There’s a first of everything. Which means there’s also got to a be last everything, no? The last time Tom Brady throws a touchdown pass, for example. Or the last time you drink liquor. Or the last time you step into that house. The last final exam, the last day at work, the last time you try sushi, the last time you see a sunrise, or the last episode of the Tenth Doctor, inarguably the gold standard of incarnations in the series. Or the last time you make love.
Interesting aside: I’m in bed, next to the one I love. Visions of her booty bobbing up and down in the water while swimming + memories from last night’s lovemaking = me with a full-on boner, trying to blog. Like, now.
Throw in the little tender touches on my leg, or spooning, or looking at the curve of her back? I’m a convulsing mess, with violent tremors, gasping for air, holding on to whatever I can—bedsheets, Nikki’s arm, you name it. The spasms are pretty extreme and could be somewhat embarrassing, if I let it. But if I’m sitting with my wife’s pastor and I start trembling as if I’m undergoing a medical crisis, oh well. Doesn’t bother me in the least.
Ok, that’s not entirely true. It bothers me to the extent that during those moments, I desperately want to be with my wife. Like a hunger pang that reminds us to eat, the quivering is my body reminding me of the need to be with my wife. It’s fucking exhausting. And sometimes painful. Literally. Racking my body with spontaneous and ferocious spasms, threatening to throw out my back? Contracting my stomach muscles and the inability to breath? Yeah, exhausting and potentially painful. In a sine wave that lasts perhaps 15 seconds, followed by 15 seconds of stillness before the next wave comes, the sessions can last from mere moments to several minutes. They come while on FaceTime, in the supermarket, or sitting in the living room with my father-in-law. They care little about time or social setting. They come when and where they choose, and I’m powerless to do a damn thing about it. But I’m not left embarrassed; I’m left wanting. Because it’s not likely we’re going to be making love anytime soon in those situations. So I just have to ride the wave and let the feelings subside.
Despite the physical evidence that suggests otherwise, I have this fear in the back of my head that my sex life will be ending soon. Or that it’s already ended. Or when we’re actually engaged in making love and it takes a bit longer than I’d like to get aroused, I’ll wonder if this will be the last.
Look, I’m 54. There’s gotta be an ending sometime.
Not exactly. But I did…
Thanks for the constructive criticism. When I need blogging advice from a cartoon avatar, I’ll know where to go. Until then, thanks but no thanks.
I could say the same thing, but I’ve got more important stuff to do. Like this blog.
Ouch. Well, it’s important to me. And to the two or three people that actually read my posts. So there.😛🖕
At 54, I could have another twenty years or more of an utterly satisfying sex life. Or, alternatively, I could be in a car accident tomorrow, leaving me paralyzed from the waist down. Not a pleasant thought, to be sure. But the point is, we can’t predict the future. Not one minute in front of us is guaranteed. We’re all going to die at some point and we’re all going to stop having sex. So why continually play out that future moment in my mind, like worrying about going to the dentist before the actual appointment? All I’m doing is making a future-sucky thing exponentially suckier each time I imagine it.
My wife and I have been together for close to three years now. I’ve blogged in the past about our mind-blowing intimacy. It’s truly spiritual, tear-in-the-corner-of-my-eye inducing. Multiple times in one day are not rare and several times during the week are common. With that frequency, I shouldn’t be concerned that I wasn’t able to perform a handful of times over those years. But I am. A flaccid penis will do that to you. Well, at least it does to me.
The thing is, I’m not sure why I don’t just live in the moment. We all know there will come a day where I’ll no longer be a man.
I know, I know. Saying I’m no longer a man because I can’t get it up? Kinda harsh. But also, kinda the way I feel.
Agreed. Not something I’m going sort out now, is it? Let’s put a pin on that one…
Perhaps it’s my advancing age. 54 now. But 55 soon. Real fucking less-than-two-months-away soon. Much closer to elderly than young. I could’ve joined AARP close to five months ago, for Chrissake. The Inoperable Penis Day is a-coming. Tick tick tick tick tick.
Or maybe it’s the growing excess around my midsection. Or my rapidly thinning hair.
Looking at you, Bitmoji, it’s about time to update your hairline as well. How’s that feel?
Exactly. But whatever the case—whatever the cause—it’s just another of the worries that I bear. Cancer, death, my kids, the health of our loved ones, my career, and a non-functioning pecker. And not necessarily in that order.
What, what, Bitmoji?
First, “your limp dick,” is offensive and inaccurate. My pee-pee works just fine, thank you very much. And second, in the ranking order of life’s worries, my future inability to have sex doesn’t even compare to cancer. But it’s not unimportant either.
I like sex. No, I love sex with my wife. And before you bust my balls, Bitmoji, “with my wife” doesn’t imply that I also have sex with others but I only “like” those occurrences.
Yeah, not even my hand. That’s not even a thing anymore, since Nikki. I’m consumed with her. So masturbation is not required. And I’ve never cheated, so yeah. Nikki is the one and only. And I love being with her. And I don’t want it to end.
Have you been following this blog, Bitmoji? That’s exactly what…
Wait. What?
That’s ridiculous, Bitmoji. Our relationship isn’t based on sex. She’d never leave me because…
I guess there’s no guarantees…
…but I can’t believe she’d…
You DO NOT know, Nikki. There’s just NO way…I mean, I don’t think…I mean…I guess I don’t know, Bitmoji. I don’t know.
“You’re welcome?!” For what, Dickmoji? For making me question the future of my marriage?! Why the…
No! I was perfectly fine until you…I mean…I don’t know. I guess…I guess I was, wasn’t I?
Why? Why do I do this, Bitmoji?
You know what? You’re right. I am insecure as fuck. About my intelligence, my self-worth, and my penis. I…
I told you, Bitmoji, it only happened a handful of times over several years. Hardly…
Look, I’m not exaggerating. It has only happened a few times. Still, I owe you a thanks. For helping me realize the source of my cock-concern. I fear I’m going to lose Nikki. For not being good enough. For not being handsome. For my mood swings, my style of clothing, and for snoring in my sleep. For being an imposter in life. For my inability to always please her. For any number of reasons, the thoughts creep in: “Does she even love me anymore,” or “Is she mad at me,” or, or, or.
In many ways, I’m a simple dude. Insecurities + the inability to practice acceptance = Markie. That’s not an exact equation; it’s missing some other elements, to be sure. But geez, it’s a darn good approximation. My insecurities haunt me. ✅ And not being able to accept things the way they are, to accept things out of my control? Another check. ✅
That’s the crux of it, isn’t it, Bitmoji? I need to accept that very occasionally, my junk won’t work. And I need to accept whatever happens, as a result. I’m absolutely confident Nikki won’t leave me. She’s a sweetheart of a person and I firmly believe we were destined to be with one another. But if she did leave, it’s not like I can control it, is it? Yes, it would monumentally suck. And yes, I’d likely spiral so completely that I’d barely get out of bed. But eventually, I’d be forced to accept that I have zero control over someone else’s feelings. Regardless of the reason—the season, the distance between us, or my failings as a human being—I need to accept things beyond my control.
🤦♂️ I told you, it only happened a few…Whatever, Bitmoji. You win. Yes. Acceptance even applies to a dick that won’t work. Happy now?
Ugh. One more thing I need to accept? That you’re an annoying prick of an inanimate object. GFY, Bitmoji. The end.
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