Mismatched

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mismatched shoes set together on a hardwood floor

While I’m fortunate in that my spouse and I are well matched in many ways — not so much are we the same (how dull that would be!) as that we ‘get’ each other and provide well for one another’s needs and desires — it occurred to me recently that, even though we’ve accommodated one another’s needs sexually over the years, we are an odd combination of both ‘well-matched’ sexually -and- mismatched where libido is concerned.

When we first got together, the drive part of the sex engine was pretty much running at full throttle between us. We were (and still are) great friends, attracted to one another, fairly well lubricated (*laugh*), and had a tendency toward speed. Conjugal relations took place at least daily for the majority of the first few years; satisfaction was never a question, and neither was enjoyment.

When he turned 50, though, some of that started to change. Looking back at that time, we know now that it was a combination of things — {1} the natural lowering of testosterone that happens when men are that age (andropause is a real thing), combined with {2} the worsening toll taken on his energy/stamina as a result of his kidney disease, compounded by {3} some personal struggles he was going through — that made his libido crash and burn. At the time, though, it was as though somebody had hit the parking brake while the motor was running in 5th gear. I was still going full speed ahead (partly due to the high-testosterone side effect of having PCOS) and he – suddenly, inexplicably – full-on STOPPED.

We worked through it. In some ways healthily and in other ways not so much. But work through it we did.

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[ASIDE: One of the results of that ‘working through’ is what led us to experiment with ancillary partners, first via swinging (which… I’ve actually written very little about that, come to think of it; we had a threesome as a part of that adventure, but for the most part it was a short study in full-consent exhibitionism and episodic same-room sex — ‘full swap’ was never our thing) and later with polyamory.]

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Mostly we came to the “within-our-relationship” conclusion that when he had a sexual urge, he would come to me with it. And when I had one (and the desire ratio at that time of him:me was about 1:10), I would just take care of myself.

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Saturday Night Fever: Second Instinct

blue-tinged monochrome photo of reclining woman, nude, against velvet blanket

I have learned to keep photos I take of myself even if I don’t immediately care for the image — to keep them longer than a few seconds before deleting them, anyway — because I sometimes find that, when I go back later and look at what I took, I find something to like about them.

The original of this photo was just such a one. Taken in the early dark hours that launched a lovely day earlier this year, my original instinct was to -/delete/- quickly. Too blurry, too grainy, too dark. Too much shoulder, too much face, too many crumpled blankets in the background. But, heeding my second instinct (to wait and re-examine it later) instead of my first, I made a note to myself about this photo: play with this.

And so, this morning, I did.

And I’m rather pleased with the result.

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Coaching

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…I’m wondering if anyone will figure this out…

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What is this move called?

[ . . . wide-eyed, empty stares . . . ]

Seriously?! What.is.this.CALLED?!

[ . . . silence . . . ]

IN THE CROTCH!

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Get Blown

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So we’re at the car wash, right? The one you drive through, with the flappy whatsamajiggy things that spin around your car and the soap sprayers that sort of engulf you while you sit there and just… Let it do its thing.

Right?

And the thing is, at this particular car wash, you have to pull forward when it’s finished washing and as you’re driving out, there are these giant fans that basically give your car a blow-dry.

So we’re sitting in the car wash and he says, “I don’t see why I should have to drive forward to get to the blowers. I mean, all these other things whizz and zurr around the car, why can’t the fans do the same thing?”

And my husband, he knows the people who own this car wash, right? I mean… He “knows” them in that he has DM’ed them on Facebook or some such. They live in our neighborhood and he’s had internet convos with them.

So I say, “You’ve talked to these people, right?”

And he’s like, “Yes, she’s a really nice lady.” (It’s a married couple who own it, but she does the PR portion of things; thus, ‘nice lady’.)

So I give him a suggestion.

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