Some weeks itโs poetry. Other weeks itโs radio silence. And both, oddly enough, are signs of life.
I donโt know what your calendar looks like, but mineโat least some monthsโcould be plotted in pelvic rhythms. Wednesdays? Thatโs Lโs day. Weโve been doing this a while, she and I. She shows up with calm, I bring the mischief, and between us we manage something that feels less like casual sex and more like a quiet midweek ritual. Itโs not dramatic. Itโs deliberate. Like lighting a candle you actually bother to watch burn.
Mondays, thoughโwell, Mondays have recently taken on a certain chaotic sparkle. Thatโs Tโs slot. A newer lover, newer chemistry, strong coffee, no script. Her style is less poetry, moreโฆ percussion. Sometimes jazz, sometimes demolition crew. Our mornings are shorter, messier, far less predictableโand oddly enough, thatโs the point. We rarely make the bed afterwards. Or wash the sheets. Which feels right.
Then come the surprise guests. An old flame reappears with a spontaneous invitation. A first date turns into dawn. Whole months with more plot twists than a soap opera. And others where nothing happens at all except laundry and longing.
This week? Silence. And I chose it.
When your sex life goes off-script
Thereโs a strange pressure, isnโt there, to keep the tempo up? As though your worth is measured in orgasms per fortnight. As though stillness is suspect.
But hereโs the thing: your libido is not a Swiss train schedule. Sometimes it purrs. Sometimes it vanishes into the long grass for a nap. Thatโs not dysfunction. Thatโs Tuesday.
We all have seasons. Some when your body lights up like a crime scene. Others when it politely requests a nap and ambient music in the background. You might be recovering from heartbreak. Or knee-deep in parenting. Or riding a sudden, delicious high and still not up for sex. Whatever your bodyโs sayingโitโs not a moral report card. Itโs just a status update.
Even habits get tired
Thereโs comfort in routine. L and I, every Wednesday, without fail. We donโt pretend. We donโt perform. Itโs a kind of communionโif communion involved body oil and adult consent. But even that, if Iโm not careful, becomes mechanical. Like Iโm turning up out of muscle memory.
Enter T. Gloriously unpredictable T, with her filthy mind and nervy brilliance. No guarantees. No patterns. Just electricity and the occasional bruise. She reminds me that sex can still surprise me. That not everything needs to be meaningful. That I can enjoy both the ceremony and the chaosโand not owe an apology for preferring one over the other on any given week.
The intentional dry spell (or, how to stop scheduling your genitals)
Right now, Iโm in the countryside. Alone. No lovers. The kids are with my parents. No plans. No curated thirst traps. Iโve brought audiobooks, my laptop, and the weird quiet of my own company.
Iโve called a sex fast. Not out of punishment. Out of curiosity. What happens when I stop prioritising touch for a week and justโฆ listen?
Iโll tell you what happens. You get twitchy. You start wondering if youโre supposed to be doing something. Reaching out. Inviting someone. You feel the phantom pull of the old rhythm. And then, if youโre lucky, you remember something: pleasure isnโt always about climax. Sometimes itโs about stillness. Breathing room. The power of saying not now.
Not never. Justโฆ not now.
You donโt owe anyone consistency
Pop culture loves its data. Twice a week? Healthy. Once a month? Crisis. Skipping a few weeks? Youโre basically dead.
To which I say, with academic precision: bollocks.
There is no ideal frequency. No gold star orgasm rate. There is only this: does your current rhythm feel like yours? If yes, lovely. If not, time to adjust. No performance metrics. No moral verdicts. Just you, your body, and your permission slip.
Some weeks Iโm a bonk machine. Some weeks Iโm a monk.
Both are valid.
Sometimes I have sex six times a week (not including solo joy). Sometimes I donโt think about it at all. Sometimes I want it, ache for it, feel it in my molars. Other times, itโs background noiseโlike traffic or TikTok.
And the older I get, the less I panic about it. The fluctuations are part of how I know Iโm still alive. Still paying attention.
You donโt have to match anyone elseโs rhythm. You donโt have to justify dry spells or explain away desire. You donโt even need a reason.
Your sex life doesnโt have to be consistent.
It just has to be yours.
