To My Long-Suffering Husband

By Lisabet Sarai

My love,

I know that you won't read this, because you think that blogs are inventions of the devil (or at least Microsoft!), intended to suck up people's time and clutter search engine results. Given how many hours I spend writing, reading and commenting on these orgies of self-disclosure, you may be correct.

In any case, despite the fact that you'll never see these words, they come from my heart. Our relationship is pushing three decades, but I still love you dearly.

I'm intensely grateful that you were stubborn enough to resist when I tried to brush you off, back at that professional conference where we met so long ago. I figured that the last thing I needed was another lover, especially a long distance one. I'm thankful that you had other ideas. You're still stubborn (you say you learned that from your wife) but I'll admit, sometimes you're right. Certainly you were right about holding on to me. How did you know, after our brief acquaintance, that we'd fit together so well? I can't believe it was just blind luck. Maybe it was fate, that somehow we were “meant to be together”—but I'm not sure I believe in that concept, despite all the romances I've concocted.

I remember the night you proposed to me, in that nearly deserted inn in Taos. Remember all the beds in that family-sized room? We figured we should try them all! The evening you popped the question, we'd been living together no more than a week, most of which had been spent driving across the country. I couldn't believe how easy that trip had been, and how much fun. It felt like we'd known each other forever.

Still, I told you to wait a year and then ask me again. I didn't want to make a snap decision, given all the divorce in my family. I don't think you minded. Maybe you knew that I'd accept eventually, just the way you knew you shouldn't let go of me.

Our first Valentine's Day together, I bought you a world atlas, to chart our journeys together. Much as I loved the idea of traveling, I would never have dared dream how far our mutual passion for new places and cultures would take us. It never occurred to me that we'd eventually take up residence in an exotic realm halfway around the world from familiar America,or that in twenty-odd years we'd visit every continent except Australia. Thank you for being my guide and my companion on all those odysseys. Who would have guessed, too, that our preferences in travel would be so compatible? History, nature, people, food...strolling through ancient cities and bustling markets...trundling around on local buses...figuring out timetables in foreign tongues. I love your sense of adventure, which you haven't lost, even as we've aged together.

Speaking of adventures—we've definitely had some in the realms of the flesh, haven't we? I love your openness and sexual enthusiasm. I still like to hear the tales about your old seductions and your many lovers before we met. I've never met a man who loved and respected women so much—all parts of them, including their minds (although I still like to tease you about the way you stared at my tits when you first introduced yourself!) It's too bad that you find BDSM or M/M interactions uninteresting, but nevertheless that leaves a lot of territory for exploration. You've never tried to pretend that you owned me or my body. (You'd never put up with anyone pulling that on you, after all.)

In our wedding ceremony, we promised to be companions and co-conspirators. I love remembering some of the mischief we've hatched together!

I don't think I've ever written you a love letter before. During the six months we were separated, after our first connection, I think we corresponded, but I wasn't really ready to say “I love you”. I do remember your sharing a fantasy about making love in free fall (one thing we still haven't been able to try) and pointing out that we were born one day and one sunspot cycle apart. I probably sent you some titillating sexual fantasies of my own (perhaps a harbinger of my career as an erotic author). But love letters...not really.

Well, better late than never. I love you, my dear, more than I ever dreamed possible. I never believed in long-term relationships. My high school yearbook quote was from Simon and Garfunkle: “Hello, hello, hello, hello...goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye... that's all there is.” Yet our love is pushing thirty and stronger than ever, I think, even though our bodies have deteriorated a bit.

I love you, I need you and I enjoy your company: your creativity, your off-beat perspectives and your grimace-inducing puns. I love to cuddle up with you, head on your shoulder, and listen to your heart beat. I love your kisses. (You've always been a full-body kisser, from that first time on the sidewalk outside the Burmese restaurant.) Your intelligence awes me sometimes. Your practical capabilities—fixing plumbing, troubleshooting computers, making world-class granola—are an added bonus. Sometimes I think about what my life would be like without you. I force myself to think about something else, to appreciate today, this moment, our being together.

