If you haven’t seen it, you’ve been living under a rock. The stage is set with candles, romantic music, a just-eaten 14 course dinner and its tidy leftovers on the table, and the camera pans to the couple in bed, taking a breather after an intense session just before delving into another. It’s a cliche concept rehashed like corned beef into everything from mainstream movies to 3 am “performance pill” ads – that a real man goes for hours, like some freakish cock-wielding energizer bunny. They get off, and are immediately ready to go again, be it pleasuring their woman with cunnilingus that rivals the running time of CSI:Miami marathons during sweeps week, or thrusting for periods of time that would make pneumatic hammers insecure. Men, after all, don’t need downtime and women are never satisfied.
Ahhh, The Nooner
Now, don’t get me wrong – I think everyone is entitled to slow, leisurely explorations that take up an entire day if they so desire. My issue lies in the disturbing trend of this being considered the norm – that short, albeit passionate, lovemaking is relegated to the wink-wink “nooner” designation or when having sex you’ll regret / paying for a hotel room by the hour. I’ve been present for many a conversation glorifying the hours-long marathon session, but not that many that heap praise on the so-called quickie.
No Need To Break My Pelvis
I began to get self-conscious about my own interludes in the sack; short and sweet tangles that ended in an orgasm for both of us inside of fifteen minutes. We aren’t insane about it – usually little to no toys involved, latex condom, foreplay, water-based lubricant, visual and verbal communication throughout, and he’s not trying to break my pelvis or do crazy dismounts. We just…both get off pretty quickly during PIV (penis-in-vagina, fyi) sex – me first, always, I’d like to clarify. Sure, we take our time during mutual masturbation and things like that, but that specification doesn’t seem to come up when people start talking about then mythical marathon session.
I began dropping hints to my partner how I’d love to spend all day in bed with nothing but each other naked, and maybe pizza and breath mints for practicalities’ sake. The first few times my partner shrugged noncommittally, but then one day he turned to me and said, “Why?”
Oh, I was mad. Furious. Glare-at-the-back-of-his-head pissed off. Why WOULDN’T a healthy American male want to spend all day pantsless with a delectable toychick like myself? I was sexy! I was hot and amazing and could do things with my tongue! I was….kidding myself. I didn’t want it either. It took my partner’s puzzled response to make me realize I wanted it because I thought it was “normal”. I honestly let myself get tricked into the cosmo-endorsed thought that truly loving, caring partners mentally shopped for just the right satin sheets and wondered if they should buy a whole case of rose petals at once. Truth is, most don’t…and the ones that do? That really and truly think like that 24/7? I think I’d get crazy bored or seriously creeped out within a week or two. Maybe three if he could also do things with his tongue.
Wangs And Intake Ports Don’t Mix
This epiphany led my partner and I to a long and winding discussion that peeped out over several days, weaving in and out of our pre-bedtime conversations. The reason he never wanted to frequent the sleazy (if there was a way to italicize that word further, I would) no-tell motel a few towns over, the one with the theme rooms? It was dirty. This response also began to annoy me until I realized he was right. Those were the kind of rooms they swept with blacklights for nightly news specials. They were pretty much very large multi-surfaced sponges for other people’s genetic napalm. This was, of course, not even taking into account that my guy is a Spa technician and told me horror stories he’d heard from other techs about the jacuzzis in those rooms. (Short version? Wangs and intake ports don’t mix. Ditto with condoms and filters.) And eating food off of one another? Cute dollops of whipped cream above the belt, maybe, but anything bigger would probably be sugary or salty and he parroted my own oft-repeated mini speech about vaginal PH and sugar right back at me. Apparently, I was unknowingly into all kinds of cliches for the sake of the cliche itself, and not considering that these ideas were sort of incompatible with my partner and I. Sex, after all, should avoid defining itself as a race, checklist, or competition.
Quickie Sex Is Fine By Me
I began to really think about our trysts after each time they occurred, and always came to the same conclusion: they were awesome. Love, passion, orgasm, cuddling…all under a half hour. If it made me feel good and happy and satisfied, if I wasn’t longing for more or feeling like the sex was hurried or meaningless, why should I be worrying over length of time spent on it? So I stopped. We continued gleefully pulling each other into bed now and then for our romps, and I stopped stressing over what other people might think. Maybe some women get all kinds of energized after “round one”, but personally, my 27 year old self would rather blow out the scented candles and sleep like the dead. I can think of nothing more awesome than taking a nap after a good solid orgasm, to the end where I had to make my partner promise to make me get up to go to the bathroom after (always pee after sex to stave off yeast infections) because my limbs and brain enter a state of utter lethargy and nothing short of a natural disaster will rouse me.
So what gives, ladies? Tell me your marathon-sex rationale. Don’t your naughty bits get kick-visitors-in-the-face tender? Am I weird to want to rinse off, doze, and wake up again only when hunger or boredom demand it?