Emma*, 36, from Newcastle, is as an accountant.
Picture the scene. It’s a chilly Sunday evening, and as the closing credits for the Strictly results show begin to roll, my husband and I leap off the sofa and quietly make our way upstairs, tiptoeing to avoid waking our sleeping children. A half-hour and two orgasms later and we’re done, until the following weekend.
This didn’t used to be our sex life. This once-a-week shag on a Sunday night, timed around our favourite reality show (in the summer months it was Love Island) before passing out on separate sides of the bed.
We used to be, excuse the cliché, like rabbits. Every night, several times a night, all around the house, with toys, sexy lingerie and every position imaginable. Sex was a major part of our relationship, and had been since sleeping together within hours of meeting at a mutual friend’s wedding.
But after seven years together and two children, this is our sex life now. And while the old me would be horrified it’s become something so scheduled, and if I’m honest fairly predictable, I’m actually very content. I want sex, but I also want an hour to wind down and relax with some mindless TV, before another manic week begins. This way, I get both.
Of course, a part of me misses the days when we had the time and energy for hours of foreplay and sex. When I was two sizes slimmer and straddled Jack* without a second thought about my wobbly tummy and stretch marks. When, instead of a baby monitor and a sippy cup of milk for the two-year-old for when she inevitably wakes in the night, there used to be handcuffs and a vibrator on my bedside table. And when we could have morning, sleepy sex, instead of ridiculously early Cbeebies viewing with our four-year-old.
But life changes and what matters to me is that we’re still having sex, and while it might lack spontaneity, and be more vanilla than in the past, it’s still good.
Last Sunday evening, when the familiar Strictly jingle played, we crept up the stairs to our bedroom. Under the covers our now familiar routine began. Kissing, mutual masturbation, Jack goes down on me, then missionary with my legs over his shoulders, followed by me on all fours and him behind. He recently bought a vibrating penis ring and, with exquisite timing, we (quietly) came together.
So many friends with young children have all but given up on sex. It’s a few times a year, on birthdays and anniversaries, or if they manage to have a night away. I don’t want that. I know our days of spontaneous, hot sex and screaming- out-loud orgasms are behind us, but I still want physical satisfaction and the emotional closeness it’s always given us. It may only be half an hour, but it’s probably the only 30 minutes in the week that are just about us as a couple, and I want to protect that. If planning ahead, having a ‘fixed’ time for sex every week and still squeezing in some reality TV works, is that so wrong.
If you’d like to tell us about your last time – be it funny, uplifting, surprising or mundane – contact us at thelasttime@graziamagazine.co.uk
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