I can’t have an orgasm unless I’m able to point my toes. The whole sex railed up against a wall bit is a total ruse. It might make for some nice foreplay, but eventually, I halt all action and demand we find the bed. I’ve also never understood sex in the pool or shower or bathtub. Basically, I’m anti-water-sex, though I’m pretty sure that’s where I experimented when I was younger, using the power of a faucet.
This past weekend, I was up early, getting my cook on (not a euphemism). I made beef bourguignon, farfalle in a saffron cream sauce, split pea soup, and a perfectly seared piece of Chilean sea bass, all from scratch. I love my kitchen, and make no mistake, it’s my kitchen even though Phil does his share of cooking *though mostly he grills outside. But come Saturday morning–or was it Sunday? My weeks and days are a blur now–Phil walked through my kitchen holding a bathrobe. He was making his way to our fancy shmancy spa room.
"I’m going to take a steam," he said the way someone says, "I’m going to take a steam." "And then maybe hop into the sauna."
"Oooh, can I come?" (Also not a euphemism). Usually Phil refuses to share a shower with me, which has been hard for me not to take personally. I mean, that’s what couples do, at least in the beginning. They shower together, washing each other,with some wet kissing maybe. And then always there’s the slippery soap, and soaping up certain obvious parts. A caboose grab here and there for good measure, certainly. But he’s never allowed for it (I take longer; someone always ends up cold, water always ends up in your eyes, then you need to wipe them but fear your hands have shampoo on them). But our spa bathroom really does have a steam room in it, complete with two shower heads and a bench, so I was hoping he’d reconsider.
"Sure, you can come." I was excited.
I turned my burner flame to low and joined him for a steam, where one of us got off, and the other of us got an IOU while my pot of soup burned. And that’s what it’s become. A bedroom, or shower, full of burnt-out IOUs. "And it’s not fair," he says, "the way you keep count." He now owes me three orgasms. I can name each and every time he has and I haven’t. There was no point in his trying, and he did make some effort (effort meaning he put his hand on it). Don’t men realize that women need mental stimulation? I mean, drum up some scenario, some role-playing or something. "What scenario do you need to drum up? We’re in a steam room as it is." Then talk to me, tell me you saw me over by the pool and got hard and followed me into the steam room. Pretend.
A man can get excited from visual stimulation, from my shaking hands with it. I need more. I can’t climax unless I’m horizontal, but why rob him of a steamy thrill? It wasn’t about me, in that moment, and I was absolutely fine with that. But I still absolutely do keep count. I guess part of me wishes I didn’t have to, that he’d come to me the way I come to him, and he’d just want to please me without anything in return. Which would mean more than just rubbing me to climax. It would mean role-playing or some kind of verbal stimulation where he’s active, commanding me what to do, like in the movie Secretary.
I have a few books on my bookshelf, books with "activity suggestions" that I sometimes wish he’d pick up and try. And truth be told, it wouldn’t kill me to try to spice things up either. I mean, you really have no place in complaining unless you yourself are trying. But… I’m lazy and just wish he’d do it first. I know our sex life might come to a complete halt once the babies are in our home, but it doesn’t have to. I hate thinking that he’s off in some room masturbating when he can be with me, instead. And I know it shouldn’t be an "instead" kind of thing, but in my head, the idea that he’s off "wasting it" when I’m so in want of it… makes me think in a series of "insteads." And maybe he prefers it that way, alone, so he doesn’t live in fear of tallying up a higher score on my list of "you owe me."
