By Julie EnSzer
It isn't easy. I can't tell you how many times, young and single,
I thought married sex would be the best—available, reliable,
heck, even guaranteed—in reality, it's not any of these; too many nights
we bound into bed with amorous anticipation only to have
our pheromones masked by tryptophan; our sultry eyes turn
from 'come hither' to 'way over yonder,' and we move from sex to sleep,
from fantasy to dream, from snickers to snores; this is better,
actually, than evenings our desires are lost to conversation—
quick catch-us-ups on bill paying, family, or other living mundanities—
talk is important, of course, especially to sustain a long-term,
committed relationship, but this is the truth: in bed the topic
doesn't matter, words alone encourage the sinister possibilities
that lurk beneath the sheets—exchanges of import with their inevitable
disagreements, at best; bickering, at worst—bickering—the all-time
mood-killer which is why I understand why, though I'm not yet forty,
married people have sex only on the weekends—weekdays are filled
with work at home and work at work and even the weekends have to be
protected from laborious encroachments and well-meaning family and friends,
amid all that, it's amazing that children are ever created let alone that adults
have time and energy to recreate in a physical, or sexual nature,
all that to say, this is why, when you take me into your arms
on a particular Thursday night, and we even have a guest in the house
and the sheets are somewhat dirty, when you press your lips to mine,
let them linger longer than Thursday night usually allows, when I am lost
in your tongue, your lips, when you cause me to sigh with an unexpectedly
tender caress of my thigh, I am surprised, not shocked, but pleased,
because making love after many years isn't always easy.
Julie R. Enszer is a writer and lesbian activist living in University Park, Md. You can read more of her work at www.JulieREnszer.com .