Probably we take each other for granted at times. After all the years, it's only natural. I hope that, even without reading this letter, you somehow know how much I love you. I'm remarkably certain that your feelings for me are similar—even when we disagree or annoy each other.

We're incredibly fortunate, my love. I'm incredibly fortunate. Thank you.

With love and gratitude,

Lisabet

Sex With Strangers

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Killing Him Softly with Hot Sweaty Monkey Sex

For once, I know exactly what to write about this week's topic. For once, I have a truly relevant tale to tell. So grab a cup of joe, pull up a chair, and be prepared to listen good.

Sex or love? Let me tell you the first thing that popped into my tiny little brain when I heard about this topic. Some years back, maybe about 9 years ago, the Hubster and I had an incident. Back then, we were hip-deep in a battle against infertility. We'd been trying for a couple of years to get me pregnant with absolutely no success. After the first year on our own, we went to see a doctor and began the agonizing process of tests and treatments and waiting and seeing and hoping and wailing when good ol' Auntie Flow showed up cycle after cycle like clockwork.

Nothing, I mean nothing, kills a couple's sex life like infertility. For months, I was poked and prodded, tested and scrutinized. I had so much blood drawn, my arms looked like the arms of a junkie. I underwent so many pelvic exams, I seriously considered having a speculum permanently installed in my vagina. There were ultrasounds and biopsies and once a very painful test where radioactive dye was shot through my uterus all the way up into my ovaries. Screaming agony, I tell ya.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Oh no, by far what killed our love life was the scheduling. My menstrual cycle had to be tracked, monitored and recorded. That meant every morning when the alarm went off, before I even got out of bed, I had to stick a thermometer in my mouth to check my basal body temperature. If there was a half degree, or even a quarter degree, of deviation from normal, I had to trudge into the bathroom, still blind with sleep, and pee in a cup. My aim is not the best first thing in the morning, so that made the procedure even more fun. Once I had my cup of pee, I had to stick an ovulation test strip in it to see if my hormones were surging in preparation for my monthly egg drop. Depending upon the results of that test, we either could or couldn't have sex for the next week. The time period within five or so days of ovulation was a no-sex zone. The only way sperm was supposed to get into my coochie during that time was via catheter for an inter-uterine insemination.

Of course, the rest of my cycle wasn't much better for sex. I was on hormone therapy to help boost my egg production. That made me all sorts of weepy and bitchy and unpleasant to be around. Though Hubster put up with all of it like the saint he is, I just couldn't bear to be touched. It was like being on permanent PMS overload. I hated it.

So one month, we decided to take a break. We told our doctor we were going to look into seeing a specialist, and until then we were just going to say "Fuck it!" to all the testing and the temperature taking and hormone surge tracking and other crap we'd been dealing with for two years. We were just going to be us for a month or two, husband and wife, a normal couple with maybe a normal sex life. Well, what was normal for us anyway.

It took a couple weeks of being free of the hormone therapy and all that other nonsense, plus a Saturday morning of sleeping very, very late. Ah, I remember that morning well. I woke up feeling rested and refreshed. Warm sunlight spilled through the cracks in the blinds, turning the room a soft, dreamy golden color. When it hit the Hubster, it gave him that special glow that made me think, "Jesus H. Christ! It's been how long since we've had sex?! We got to get busy!! NOW!!"

So at it we went, having the best hot sweaty monkey sex we'd had in ages. And man, it was good, I mean real good. I was hanging on the edge of the bed, shrieking at the top of my lungs, probably scaring the shit out of the neighbors and their dog. The Hubster was going at me like a mean green machine, and when I hit the big O, it was more like the big "OH MY GOD, DON'T EVER EVER STOP!!" It was the longest, bestest multiple screaming orgasm I'd ever had. I came and came and came until the Hubster came.

