My mother (yes, my mother) once told me that if there aren’t fireworks between the sheets, it’s just not meant to be.  I immediately dismissed this advice, partly because it meant my menopausal mother was having better sex with my overweight father than I was with my supposedly sexually prime bedmate. But mostly, I rejected this theory because I didn’t, and still don’t, think its entirely true.

Sex – the good, the bad, and the ugly – where does it all fit in?

We make such a big deal about sex. It consumes us.  We lie about sex – we say we’re having less when we’re having more, and more when we’re having less. We worry about our relationship if the sex isn’t “above average.” We worry about our health, our sanity, our bodies and our worth if he simply rolls over. We use sex as a barometer for the status of our relationships when there couldn’t possibly be a less reliable, standardized or empirical indicator.

I, for one, do not believe that the caliber or frequency of the sex we’re having – or not having – is necessarily an accurate representation of what lies beneath. Now this is not to say that sex is not an important component of a relationship, because it is.  I fancy a good ole shag just as much as the next gal. What I am saying, though, is that thanks to soft core porn, (aka cable television), Megan Fox, and Cosmopolitan articles with titles like “Give Him the Best Sex of His Life” and “101 Sex Positions to Try Before You Die,” we have been made to believe that not only should we be having sex every night, but great sex every night, and this just isn’t realistic. Read More »

My mother (yes, my mother) once told me that if there aren’t fireworks between the sheets, it’s just not meant to be.  I immediately dismissed this advice, partly because it meant my menopausal mother was having better sex with my overweight father than I was with my supposedly sexually prime bedmate. But mostly, I rejected this theory because I didn’t, and still don’t, think its entirely true.

Sex – the good, the bad, and the ugly – where does it all fit in?

We make such a big deal about sex. It consumes us.  We lie about sex – we say we’re having less when we’re having more, and more when we’re having less. We worry about our relationship if the sex isn’t “above average.” We worry about our health, our sanity, our bodies and our worth if he simply rolls over. We use sex as a barometer for the status of our relationships when there couldn’t possibly be a less reliable, standardized or empirical indicator.

I, for one, do not believe that the caliber or frequency of the sex we’re having – or not having – is necessarily an accurate representation of what lies beneath. Now this is not to say that sex is not an important component of a relationship, because it is.  I fancy a good ole shag just as much as the next gal. What I am saying, though, is that thanks to soft core porn, (aka cable television), Megan Fox, and Cosmopolitan articles with titles like “Give Him the Best Sex of His Life” and “101 Sex Positions to Try Before You Die,” we have been made to believe that not only should we be having sex every night, but great sex every night, and this just isn’t realistic.

These fallacies also spawn a kind of sexual competition among men, women, and couples alike. “Do you guys have a swing? Where have you done it today? Have you tried the Reverse Amazon? What about the Jellyfish? The Bent Spoon?” It’s like losing your virginity automatically (and unwittingly) qualifies you for the sex Olympics and suddenly everybody’s keeping score, or being judged, or being stripped of their medals for performance enhancers. The whole world was turned upside down when Sting revealed that he has epic bouts of tantric sex with his wife on a regular basis, and women everywhere were making statements about “how lucky his wife is.” Now, I’m sorry, but I have no time to be having seven hour sex sessions; I have to eat an Italian sub, pass a bowel, and watch reality TV all before 1 p.m., so this just isn’t going to work. And quite frankly, I have no desire to play hide the canoli for four hundred and twenty minutes. Should I feel bad about that? Read More »