It was our wedding anniversary last week, and my husband suggested we have sex.
“Why?” I said.
“Well, you know. Recreate our wedding night”
I distinctly recall on the night of our wedding both being so rat-arsed we could scarcely put the key in the lock, let alone a rampant member in the correct orifice, but I wisely kept quiet and submitted to Anniversary Sex.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike sex. In fact I’m quite partial to it. Regular readers will know of my fondess for impromptu fondlings in the kitchen, and I like nothing better than being taken by surprise whilst going up the stairs. But I do find the pressure of Anniversary Sex somewhat takes away from the enjoyment of the act itself. Anniversary Sex covers those duty occasions when – for some reason – sex is generally expected by one or both parties. Birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s Eve (thankfully not New Year’s Day; it would take more than a Bloody Mary to turn me from Vomit Queen to Sex Kitten), and Anniversaries. Depending on your relationship, such anniversaries could cover the date you first met, first kissed, first slept together… If you’re a stickler for dates you could be at it at least once a month.
It’s the expectation of it I can’t stand. All day I’m thinking about it and trying to get myself in the mood. Oyster sandwiches at break-time, powdered rhino horn in my tea… I simply can’t relax into an after dinner film; busy trying to psych myself into Dita Von Teese, when actually I’m longing for a Maeve Binchy and a mug of cocoa. You know those fantastic nights out you used to have, when you were young, free and single? They were always spontaneous, weren’t they? Yet you can bet your bottom dollar that when you planned a hot night out, it always ended in disaster. Actually, one of mine ended in a broken ankle and a night in a Parisian police cell, but that really is another story… Sex is no different; if you plan for a night of gay abandon, chances are you’ll be counting the cracks in the ceiling by half past nine, as you wonder when the Karen Millen sale starts. Give me spontaneity any time; grab me round the waist as I come through the door, flip me over the sofa as the Eastenders drums start, catch me unawares as I’m washing my hair…
Mmm, what day is it? Let me check the calendar. I quite fancy a bit…