I was tired last night, even though I hadn’t really exerted myself during the day.
It was a day off, Christmas break, and I spent most of the day writing and posting. I walked on the treadmill for over an hour while watching The Crown. I ate nutritious meals and began to rebalance my body after a week of holiday festivities. Two of the girls had friends over; I helped my eldest kid apply for his first job. I did a plethora of random household tasks that I’d been putting off, shit like mending an unraveled rattan placemat. Jack had to work, but he came home for lunch.
We were expecting my period that day, according to my period app. You’d think I’d have stopped trusting that by now, after our surprise conception of Eloise and all. But the flash of blood on the toilet paper that morning had hinted that it was about to start, and admittedly I was eager to menstruate with the full moon. Look up “red moon witch” and you’ll get what I mean. You’ll also probably think I’m absolutely woo-woo bonkers, which may be true, but oh well.
My point is that I popped in a menstrual disc and prepared for cramps. Since we’d had sex several times over the past several days, Jack and I accepted that nature had decreed a night off.
Not that my period ever stops us if we’re in the mood — and we often are. Especially me, as the increased blood flow in my lady bits grants me a special sort of orgasm. The mess, however, can be a bother, so we were fine with a pause that night.
Our only expectations for the evening were to chill with the kids, put them to bed, and then enjoy a nude hot tub soak under the stars. We planned to relax and get a good night’s sleep. I didn’t make any effort to think arousing thoughts or switch my mom mind to BDSM. I was feeling slow and lazy and cuddly. Lovey, but not sexy.
But the cramps that perpetually grace my ovaries on Day 1 never came, prompting me to pull out the menstrual disc sooner than I otherwise would have. Only a slight pooling of blood, some red and some brown. Likely a mix of blood generated from a rough pounding during sex a night prior and pre-menstrual bleeding. I get both sometimes, no big deal.
I tell Jack everything. Like, everything. So I texted him my latest update in the middle of the afternoon — no period yet, accompanied by the “dunno” emoji.
He immediately texted back with an inquiry — should we embrace the bloodless opportunity for sex tonight? Could he help get my period started?
(I’m well aware that there’s no scientific evidence that sex initiates menstruation, but we’ve found time and again that a good fucking will prompt my flow during the session, as if my body is suddenly ready to release the blood and tissue that it’s been collecting.)
I told Jack we’d have to see. As I said, my mind wasn’t in the game.
He inquired again when he returned home from work around 5:30pm. I gave him a shrug. “Fifty-fifty,” I admitted. I had absolutely no expectations for that evening, other than sewing that damn placemat back together with a movie playing in the background.
Jack was game, obviously, as further demonstrated by his hustling of the kids upstairs to brush teeth and get tucked in as soon as snacktime was over. He pointed out his exceptional parenting skills as a means to woo me.
Weird flex, maybe, but if you’re a mom, you get it.
I suggested we start with the hot tub and go from there. I visited each kid to say my goodnights, and then I retreated to our bedroom, where Jack was waiting. Already naked, putting on his robe for the trek back downstairs, across the back deck, and down the two steps to the private, fenced-in patio where our hot tub sits under a string of lights. Our grotto.
I stripped out of my sweatpants and sweatshirt into my own birthday suit, then into my robe, and we went down to soak, talk, and gaze out across the lake. It was misty, so I wore a winter hat to cover my hair. All perfectly lovely. Quiet, primal even, if it weren’t so damn posh and pampered. I’m well aware that I’m practically a princess, living as I do in this time and place.
We rinsed off in our graystone shower afterwards, and I shaved my legs. A good sign for Jack.
I was open to sex, but I wasn’t exactly in the mood. I was tired, kinda zoned out. Thinking about other things, none of them sexy — kids, marketing my book, family drama, chores. I was also stone cold sober.
I had been sober from weed the night before, and I was sober tonight again. Truth be told, I prefer to have sex while high, maybe even after drink or two. I like the way the drugs and/or alcohol make me feel — wild, uninhibited, free, sexy, sultry. Sometimes extremely mindful, other times, extremely mindless. Usually both — I quite like to give up all of my power to Jack, and I like being acutely aware of it. Weed helps me feel that way.
But I’ve been cutting back — weekends and special occasions only — so I was sober. Sober, tired, and slightly distracted.
Still, I could see how eager Jack was. I know how important sex is to him. I know how revved up he gets by my naked body, by just the idea of sex with me. He wakes up aroused nearly every day, our naked bodies next to each other, and then he projects all of his energy to pleasing me throughout the day. By parenting, by striving to do well at work. With each text he sends me, each conversation he initiates. Listening to my musings, structuring his time at home to maximize his time with me or for me.
