Some weeks it’s poetry. Other weeks it’s radio silence. And both, oddly enough, are signs of life.
I don’t know what your calendar looks like, but mine—at least some months—could be plotted in pelvic rhythms. Wednesdays? That’s L’s day. We’ve 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. It’s not dramatic. It’s deliberate. Like lighting a candle you actually bother to watch burn.
Mondays, though—well, Mondays have recently taken on a certain chaotic sparkle. That’s T’s slot. A newer lover, newer chemistry, strong coffee, no script. Her style is less poetry, more… percussion. Sometimes jazz, sometimes demolition crew. Our mornings are shorter, messier, far less predictable—and oddly enough, that’s 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
There’s a strange pressure, isn’t there, to keep the tempo up? As though your worth is measured in orgasms per fortnight. As though stillness is suspect.
But here’s the thing: your libido is not a Swiss train schedule. Sometimes it purrs. Sometimes it vanishes into the long grass for a nap. That’s not dysfunction. That’s 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 body’s saying—it’s not a moral report card. It’s just a status update.
Even habits get tired
There’s comfort in routine. L and I, every Wednesday, without fail. We don’t pretend. We don’t perform. It’s a kind of communion—if communion involved body oil and adult consent. But even that, if I’m not careful, becomes mechanical. Like I’m 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 chaos—and 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, I’m in the countryside. Alone. No lovers. The kids are with my parents. No plans. No curated thirst traps. I’ve brought audiobooks, my laptop, and the weird quiet of my own company.
I’ve called a sex fast. Not out of punishment. Out of curiosity. What happens when I stop prioritising touch for a week and just… listen?
I’ll tell you what happens. You get twitchy. You start wondering if you’re supposed to be doing something. Reaching out. Inviting someone. You feel the phantom pull of the old rhythm. And then, if you’re lucky, you remember something: pleasure isn’t always about climax. Sometimes it’s about stillness. Breathing room. The power of saying not now.
Not never. Just… not now.
You don’t owe anyone consistency
Pop culture loves its data. Twice a week? Healthy. Once a month? Crisis. Skipping a few weeks? You’re 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 I’m a bonk machine. Some weeks I’m a monk.
Both are valid.
Sometimes I have sex six times a week (not including solo joy). Sometimes I don’t think about it at all. Sometimes I want it, ache for it, feel it in my molars. Other times, it’s background noise—like traffic or TikTok.
And the older I get, the less I panic about it. The fluctuations are part of how I know I’m still alive. Still paying attention.
You don’t have to match anyone else’s rhythm. You don’t have to justify dry spells or explain away desire. You don’t even need a reason.
Your sex life doesn’t have to be consistent.
It just has to be yours.
