He had a long commute, I had eight hours in front of InDesign. He’s tired, I’m exhausted. The weekend rushes by in a wild mix of tidying up, clothes washing and post-Sunday lunch food-baby napping. It’s no wonder couples don’t find time for a bit of the sexy stuff anymore.

A friend recently told me I need to practise what I preach – I’m a sex writer, I should be at it all the effing time! What said friend doesn’t realise is that, at times, we prefer the extra half an hour sleep or the extra hour an evening spent watching Geordie Shore.


When I was in my teens and first experimenting, I figured I’d be having sex for hours every single night. When I met my boyfriend several years ago, set eyes on him, set hands on him and then sat on him, I thought we’d never stop. We’ve got a full drawer filled with sex toys, luxurious silk and satin chains and paddles, the most delicate lace lingerie and the cheekiest nipple tassels. We fancy the pants off each other… literally. But oh my god, being an adult is exhausting!

Once or twice a week we’ll sneak under the covers, ignore the bleep of text messages or phone calls and lure each other into a sexy little trap. For an hour a week I forget life and focus on my man – those eyes, that body, that smile, his cock. And I’m lost. But I want it more.

It’s not that our sex drives are out of sync. We’d both be at it ten times a week if it wasn’t for life getting in the way. It’s just that we don’t have time. When I was young and before the chaos of final year of a degree/freelancing hadn’t got in the way, I imagined greeting my fella at the door every night when he walked in dressed to the nines in lingerie, stockings, suspenders… the works. Now he’ll normally find me with my hair tied back, casual clothes on and cooking dinner in the kitchen. Rather than collapsing onto a bed of rose petals and peeling our clothes off each other, real life means snuggling up under the duvet and popping a pair of bed socks on.

Real life, real sex lives, aren’t ever as you picture and I often worry that only spending once or twice a week fucking between the sheets just isn’t enough.

However, lately I’ve learnt that it’s not about how much you have sex, it’s not about whether my hair is tousled over my shoulders or tied back in a quick bun, it’s not about whether he’s peeling crotchless silk knickers off me or comedy boy shorts… it’s about us, each other, and taking time out to enjoy each other’s body.

That mid-week shag that leaves me grinning for hours the next day, the Sunday morning love making that has me on cloud nine, that early night filled with cuddles that makes me feel so loved… who cares how often, who cares for how long, who cares what everyone else is doing? Real life gets in the way and sometimes knowing you’ve finished that work presentation or taken the bins out is often more relaxing than shagging until the early hours. Maybe.

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