The truth for many of us lifers, chained to our loved ones by vows or a mutually signed mortgage, is that sharing a bed doesn’t mean we are getting any bedroom action. Anyone who has survived beyond the seven-year itch is well familiar with the waxing and waning of lust over the years.
With a pandemic at hand, is quarantined enforced “quality time” reigniting our fires? I feel confident that for those who have any kids aged 6 and below, sexy time is about as appealing as an ice bucket challenge in midwinter Minnesota.
Just like G spots, no two couples are the same. In our household, we break with the common stereotype of the tired wife rattling her headache pills when hubby comes in, erect cock poking her like a needy toddler.
Pre-pandemic, I was already living with my partner’s sexual desire hovering just above non-existent. A decade of living in a sexless marriage when you are as horny as a gaggle of teenage boys on prom night is tough. Some might excuse the odd infidelity but I take my vows to be faithful seriously.
That said, there was nothing in the fine print stating I couldn’t meet my needs with a fine piece of motorized silicone.
As much as I’d love to be the Imelda Marcos of dildos, storage space has forced me to Kon Mari my purring pretties down to my two favourites. They have kept me satisfied through the harshest of sexy-time deserts.
Until now.
I can give up many creature comforts during isolation. I was never one to have a standing salon date I really like spending time with my kids and husband too. I just appreciate them so much more when I get some space and tend to my little bushy garden. During lock-down life, personal space is elusive.
My nethers are not handling this new found neglect. The Corona Virus has taken away my freedom and the pent up frustration is palpable. A bystander might think I look like a normal mum going about the usual never-ending scroll that is my daily to-do list. But while I calmly clean up the kitchen, inside chaos ensues.
Under that composed exterior, there is a pussy, in heat, moaning in agony. Only I can’t open a window and chuck a boot or bucket of water to shut her up. Construction isn’t what it used to be and I am not ready to have my kids banging at the door shouting mommy what’s that sound.
No sooner do I have the kids down for the night, my husband appears for his nightly Netflix binge. When I finally do drift off in the sandman’s arms, slumber brings no respite. My stress dreams used to be some variation of me finding myself in the middle of my school, without underwear, attempting to pull down the tiniest tank top to cover myself. These days, I dream that I am in the middle of Madison Avenue, pulling my underwear down, desperately rubbing up against strangers and begging anyone and everyone to service my needs.
I hope you are all fairing better than I am, whether that is enjoying a mutual lack of lust or the extra time together to get it on. Now I must get back to designing a she-shack with metre-thick fortress walls and extra storage space.
Stay safe and satisfied, my fellow Mamas.
Isabella Tomoe