And then the poor man's eyeballs rolled back up in his head and he collapsed on top of me, dead.

Yes, people, I killed the Hubster. He came and went. And he just lay there on me like a dead weight, pun intended. Now the Hubster and I are the same height, and he only weighs about 35 lbs more than me, but at the time he died, I was in a rather... interesting position, shall we say? And him lying all slumped over on me had me more folded up than a half-finished origami crane.

At first, I thought this was just some kind of joke, him collapsing on me like, that like I'd worn him out. I laughed a little, then started complaining as I began to lose the feeling in my lower legs which were somewhere up behind my ears. I wriggled around a bit until I could finally look the Hubster in the eyes to tell him to knock it off. That was when I saw his face. It was waxy and sickly white, and his eyes were all glassy and empty. Finally realizing something was wrong, I did what any sensible person would do in that situation. I freaked the hell out.

I screamed and thrashed and screamed and struggled and then screamed and writhed until I finally managed to get out from under my darling dead spouse. Then I did the next thing any sensible person would do. I screamed some more and started slapping the Hubster's face.

"DON'T YOU DARE DIE ON ME! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE! WAKE UP!! WAKE UP!! WAKE UUUUUUUUUUUP!!!!"

You see, at that moment, my entire future flashed before my eyes. It was a future without the Hubster in it and it was not at all pretty because I depended on my darling man for a lot of things, like...

• Tech support and computer repairs. The reason I married a genius was so that I would never have to call some stranger and pay them to fix my computer. At that point, this arrangement had been working smoothly for 8 years. I sure as hell didn't want to change things now!


• The mortgage payment. Sure, I put 15 grand down when we bought the house, but that was all I could do with my weak-ass paycheck. I needed the Hubster to make the monthly payments so I could keep a nice cozy roof over my pointed little head.


• Food. I knew two things about grocery shopping and cooking meals, and those two things were Jack and Shit. Now Jack may be a hottie, but neighter he nor Shit are helpful come dinner time.


• Yard work. To this day, I still do not know how to start our lawn mower, and we live in a home owners association for god's sake! How would I survive if I had to cut my own grass?!

Yes, folks, these were the desperate thoughts running through my panick-striken little brain as I kept slapping my husband's face. After about the seventh or eighth whallop, he finally resurrected, lifted his head, looked at me and said, "What happened?"

"OH MY GOD! YOU DIED! YOU COMPLETELY, TOTALLY DIED ON ME!! AND MY COMPUTER'S BROKE! YOU CAN'T DIE WHEN MY COMPUTER'S NOT WORKING RIGHT!!"

"Really? I died? That's weird..."

And then his eyes rolled back up in his head and he died again!

Well now I was pissed. It was bad enough he had to die on me the first time and completely scare the crap out of me. Now he was just being mean. So I grabbed the Hubster by the shoulders and started shaking him until I could hear his teeth rattle in his skull and I resurrected him again.

"Quit dying on me!" I screeched.

"Okay... okay... sorry..." he mumbled while I propped him upright against a pile of pillows.

I took a few moments to calm down and check his pulse. When it looked like he was planning to not die a third time, I heaved a sigh of relief.

"Don't you ever do that to me again!" I said.

"Yeah, I won't. Hey, what time is it?"

"Almost eleven o'clock," I said.

"Huh. I guess I should get ready for karate class then."

"Oh HELL no! You are not dying on me twice and then trotting off to karate class!" I jumped off the bed and started pulling on clothing. "Your ass is going to the emergency room right now!"

And his ass did go to the emergency room, and the rest of him with it. I got him dressed, piled him into the car, and sped off toward the nearest hospital, where I had to explain to the admissions clerk what had happened to my spouse on that beautiful Saturday morning. And then I had to tell the nurse who checked his vitals. And then I had to explain it to the doctor who was on call that weekend. And then to the tech who ran the EKG that the doctor ordered. And then on Monday I had to explain the whole thing once again to our family physician who called wanting to know just why my twenty-something husband who was in the pink of health had gone to the emergency room on a Saturday to get an EKG. And of course I had to explain to my parents how their son-in-law had almost bought the farm, and his parents...

