The Chicken and the Egg

Attempts at educating juveniles in the finer points of human reproduction inevitably end with acute misunderstandings, upon which therapists and divorce attorneys build lucrative careers later.

Playground taunts were the immediate after-effect of my first encounter with sex ed. With one parent chaperoning, we worldly grade fivers were carted off to the local town hall to view a 16mm film one evening (yes, Hortense, real celluloid). As that thing clattered through the projector, it revealed the goopy truth of girls’ interiors and weird, alien oddities about my own. Far from clarifying matters, this arms-length outline raised questions I had never thought to ask.

The process felt a little like learning aerobatics before learning to fly, rather a step too far.

As we maturely discussed our new-found knowledge during recess the next day, we soon learned of an entire world of hideous insults. There’s nothing like poorly digested information to create fear, and everything in a male child’s mind is poorly digested. Mindful (intellectual) exploration of girls’ differences wasn’t our first response because taunts are way more satisfying.

And that’s where it stopped. We were expected to embark upon life’s most meaningful relationships with one twenty-minute instructional film of anatomy as our touchstone.

Okay, I’m off to practise my outside loops now.

Baltic Dry

The stories all have the same flavor. I hear them on call-in radio shows, others know of them first hand and something called the HuffPo thrives on them. These are the inside tales of marriages in which previously well-balanced couples turn into proverbial ships in the night; passing silently and without noticing.

It appears to work like this: a nice couple date for a while, and then marry. A child arrives, possibly a second and a third. Everyone’s super busy handling their own stuff – plus the kids, plus the household – at which point something’s gotta give. Sex, it seems, is first. She’s too tired. We can’t do it with the kids around. It’s just another chore. Please don’t touch me.

There are good reasons for her reluctance. Men are (in general) mostly useless at figuring out how to help, domestically. Cleaning, organizing, washing, ironing, folding, airing the mattress, polishing the silver, dusting the light fittings, auditing the pantry for out-of-date prunes…these are the minutiae clogging a woman/mother’s mind.

On the other hand, he feels that his needs are neglected. She’s become cold on what used to be a peachy sex life. And he can’t figure it out because he hasn’t changed, so it must be her. Tried and true approaches don’t work, she no longer responds in the way she used to.

To be clear, I blame both of these people equally for their dissolving couplehood. And I don’t believe that these problems arise after marriage either, they’re latent and predictable well before that. They become visible only under the stress of marriage and parenthood.

In the first place, wise people spend time previewing these details before they marry. That’s why marrying for love alone is a foolish notion. Marriage is a day-to-day domestic matter, and needs an approach based on more than feelings. I maintain we are better marrying someone who loads the dishwasher in a way acceptable to us rather than indulging a visceral reaction to, say, their body.

Secondly, sex should be a high priority for both parties. This is because men find affirmation of their woman’s love in making love, hence the name. And women need the feeling of, as it is described to me, “closeness” that regular sex provides. That’s why women talk about intimacy and men do not. But both results are equally critical to maintaining health.

Thirdly, men need to observe and listen to their wives. They will tell you what they want, and mostly it’s for you to get off your butt and vacuum the carpet.

Fourthly, women in this position are often in danger of morphing into professional-grade scolds. Men react poorly to scolds.

Fifth, and most important, figuring out the character and suitability of your potential wife or husband is what dating is for. Dating is not for the both of you to live in a lustful fantasy, but rather to judge what this person in front of you does and how they behave day to day.

So, you say, avoiding a situation that exists today isn’t much help. True, but knowing that the source code for your unsatisfactory life emanates from you might help you to explain to your children how they can avoid it. Modeling and communication might set them on a better path. Note that this is a very long-term goal, and doesn’t directly help you.

And so back to the sex. If you are too tired for sex, you’re doing too much. If you’re not getting sex, it’s because your spouse has other priorities. Because sex is critical caulking in any watertight marriage, it must re-appear on the ToDo list…even if that’s what it takes.

Reduce the workload (or share it more equitably); plan to create time for togetherness; give up the least important stuff to make that happen; de-clutter your schedule; and most important, agree that an orgasm a day really isn’t such a burden after all.

Sex Sells

Seeking Approval

…or so the aphorism goes. The advertising business loves nothing more than shorthand ways to get to your credit card.

Want to emulate sports stars? Here’s what you wear.

Need to feel powerful? Sit in first class.

Squirrely in the trouser? Watch this girl ogle your car while she dreams of oral.

Sex isn’t what sells; what sells is approval. When a man buys a car, he isn’t actually thinking of the sex. Sure, in the cloud computer of his brain it’s there somewhere. But the tangible reaction he wants to that shiny new BMW is more subtle, along the lines of…

…wow, nice car.

…gee, I like this color.

…great, the mirror on this side shows all my zits. God, where did they come from?

At which point he will inevitably ask:

So, you like it?

Translation: Do you like like me? There’s a possibility here?

In a male’s mind, a date who likes the car is on the road to sex, because even BMW owners aren’t dumb enough to think she’s gonna get down right in the parking lot.