We now engage in some very practical methods to preserve the impracticality that makes sex so exciting. Toys? Check. A blindfold? No doubt. A little Web site with some pornographic gems entitled literotica.com? Indeed. A little saucy spanking for a very bad girl? You betcha. Impossibly large dildos in brilliant primary colors? Of course. (I did say impractical, right?)
In all seriousness, though, my favorite bit of foreplay is a little conversation. His too. We talk—not about bills or career worries—but about each other, then gradually the conversation takes a turn towards the tawdry. I know, I know…it’s a bit embarrassing at first. My husband and I both struggled with our virginal, and yes, miserable attempts at dirty talk. I believe his consisted of, “Oh yeah…you’re cookin’ now.” And yet, I was immeasurably turned on by his daring, by his breaking with convention, and even by the fact that he thought I was cooking …whatever that means.
Now here we are four years later. Our noses are insensate to each other’s pheromones, we’re chubbier, put less effort into our appearances, and just generally have little physical chemistry. I know it sounds awful, but…it’s not. We’ve put our faith into something beyond the physical. Foreplay is no longer about erections and wetness. It’s about a connection between us, the kind that happens in the space ‘twixt our ears—the gray matter. It’s the kind of connection that results in what I like to call “drool-inspiring-smack-me-and-call-me-jenny-mind-blowing-toe-curling” sex. Because ultimately, it doesn’t matter how you turn the burners on, it matters that you get cookin’.