Wait, did I tell my in-laws? Hmm... I can't recall.

But I did tell all my friends, and now I'm telling all of you because in light of this week's topic, sex or love, I think it's very important that we all learn something from this story. And that lesson is...

Do not attempt to kill the person you love with hot sweaty monkey sex unless you are prepared to live with the consequences!! Okay? We all got that? Any questions?

I thought not. So clean the coffee off your computer screen and go back to your usual routine. I'm going to go wake up the Hubster now.

Do you want fries with that…?

By Ashley Lister

Love or sex? The choice is simple. And it’s analogous to popping into any burger joint.

I recently remember reading a sign that said, ‘Going to a burger joint for a salad is like going to a brothel for a hug.’ But, when you visit any burger joint, the choice is always more than just a burger or a salad. Nowadays these places offer you a hundred different types of burger, with or without cheese, and coated in a variety of different sauces. There are chicken-burgers, turkey-burgers, beef-burgers, hamburgers and so many other burgers, made from such a wide variety of animals, I’m surprised that unicorn and dragon aren’t on the menu.

And, which item do I always choose from the burger joint’s mouth-watering menu?

I’ll be honest and admit that I pause at the counter and consider my choice. I do this for two reasons. Primarily, I do this because I’m not an impulsive person and I do relish the opportunity to make a considered decision. However, I also take my time because I know it pisses off the people in the queue who are standing behind me, and that sort of malevolence is always entertaining.

And I enjoy looking at the pictures on the burger joint’s walls. Being a writer of fiction I’m often accused of distorting reality for my own purposes. Seriously, if I ever distort reality as much as the twunts who take those photographs, I’ll happily admit to the crime of egregiously glamorizing fiction. The pictures on the walls of a burger joint bear no similarity to the shrivelled slices of stale bread and the segment of unwiped cow-arse that the patty-jockeys eventually pass over the counter. I have yet to see a better representation of Saussure’s hypothesis on the arbitrary relationship between a sign and its referent than the relationship between those photographs and the chunks of greasy minced bovine peddled in a typical burger bar.

But, when I’m making choice, I always pick the same thing. I always pick the one item that will give me the greatest satisfaction and the fullest sensation of a lingering warmth inside. Quite often that lingering warmth inside turns out to be some sort of e-coli infection, or gastroenteritis. But I try not to order it by those names because it tends to upset the counter staff and the first rule of ordering anything from a burger joint is never annoy the guy who’s got a chance to garnish your food with a splash of his own special sauce.

The same thing is true with the choice between love or sex. Given the opportunity, I’d prefer to take both. But if I’ve got to have one or the other, I’ll always go with love.

Woody Allen reminded us that sex without love is an empty experience. As I recall, he went on to explain that, as far as empty experiences go, it’s one of the better ones. But if I’m after enjoying empty experiences, I can think of far more titillating ways to wile away my dwindling free time. Hanging around burger joints and admiring the fantasy artwork is always a good place to start. Especially if it pisses off the other customers waiting in the queue behind me.

You might think I’m being a hopeless old romantic, especially with Valentine’s Day being just around the corner. You’d probably be right. But it’s my choice and you can’t prove otherwise.

And, now you know my preferences between love or sex, would you like me to supersize you?

The Doll

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One side of the coin, or both?

Sex ...

... Love ...

Both? Neither?

I could potentially be the odd vote this week, because 1. I am not a romantic (in fact, asking hubby if I am, I get an absofrackinlutely NOT answer - but then again he is so it balances), 2. I am a biologist, so I see things from a point of view of chemical responces and biological urges, and 3. I am not what would be termed as one who has a faith in higher and everlasting anything, and 4. I tend to not have a strong drive for things sexual, which is odd as hell given my writings. It's nice when it happens, but I don't need it often. And I shutting up on that before I go too far into TMI. : )

Not to say any of these things are bad. : ) Just laying my own quirks out. Although, that 4th one has caused some problems ...

