Something really weird has been happening to me lately. Everywhere I go, moms want to talk to me about sex. At kids’ birthday parties, the gym, the grocery store, the car, play spaces, over coffee, via Facebook IM, anywhere you can imagine – mamas want to bare all about getting busy. Going for the gusto. Rolling in the hay. But there’s a hitch. Almost 100% of the time, the conversation is not about how we're aching to have sex. It's about how we used to ache to have sex and now we have no effing clue what to do with ourselves.
This week has been no exception. A few days ago, I was at a meeting with a powerhouse entrepreneur who’s also a mom. This was our first time getting together. And I don’t know if it was the recent letter to my libido that I published on Huffington Post or the big sign on my forehead that says “I love talking about sex,” but the conversation inevitably shifted from bringing a new product to market to bringing home the orgasms.
Within a few minutes, a few other women we know stopped by and joined the conversation. I have to say, if you want to bond with a bunch of ladies, talk about how much you miss your sex drive. It's better than being a guy with an adorable puppy at a park filled with single women and their Shih Tzus. Invariably, what I hear each time, along with a lot of giggles and sighs, is “I miss my sex drive,” "Where did my sex drive go?” and “Can you tell me where I can find my sex drive? I swear it was here six years ago, before I popped out a kid.”
But this time, the conversation took an unexpected turn. Among us, there was one woman who, I kid you not, has sex three times a week with her husband. I have to state this again because I can hardly believe it myself. She has sex three times a week.
I don’t know about you, but I hardly brush my hair three times a week. I don't cook three times a week. I can barely get to the gym three times a week. I don’t shave my legs three times a week. Sometimes I don’t even change my pants three times a week. If my fifth-grade-level math serves me right, that would mean that this woman has sex, with her husband, every other day or sometimes even two days in a row. How the heck is that possible?
I checked out this woman a little more closely. She looked to be telling the truth. And she has really good skin. And, at least according to a Facebook status that she posted recently, which we all know is complete and utter reality, she’s one of the few women I'm acquainted with who doesn’t hate her own body. Could all of this, I wonder, stem from the fact that she has a great sex life?
This led me to think about frequency. Does how often matter? Most of the women I know feel like energizer bunnies if they manage to have sex once a week. Those who do it twice are afraid to tell their friends, lest the other women think they're bragging. Since having sex three times a week seems in the realm of the miraculous, in the same way that being able to eat three cinnamon buns in one weekend while losing two pounds is a miracle we all yearn for, I have to ask: Is the number of times a married couple has sex in a week an indication of how happily married they are?
Being the curious and slightly competitive gal that I am, I posed a challenge to the two other women there: let’s have sex, the real kind, with the hubbies, three times in the next week.
C’mon, I said, we can do it. If this gal with the gorgeous skin can do it, why can't we? Maybe it'll change our lives, make us less cranky, or at least help us burn off some of those extra Thanksgiving calories. Starting on Wednesday, we'd have one week to enjoy three rolls in the hay. Oral sex didn’t count toward the total but would not be discouraged either.
The women’s faces expressed a combination of fear, fascination, hope, and the tiniest bit of “what the hell am I getting myself into.” The geeky, eavesdropping dude at the next table looked eager, perplexed, and slightly appalled. I'm in. Said one brave mama. Me, too. Said the other.
I went home and told hubby about the plan. He seemed happy. Then I proceeded to get violently ill with the worst stomach bug I’ve had since my bout with dysentery in Poland 15 years ago. I couldn’t walk, and I couldn’t eat, which obviously - or at least obviously to me - meant that I couldn’t get busy. After day two of this wretchedness, I started to worry. How am I going to have sex with hubby if I have dark and scary liquids squirting out of almost every orifice of my body?
Fortunately, as of this morning, my digestive track seems to be settling down. But now the heat is on. I have only 4 or 5 days to make good on my little bet. Four or five days to have sex three times with the hubs. Can I do it? Failure is not an option. I have to have sex, and not only because I’m way too competitive for my own good. And not only because I’m convinced it’ll help clear up the dry skin-rash situation that’s recently developed on the lower half of my face.
I have to have sex three times this week to show the other ladies that we're in this together. That we can be sex rock stars again. That we can live the dream. Three times. By Wednesday. Let the games begin.