My sister Shannon’s got a broken husband, and I have a broken fiancée. Preppy was at work last week and managed to fracture a rib while moving a shelf. Meanwhile, Shannon’s husband injured his shoulder at work, then waited too long to see the doctor because he’s a guy and that’s what we do. Now her husband’s scheduled for surgery, followed by a three-week recovery period at home.
“I’m worried,” Shannon says on the phone. “I can only play caregiver to someone for about two days before I lose my patience and just start demanding they get better.”
“But you used to work in an intensive care ward,” I say.
“I know. That’s why I quit. Those people would stay sick for like weeks, you had to do everything for them. It was awful.”
I pause to say a silent prayer for the people in ICU who were subjected to my sister standing over them demanding they get their own damn pills and stop bothering her.
“How’s Preppy?” she asks.
“He says his rib pretty much hurts all the time, it’s really a matter of getting used to the discomfort.”
“Our poor men. They’re strugglin’.”
“I know,” I say. “I just want him to feel better.”
There’s a long pause.
“You’re not getting any sex either, are you?” she says.
“No. Not at all.”
It’s really a very simple thing. I will agree to absolutely anything and accept any scenario as long as I’m getting laid consistently. But if you remove that crucial aspect of my existence, things start going downhill with startling speed. If I find myself in a particularly pissy mood, all I have to do is take a moment and count the days in my head, and there’s your answer. I know people talk about “settling in” with relationships, when you reach some comfort level and the sex suddenly drops off , sending you into lengthy dry spells. Well, so help me Baby Jesus, I will fight tooth and nail to prevent that from happening.
What I didn’t realize is that this is a family trait.
“I am a very creative woman!” Shannon says. “I can think of sixteen different ways to contort myself that don’t involve him moving his shoulder at all! I know it might hurt a little, but he went to war! He’s tough!”
“We are horrible, hateful, evil people. They deserve compassion right now. Our men are bruised and broken. You and I are going to learn how to be sympathetic.”
“I know, I know,” she sighs. “But I don’t get it. I had a broken collarbone once and I still wanted to get laid.”
Shannon and I were both in lengthy relationships prior to meeting the men with whom we settled down. Incidentally, we were both with gay men, which she didn’t know at the time- she just knew she wasn’t getting any and that sucked. When I was with The Ex for five years, I knew we were in real trouble when the sex went away. So it’s possible that we connect having sex consistently with everything being okay. Conversely, a dearth of nookie spells destruction and doom.
Or maybe I’m just pissed because I’m not having sex… but my cousin Nelson is.
After going through endless fix-ups courtesy of Preppy and me, and being subjected to the E-Harmony profile created without his knowledge, my straight boy housemate managed to find a lady all on his own. She’s English. He loves that.
“It’s so cool hearing her passionately say my name with a British accent,” he told me.
I asked him not to tell me things like that.
“Maybe it’s some sort of cycle,” says Shannon. “We’re not getting laid, now Nelson is. It’s like there’s a finite supply of sex in the world, and everybody has to wait their turn.”
“So, if I can stop someone else from having sex, the supply will replenish and I’ll get to go?”
“That sounds like dangerous karma. I think our best bet is just waiting this one out and letting our husbands heal.”
“But what do we do with all that free time?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Charity work, maybe? Or we could just bitch about Nelson getting laid.”
“You always have the best ideas.”
“I’m worried,” Shannon says on the phone. “I can only play caregiver to someone for about two days before I lose my patience and just start demanding they get better.”
“But you used to work in an intensive care ward,” I say.
“I know. That’s why I quit. Those people would stay sick for like weeks, you had to do everything for them. It was awful.”
I pause to say a silent prayer for the people in ICU who were subjected to my sister standing over them demanding they get their own damn pills and stop bothering her.
“How’s Preppy?” she asks.
“He says his rib pretty much hurts all the time, it’s really a matter of getting used to the discomfort.”
“Our poor men. They’re strugglin’.”
“I know,” I say. “I just want him to feel better.”
There’s a long pause.
“You’re not getting any sex either, are you?” she says.
“No. Not at all.”
It’s really a very simple thing. I will agree to absolutely anything and accept any scenario as long as I’m getting laid consistently. But if you remove that crucial aspect of my existence, things start going downhill with startling speed. If I find myself in a particularly pissy mood, all I have to do is take a moment and count the days in my head, and there’s your answer. I know people talk about “settling in” with relationships, when you reach some comfort level and the sex suddenly drops off , sending you into lengthy dry spells. Well, so help me Baby Jesus, I will fight tooth and nail to prevent that from happening.
What I didn’t realize is that this is a family trait.
“I am a very creative woman!” Shannon says. “I can think of sixteen different ways to contort myself that don’t involve him moving his shoulder at all! I know it might hurt a little, but he went to war! He’s tough!”
“We are horrible, hateful, evil people. They deserve compassion right now. Our men are bruised and broken. You and I are going to learn how to be sympathetic.”
“I know, I know,” she sighs. “But I don’t get it. I had a broken collarbone once and I still wanted to get laid.”
Shannon and I were both in lengthy relationships prior to meeting the men with whom we settled down. Incidentally, we were both with gay men, which she didn’t know at the time- she just knew she wasn’t getting any and that sucked. When I was with The Ex for five years, I knew we were in real trouble when the sex went away. So it’s possible that we connect having sex consistently with everything being okay. Conversely, a dearth of nookie spells destruction and doom.
Or maybe I’m just pissed because I’m not having sex… but my cousin Nelson is.
After going through endless fix-ups courtesy of Preppy and me, and being subjected to the E-Harmony profile created without his knowledge, my straight boy housemate managed to find a lady all on his own. She’s English. He loves that.
“It’s so cool hearing her passionately say my name with a British accent,” he told me.
I asked him not to tell me things like that.
“Maybe it’s some sort of cycle,” says Shannon. “We’re not getting laid, now Nelson is. It’s like there’s a finite supply of sex in the world, and everybody has to wait their turn.”
“So, if I can stop someone else from having sex, the supply will replenish and I’ll get to go?”
“That sounds like dangerous karma. I think our best bet is just waiting this one out and letting our husbands heal.”
“But what do we do with all that free time?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Charity work, maybe? Or we could just bitch about Nelson getting laid.”
“You always have the best ideas.”
