Nothing saucy about sex in kitchen

AS A woman of a certain age, deep down I knew one day it would happen. Just as it has happened to generations of women before me, I knew I would eventually succumb.

Of course, just like generations of women before me I didn’t want to admit it was happening in my own boudoir. I have merrily sailed my little felucca down the river of de-Nile for quite a few years but no more, when it comes to the bedroom I have surrendered. All pretence is out the window and I’ve given in to the comfort factor. And I’m not just talking about fluffy pillows and feather filled doonas.

There comes a time when you have to admit you’re not 22 anymore. And neither is your body. It’s a sad reality (usually more so for the male of the household) but there are things the body of a 22-year-old female can endure that the body of a woman of a certain age is no longer willing or capable of attempting, never mind enduring.

For starters take lacy lingerie. Take it as far away from me as possible. Sleeping with lacy lingerie lodged in places it has no business being stuck in is all well and good when you’re 22 and in the first flush of love. But fast forward two kids, some hot flushes and a few marital years later and out of nowhere you’ll hear yourself saying: “What do you mean this baggy T-shirt isn’t sexy?”

Sure lacy lingerie can be saucy, titillating and exciting – as long as you’re not the one wearing it. The reality is that it’s uncomfortable, irritating and itchy – coincidently the same symptoms as head lice.

I remember when I was 22; I would rather have chewed off my arm than interrupt hubby’s sleep or have him think I wasn’t comfortable sleeping face first in his sweaty armpit. I would balance like an acrobat on the knife edge of our mattress just so his slumber wouldn’t be disturbed.

As a woman of a certain age my circus performance days are long gone. And as for hubby’s sleep? He knows that it’s every man for himself when it comes to securing mattress centimetres and if I can get through the night having controlled the urge to smother his snoring face with a pillow he’s a lucky man and my love for him still burns deep.

You know comfort is a big issue in your life when you get more excited over laying new flooring than being laid on the floor but the one signpost that showed I was definitely on the road to accepting comfort as a not negotiable factor was the other week when hubby suggested we “do it” somewhere exciting.

I was thinking “Ooh la la a trip to Paris”. He suggested the kitchen. Dirty dishes and a fridge full of half-empty dog food tins – oh yeah, my level of excitement jumped up five notches just thinking about the potential of that episode.

I understood where he was going with his suggestion of wanting us to gyrate around the white goods. Bless him, he was trying to recapture the early days of our relationship when our appetites were insatiable, our passion bubbled red hot and our imaginations were writing cheques our bodies could still cash. But that ship has sailed.

Sure, when you’re 22 a quick romp in the kitchen sounds naughty, spontaneous and fun but as a woman of a certain age I just knew abandoning all inhibitions for the sake of adventure would lead to injury. I’ll spare you the harrowing details but needless to say I almost pulled a hammy trying to climb onto the kitchen table.

And the hardest part of the whole ordeal? It wasn’t finally admitting I need my comfort; I’m actually okay with that. It was trying to explain to my youngest what my doona and fluffy pillows were doing in the kitchen.



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