It’s been said that sex is kind of like pizza … even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. I think there are other ways in which the analogy fits as well, though. For example, there are many different kinds. There’s complex, multi-layered Chicago deep-dish; and there’s satisfyingly shallow New York thin-crust. There’s the kind that’s all about the extras, the little toppings necessary to mask the blandness underneath; and there’s the kind that are all about what’s below, where any additions must be carefully considered, lest they detract from the simple joys of substance deeper-down. There’s slow baked, time honored, forged in fire; and there’s pop it in, get it out and get it done. There’s order in, take out and, in some states, delivery.
During our last round of doctor-ordered sex, Lyena and I enjoyed the kind of slow-cook, mouth-watering … pizza … that makes you wish you could chew in slow motion, just to enjoy it longer. It was the kind where the preparation holds as much pleasure as the consummation … er, consumption … and that, when complete, leaves you in a blissful coma of joy. As I would soon find out, however, this round was going to be a very different experience.
After some discussion with Dr. VaJayjay, we think we might have missed the ovulation window that last time, so in addition to having sex more often each day, we’ve also decided to extend the number of days we – to use the technical terms – go at it like rabbits. Now, there is a macho side of me that wants to say that my wife and I typically have sex multiple times every day, however, the truth is that I’m no longer in my twenties and no longer have the energy to maintain that kind of virility. We have sex when we feel like making love and that’s plenty fine with me. However, this round I’m told the ma-cho-ma-cho-man in me gets to rule.
Day One finds me ready and raring to go. I’m freelancing these days, so my time is pretty much my own, and the day becomes a random mixture (in this priority) of food, sex, work and a little TV peppered in – it’s not sports, but that’s actually fine with me because I have better things to do … like have sex multiple times with a hot chick. Day Two shifts a bit and the priority becomes food, work, sex and a little pepper of TV. On Day Three the sex becomes the pepper, and by Day Four my wife literally calls to me before she goes to bed and says, “You have fifteen minutes. Go!” This is, I guess, the microwave hot-pocket version of sex.
By Day Five, I’m honestly kind of glad that the ovulation window has closed and my studly duties have been fulfilled. Not that it was bad – even the hot-pocket version was still good – but there are only so many days in a row that you can eat pizza before you’re begging for a nice green salad.
The delivery complete, we’re back into the wait-and-see weeks – the time that most resembles the rest of life. I’m no longer required to perform on command or come when I’m called. I get to return to normal, mundane life, where the occasional “pizza” is an awesome and beautiful bonus.
Up Next … Is It Me?