Can you have sex without love?

Certainly. Just ask any hormonal teenage boy. : ) Or anyone who has ever been with a professional (and by that I am certain you know what I mean), or who has ever enjoyed a special kind of club.

And in some cases, it can still be a mind blowing experience. The thrill of the "forbidden", the taboo of a one-night stand. The variety and spice of sampling a different way of doing things.

Which is why I don't think that love is necessary for a wonderful sexual experience. In some cases, with some people though, it does enhance it.

Can you have love without sex?

Certainly. I have loved, and been in love with, straight women and gay men. Sex never even entered into the picture, but the love was just as intoxicating and heady of a sensation, and as lasting. Albeit, unrequited.

Does love make sex better? Conversely, does sex make love better?

Honestly, I think it can, but it isn't necessary.

As I said, I have loved without sex ever entering the equation, and it was beautiful.

I have also had sex without love, and it was still a powerful euphoric sensation.

Flipside, I have had sex with love and had it been less than fulfilling.

As for which one I would pick should I ever have to, between the two?

I'd go for love.

Not because I am a closet romantic, nor because of the belief that sex is less without love, but because I understand human nature well enough to know that we are social creature, and need those close bonds. So I would chose love, knowing that the physical urges I might have could be handled, um, solo if need be.

I would never enter into a loveless relationship, but I think I could be content and satisfied, with a loving but sexless relationship.

Human = Love, & Vote For A Quote

In many paranormal erotic romances I've read, there is often frequent, non-monogamous sex, especially early in the book and often in the first scene. Sometimes even gratuitous sex. Complementary body parts flying around, diving into whatever orifice is readily available, because that's what shifters or vamps or demons "need".


Don't get me wrong. I love to read and write paranormals. I always get a kick out of this truism of the genre though, not only because it's sometimes fun to read a down and dirty scene without a bunch of emotional baggage, but also because it's a somewhat obvious trope. They aren't human. Therefore, sex is just that...sex.

Paranormals aren't the only place you see this play out. You could also insert other genres here, including macho men occupations such as military, or ex-military special forces types (lots of those running around apparently), cops, etc, where the 'humanity' has been stripped from the heros, the better to do their jobs, which usually involves the need to kill without qualm.

However, don't forget this is a romance. So sure, there will come a time in the story when love begins to rear its ugly head, and won't THAT be a fight for all involved. The protagonist will be disparaged by another non-human entity (or fellow macho man...or their own subconscious...or sometimes even the object of their affection), will be sneered at for being too human. Love is seen as a weakness, a failing, a vulnerability to exploit.

Ah, but love will triumph. And while the no-strings rampant sex always reads like it's on fire, there is no comparison to the incendiary sex immediately following the realization (and before the end of the story, the declaration) of love. The tenderness, the emotion, the connection between the participants is unprecedented, unparalleled, unrivaled. A satisfying completion for all involved, including the all-too-human reader...

*********

Some thoughts from people who say it much better than I ever could. Vote for your favorite; the winning quote will be used in my future book, Sex On Summer Sabbatical.


"Sex without love is as hollow and ridiculous as love without sex."
— Hunter S. Thompson
 


"Sex is the consolation you have when you can't have love."
— Gabriel García Márquez
 
 
"We can live without sex, but we can't live without love."

— Shane Claiborne
 
 
"If Jack's in love, he's no judge of Jill's beauty."
— Benjamin Franklin
 
 
"There is a no man's land between sex and love, and it alters in the night."

— Norman Mailer
 
 
"Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit

With Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit,
And, in strong proff of chastity well armed,
From Love's weak childish bow she lives uncharmed.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms,
Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.
O, she is rich in beauty; only poor
That, when she dies, with dies her store."


Act 1,Scene 1, lines 180-197
— William Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet)