Throughout January, I didn’t really have that much sex. It’s not because my partner and I aren’t sexually attracted to each other; believe me, we are. He still grabs my tit at every given opportunity and I get really worked up thinking about boning him when I’m at work. But that’s just it, my level of energy is usually at it’s highest early afternoon, more often than not after I’ve consumed lunch foods encased in greasy pastry (but that’s just personal preference). And, sure, I know it’s over, but I just wanted to make sure that, if you too were partaking in Dry Jan, there’s really nothing to be worried about.
Turns out, ‘Dry January’ is actually ambiguous and can have more than one meaning. Whilst I refused to pack in the prosecco, subconsciously maybe I traded wine for willy?
It’s probably about time you got to read about sex in the real world. Sorry, Cosmo, but it’s not steamy morning showers and changing things up by keeping your socks on in the bedroom. Welcome to reality. It’s the most depressing time of the year. Christmas is over, and you’re almost definitely carrying extra weight despite over the festive period constantly telling yourself that pigs in blankets count as a protein snack, and that having an orange juice heavy Bucks Fizz is basically like necking a fruit smoothie. Plus, you’re probably piss poor and I don’t know about you, but nothing gets my juices flowing quite like an engorged, throbbing bank balance.
I spend most evenings half pissed off that my partner hasn’t tried to put on the moves, and half so tired that I can’t rile myself up enough to tell him; thus the reason behind neither of us having sex is that neither of us is making an effort to do so. I kid you not, I donned some of my newest and favourite lace lingerie last week so that, when he finally came down for his tea, I was hopping around the kitchen desperately trying to create a delicious stir fry without splashing myself (and my very bare breasts) with boiling oil. It wasn’t sexy, but he still told me I looked nice and gave me an affectionate bottom tap before tucking in (to his dinner that is, not to me).
It all came to a climax (quite literally) on Sunday (twice) after three weeks – THREE FUCKING WEEKS – of waiting. His going away always makes us love each other more and, seeing as he abandoned me for the entirety of Friday and Saturday, it was inevitable that we’d engage in a Sunday showdown. And so, we did. A delightfully sneaky shag (whilst my lovely pal slept soundly next door) followed by a date day and an evening sesh which started with the words ‘do you fancy some gentle doggy style while we finish this episode of Riverdale?’. When you’ve been with someone a while, sex isn’t always what you’d imagined. I can count on one hand the amount of shags we’ve had that stemmed from him accidentally spilling wine on my shirt and then getting aroused whilst wiping it off. Partially because we only drink wine together when we’re out and pretending to be fancy and partially because ‘whiskey dick’ is a very real thing and no-one in their right mind can have fully consensual and incredible sex after the amount that we tend to consume.
The point of this post is this; it’s OK if you’re doing it, and it’s OK if you’re not. As long as you’re on the same page as your partner and never comparing to your sex life to that of your friends/family/Kim Kardashian and as long as you understand that sex in a relationship is less rolling around entwined in front of a roaring open fire and more doing it cowgirl but at a glacial page because you’re both really fucking hungover, then you’re in with the vast majority of us.