Of awkwardness and schedules

It had been a shit day. One of the worst in years. And at least in part, one of my own making. When I came home I hit the whisky. And I hit it hard.

She came home not long after. We didn’t argue. Too often, when I get drunk, my dissatisfaction at our marriage boils to the surface, but today my angst had a different target. We talked about it. There was no resolution – in the circumstance there is no possibility of a good resolution – but we were on the same side.

I’ve no idea how we got into the topic of sex. Half a bottle of whisky had done its job well; I couldn’t speak without slurring, and my capacity for memory had been significantly diluted.

She made some mention of my assertion that men need sex first, women need emotional involvement first. Who should get what they need first? I don’t remember where that discussion went, but it elevated the tension level a little.

Somewhere along the line She made some reference to scheduling sex. That the possibility had been raised before – probably when we went through counselling. There was mention that She had studiously avoided talking about sex at counselling, which She said was because She wasn’t comfortable talking about sex with a stranger. I pointed Her attention towards our list of shows to watch on Netflix, and how I’d removed House Of Cards as the regularity of sexual content made me uncomfortable when watching it with Her. [Ed: How fucked up is that for a fan of porn?!] And some how, out of all this, Wednesdays and Sundays get book-marked as Date Night. Which all but explicitly translates as Fuck Night.

And then we were sat on the same sofa and we were watching Chasing Amy. I have no recollection of exactly what preceded, but I turned the TV off and said Come to bed and fuck me. The world stopped spinning. Apparently this was the wrong thing to say. Apparently She had a problem with the word Fuck. If you’ll excuse the modern vernacular, WTF?! It’s just a word. And what ever word or phrase you use to describe a dick in a cunt, it’s still a dick in a cunt. But no, fuck was wrong. There was some reference to the discussion Alyssa and Holden had recently had on-screen about what constitutes sex – how sex isn’t just fucking. (Even in my inebriated state I couldn’t help musing on the fact that Alyssa had just stunned Holden with the revelation of lesbian fisting, but thankfully my sense of self-preservation was still sufficient to stop me commenting on this.)

Somehow we managed to back track and we headed upstairs.
For sex.
And we fucked.
And from the few details I remember, it was a reasonably good fuck.
She allowed me to finger Her pussy. She even, on request, allowed me to go down on Her, although Her thighs remained resolutely together and I had to satisfy myself with the scent of Her quim and nuzzling in Her bush. A little later I asked Her to sit on my face, though this was met with Really? … and She didn’t.
Neither of us came – I think by this stage we were both too tired, and I was too drunk. But equally I don’t think either of us was dissatisfied.

And come the morning, She was still uncommonly naked, and my cock was still rock hard – significantly harder than it is most mornings.
I silently wondered whether a fuck on Tuesday night (as it had been) ticked the box for mid-week sex, negating the obligation to fuck come the evening. She mentioned Date Night, so presumably not, and I joked that I’d better not have a wank just then.

At the breakfast table, I confess that for me at least, it felt a little odd. There was little conversation. She said She felt wiped out, and I apologised for keeping Her up late: She was glad I had. But for me there was something else – awkwardness. The sort of awkwardness you feel when you’ve gone out for a drink with a friend, only to end up fucking each other’s brains out, and then don’t know how to behave towards each other in the morning.

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