s code for the other day I smacked my wife on the ass and said “let’s go have sex”) only to get shot down due to the fact that my kids were playing video games in the basement it hit me . . . . You can have Love, you can have Kids, and you can have Sex . . . now pick two . . . because you can’t have all three.

Think about it.  You can have love and kids, but you can’t have sex.  I think this is the option that most couples settle into after they have kids.  The love and kids phase starts when your wife gives birth and probably doesn’t end until you’re empty-nesters some 20+ years later.  This is the phase when you’re a happily married couple raising kids on some nice, tree-lined street somewhere.  There’s either a mini-van or an SUV in the driveway.  Weekends are spent on the sidelines of some soccer field or baseball diamond or ice rink watching the kids play.  You and your wife shoot for date night once a week, but really only go out together twice a month, and usually you talk about the kids.  You maybe have sex once a week.  You talk about having it more, and in fact both of you are in agreement that more sex would be good, but it’s just talk.  Soon after the “more sex talk” you’re synching your Blackberry to the updated soccer carpool schedule.  But damnit, you’re in love, and you have kids.

Now you could opt for sex and love, but now you don’t have any kids.  Typically we call this “being 20-something,” but that’s not always true.  There are plenty of people who simply choose not to have kids.  Regardless of age, if you’ve gone this route then you’re in love and having sex like you’re the last two people on earth, and the future of mankind is depending on you.  Sure there’s no one to carry on your family name, and you’re missing out on all the wonderful things that come with parenthood, but you love your spouse and . . . oh yeah . . . by the way . . . you just had sex 30 minutes ago . . . and probably will do it again later that night.

Or you could go with sex and kids, but then I think you’re probably in some sort of an arranged marriage.  Seriously if you have kids and you’re still having a ton of sex WITH YOUR SPOUSE (yeah it doesn’t count if you’ve got some sort of “friends with benefits” arrangement on the side) then I’m willing to bet that you’re in a marriage that was set up by your parents and in-laws years ago.  You have no idea what your spouse’s middle name is, you’re not entirely sure whether or not they went to college and when you get drunk you sometimes blurt out “Who are you again?”  So sure, your kids are happy, and you’re “doing it” more than Charlie Sheen says “Winning,” but you literally draw a blank when someone asks you, “So how did you two meet?”

I guess in the end, like the song, “2-out-of-3 ain’t bad.”  Hey, that advertising agency that I worked at serviced a lot of happy clients using that method.  Maybe in life, 2-out-of-3 ain’t so bad either.   Unfortunately, like another song, my favorite two are “I want it fast and hard.”   So I guess I want it all, all the time.  I’ll keep trying.

A 40-Year Old Body

Few people dreaded their 40^th birthday as much as I did.  I was concerned that 40 would make me sound old.  I was concerned that somehow I was going to go to bed as a youthful looking 39-year old, and wake up the next day looking like an aging 40-year old (truth be told. . . . I wasn’t that youthful looking to start with . . . but still I was really worried about suddenly looking much older).  And I was concerned that my kids would start seeing me as some old dude . . . again, truth be told they already considered me to be an old dude.  I feared my 40^th birthday.

However, despite all of these concerns, the one thing I didn’t worry about was having my body turn against me.  I never gave that a thought.  Now, I knew my metabolism had slowed down, and I knew it was much easier for me to gain fat than gain muscle, and I knew my hair was receding a bit, but that had nothing to do with turning 40 . . . hell that had a lot more to do with turning 30!!  So though turning 40 worried me for all sorts of different reasons, my body shutting down was not on the list of things to worry about.

However as I now close in on my 41^st birthday, and look back on the year that was, I realize that my year as a 40-year old was all about my on-going fight with my own body.

For 39 years I went without a broken bone.  Well that’s not entirely true as I did break my collarbone when I was six trying to prove that my Superman costume would make me fly (jumped down the stairs, and broke my collarbone).  But that’s it, and that was 34 years ago.  So for 34 years, pretty much injury free.  Until this year.  A stress fracture in my right foot.  Granted not a clean break, but a fracture nonetheless, and due to . . . overuse . . . which means my everyday walking around and playing a little paddle caused a fracture in my foot.  Literally my body now breaks from just walking the dog around the block.  I spent 45 minutes in an MRI machine, and was outfitted with a stiff walking boot.

Though no one is going to tell you that I have perfect teeth (should have worn that lower retainer more than I did way back when) for the most part I’ve had nothing but a few cavities, the last of which probably came back in junior high. Until December, when I had a root canal.  It got so bad in the weeks leading up to the procedure that I was having horrible migraine-like headaches.  The dentist who performed the procedure said all four of the roots were infected.  He had to drill me with four different shots of Novocain, including one in the roof of my mouth.  I was drooling for two days.

I’ve never been particularly flexible, but when I hit 40, what little flexibility I had disappeared.  I now walk around the house asking the boys to scratch my back to get at the places I can’t reach.  And if they’re not home I’ll rub up against the wall to reach those areas.  I’m like a house cat rubbing up against the walls.  Well, a house cat with no flexibility.

And then there’s Little Clay.  He has turned on me more than any other body part.  I hit 40, and my dick pretty much decided to defect from the rest of my body.  There’s been an annexation in my crotch region.  From about the age of 17-30, Little Clay was ready and willing to go WHENEVER I needed him.  We were a two-man team on the same search and destroy mission.  We were best friends.  As I made my way through my mid and late 30’s Little Clay and I agreed upon a mutual slow down.  Now that’s not to say that we weren’t ready when called upon, we just accepted the fact that we weren’t going to be called upon as much as the wife was coming up with new excuses at an astonishing rate as to why she didn’t want Little Clay, and because the damn lock on our bedroom door doesn’t work . . . which has twice led to a very embarrassing encounter with our kids (spend six-figures on a home addition/renovation and get a new bedroom door that doesn’t lock, where’s the justice in that??).

But as I hit 40 something happened, Little Clay decided he had enough of being The Wing Man.  He was tired of being Goose, and instead he wanted to be Maverick.  And that’s not okay.  Only one dude can fly the plane.  Someone has to sit in the co-pilot’s seat, and take orders.  But I hit 40, and Little Clay decided to pull the ejector seat.  He’s become a one-man army, and he’s on HIS OWN MISSION on HIS OWN TIME!

For the first time ever he seems to be ready, when I’m not.  He’s ready at two in the afternoon when I’m walking the dog around the block.  And he’s ready when I’m sitting in my favorite breakfast spot reading the sports page and eating a bagel.  And he was ready two weeks ago when I came to my son’s elementary school to pick him up from the nurse who had called me to tell me my son was running a fever.  I had to sit in the school parking lot for 10 minutes just to get him under control.

And then there’s the times when I actually NEED HIM to be ready . . . and he’s not!!  Just a few weeks ago my wife gave me the sign that she was ready (which is her asking, “do you want to have sex?”- we’ve agreed to dummy-proof this as I’ve missed way too many less obvious signs over the years), and Little Clay was NOT in the mood.  I had to take him into the bathroom to have a little man-to-man with him.  “Damnit you’re better than this.  Don’t do this to me.  Man up here you son-of-a-bitch!  Don’t make me take that blue pill again.  That’s for old people.  The last time I took that I almost had to drive myself to the hospital because you wouldn’t go down.  Now come on!  She’s naked in there.  And she’s awake!  This won’t last.  Hell, she could be asleep already.  Come on!  You ever want to see porn again you better rise to the occasion.”

He did, but not for long.

I finally understand the commercials about being ready…but I’m not ready for that yet.  So I’ve decided that my 40-year-old body just needs to be handled differently.  I need to make sure I have good supportive shoes (according to Dr. Russo, who by the way is really cute); I need to brush and floss more and go to my six-month dental appointments; I probably need to stretch before playing paddle or any physical activity and maybe get a massage every so often; I know I need to eat more fruit and vegetables (but I probably won’t); and finally, I need to take advantage of the times Little Clay is ready.  Hopefully, my wife is home. Oh yeah, and fix the lock on the bedroom door.

I Need More Beads

So there’s a new “Self Help” book out called ’40 Beads.’  It’s written by a married woman and it specifically focuses on improving your sex life with your spouse.  In just a matter of weeks its shot up the Best Seller’s List which simply confirms my theory that if I had the ability to help people, or if I had any good advice to share with people . . . about almost anything . . . I’d be a published author.  As it stands . . . I have a lightly read blog. 

Anyway this whole 40 Beads thing started when this woman decided to give her husband 40 straight days of sex for his 40^th birthday.  Now let me just stop right there and throw a “shout out” to this woman . . . . “IF IT DOESN’T WORK OUT WITH YOUR CURRENT HUSBAND PLEASE CALL ME!!!!”

I asked for an iPad for my 40^th birthday . . . . and I didn’t get it. 

This woman just offers up 40 straight days of sex. 

Are you kidding me?

This woman is my new hero. 

Of course not more than a couple days into her 40-day sex marathon she realized that this was going to be easier said than done.  So she came up with this plan to give her husband 40 beads, and whenever he wanted sex all he had to do was drop one of the beads into a bowl which she kept by her bed, and within 24-hours of him doing so she’d be ready to go.  As she says in her book “She’d be a sure thing.”

So it was basically 40 “Free Passes” for sex. 

Fine.  It’s not exactly the 40 straight days of sex, but its 40 guaranteed romps in the sack.  Not bad.  It definitely beats an iPad. . . . which again I DID NOT GET.  I can’t stress this enough . . . literally I still don’t own an iPad and my birthday was in early February.

So there’s the “jist” of the book.  But of course it got me thinking.  Why only 40 Beads?  Why not 50 Beads?  Or 60 Beads?  Is this woman telling her husband that he’s only guaranteed sex 40 times a year?  Sure when you’re holding 40 beads in your hand it probably seems like a whole lot of beads, but when you consider that there’s 365 days in a year suddenly those 40 beads don’t look so good.  I think she’s short changing this dude. 

Here’s the way I see it . . .

Our starting number is 365 days. 

Now subtract 84 days for her 12 menstrual cycles.  Listen I’m not even going to get into this.  I barely understand the male body let alone the female body.  I don’t care that some women have shorter cycles while others have longer cycles.  The fact that I just wrote that makes me uncomfortable.  Talk about an area where I CANNOT offer advice.  I’m simply going to account for one full week per month.  Now if you can work in a BJ while she’s on that cycle, well God Bless You.   

So now we’re down to 281 days.

Now subtract another 140 days which is half the remaining number.  And why am I deleting half of 281?  Really?  You need to ask?  Seriously?  Let me ask you a question fellas. . . . how many times have you said this exact line . . . “Well I’ve got a 50/50 shot at getting laid tonight.”  There you go.  Delete 140 days.  I’m simply doing this in an attempt to be realistic.  If someone out there has a better than 50% chance of getting laid whenever they ask for it, well chances are you’re not reading my blog . . . and by the way . . . fuck you. 

So now we’re down to 140 days.

Now subtract another 40 days.  This is what I call miscellaneous bullshit.  It’s the petty excuses that women use to get out of having weekday sex.  It’s the comments, or the roll of the eyes, or the shrug of the shoulders that keep us from getting sex on Tuesday and Wednesday nights.   It’s your “I’ve had a long day at work,” excuse.  Or “The kids drove me nuts today, and I’m in no mood” excuse.  It’s the “You just played paddle tonight while I stayed home with the kids,” comment.  Now I don’t care whether you play paddle or even if you have kids. . . . just subtract 40 days.  Your wife can EASILY come up with 40 excuses on why she doesn’t want to have sex with you on a weekday. 

Now we’re at 100.

Subtract 1 for her birthday.  It’s HER BIRTHDAY!!  Are you kidding?  Even I know not to ask for sex on HER BIRTHDAY!

We’re at 99.

Subtract 1 for Mother’s Day.  Again, don’t be silly.  I’m thrilled if my wife acknowledges my presence on Mother’s Day.  She usually reminds me that I should take the kids and “get lost” on Mother’s Day. 

98 days now.

Subtract 35 more for all the dumb shit things we say and do during the year.  This includes, but is not limited to the following:

• Getting out of the shower, shaking your tally-wacker and saying “You want a piece of this, don’t you?”  Surprisingly that is not a turn on for women.
• Getting caught plotting out your “date-night” schedule AROUND her menstrual cycle.  Again I don’t really understand this whole menstrual cycle thing, but I do know that I’d rather not “waste” a Saturday night out if I have no chance of getting laid.  That’s the Saturday night we sit home and order in pizza.  My plan there was a good one, but in hindsight I probably shouldn’t have put those big red “X’s” through the calendar.
•  Asking any of the following questions upon climbing into bed at night: 
• Do you want to lick my balls?
• Can I tea bag you?
• Can I stick my love rod in you?
• Can I stick my tongue in your ear?

Even if your wife is drunk she’ll never say “yes” to any of those things.  Seriously I know what I’m talking about.  Just trust me.

 Which brings us to 63.

I want 63 Beads.  Granted it’s not as catchy a title as 40 Beads, but it’s what’s fair.  She’s short-changed her husband by 23 Beads.

There’s 365 days in a year.  I don’t think we’re asking too much for wanting “guaranteed sex” 63 times.

After all, it still gives our wives 302 days to turn us down.  

You know actually a follow up to ’40 Beads’ could be ‘325 Ways to Say No.’

I could write it.  I’ve heard them all.