So I wanted to give back. I wanted to have sex with him, to show him I love him. Because, dear God, I love him.
I wasn’t aroused, but I wanted to have sex with him. Arousal, I knew, would find its way in.
He asked what I wanted, offering up options. “Do you want to suck my cock? Use your vibrator? Have me eat you out?”
I wanted slow. “Will you rub me, then eat me out?” I honored myself by asking for what I wanted, what I could handle.
He agreed, and while I emptied my bladder in the bathroom, he pulled back the duvet, put down a towel, revved up the space heater, and switched the lighting to red. I added to the ambiance with a rose and geranium incense stick, and as I sat cross-legged on the bed, Jack rubbed my shoulders and I inhaled the flowery scent.
I focused on mindfulness and presence. I practically melted as he moved to my side and began to kiss me. I focused on his lips, his taste, his gorgeous face. Princess, indeed — who else would have a middle-aged man this hot?
We rearranged ourselves so that I lay back against the pillows with his face nestled in between my legs. How many songs eclipsed on the Echo as he licked and sucked and pressed against me? They were slow, soulful songs, a playlist unchanged from our yoga session earlier that evening. My mind heard them, but didn’t absorb the words.
I didn’t have an out-of-body orgasm as he ate me out, nothing like the strong ones that sometimes wrack my body. I felt pleasure, but nothing intense. Totally normal for me at this time of the month.
I used to put too much pressure on myself to perform. After all, I know the pride that swells within Jack when he can make me orgasm like that. But I also know that I have to give myself grace. I have to accept how I’m feeling at the moment, and accept the pleasure that I’m experiencing rather than longing and striving for something other.
The entire experience was a like a phenomenal massage. I don’t know how much time went by, but I trusted that Jack would only continue as long as he was willing and wanting.
I used to worry about how long I was taking, but not anymore. Jack always assures me that he loves giving cunnilingus. Princess.
I grabbed Jack’s hair when I wanted to direct him. I arched my back and pulsed my hips when it felt good, in time to the music and his tongue’s strokes. I moaned when I liked it, which I imagine is way more sexy than the light snort from my snoring that wakes me up when I fall asleep for an actual masseuse.
When I get into things, I get into them, but I made sure to stay awake for Jack.
When I’d had a couple delightfully sleepy, slow orgasms, I flipped over to my stomach. I wanted to grind my body against the bed while Jack penetrated me, and I told him so.
He didn’t object.
With his body on top of mine, I felt stifled. Not in a good way. The fucking space heater. I interrupted us to turn it off, and directed Jack to turn on the ceiling fan. In case you didn’t already guess, I’m a Gemini.
I pushed him back against the pillows and climbed on top of him. He held tight to my hips as I ground my body against his, reflecting on how lovely this entire night had been. How lazy, how slow, how relaxing, how wonderful. There was no one else I wanted, I just wanted Jack, just like this. I wanted him for as long as I could have him, and the dark realization that so often, too often, hits me…it hit me again, right then. This wouldn’t last forever.
So I soaked it up. That moment. That piece of eternity. That love.
Yes, I orgasmed, too. Again.
And then we both knew what was next — him, on top of me, for my favorite type of orgasm. Missionary position, him deep within me, grinding against my clit, my legs wrapped around him or up in the air, my back flat against the bed, our faces alternating between cheek to cheek and eyes locked together, our breath mingling into one hot steamy cloud as I momentarily experience a pleasure so great that I become ethereal. My soul, gossamer, barely tethered to my body, and all of this brought about by his love and care for me.
Oh, Jack. “Thank you,” I whisper as I return to the world.
He’s proud, but he’s tired now, too. “My turn?” he inquires, and it’s all I can do to nod.
It’s simple that night. Just us, doggy style, me keeping my legs firmly together and my head down to experience just another snippet of pleasure, because I’m greedy like that. He likes it, too, and it’s not long before he orgasms.
It’s good for him, as it always seems to be. He tells me he loves me, and he kisses my shoulder, and he thanks me, too, as we admire our reflections in the mirror.
We’ll get ready for bed next. Brush teeth, night creams, bathroom stuff, all side-by-side at our dual-sink vanity before we lay side-by-side in our king-size bed.
In the morning, he’ll sneak out when his alarm goes off earlier than I have to get up during this break from school. He’ll unload the dishwasher while he eats breakfast, and when I wake up an hour later, I’ll eat and then load it back up. I’ll workout and then have my second cup of coffee while I write an essay to reflect on my wonderful life.
Happy Holidays, indeed. May we all experience the opportunity to rejoice in the simple, slow pleasures this season.