If You Loved Me You’d Let Me Sleep. 

“I tried to bang you this morning, but you weren’t into it.”

Really? You tried? Tried. Are you for real? You did not ‘try’ to have sex with me. You woke up hard and probably just had to pee. 

“You touched my foot with your toe,  rammed your pee-cock into my back, and you’re calling that foreplay?”

“Yeah. I tried to have sex with you.”

“I see.”

How about no? If I’m sleeping, you better be busting out some next level shit. Pretend we’ve never fucked before. Bite my neck. Grab my ass. Do something other than jam that thing into my sciatic nerve and then guilt trip me later. 

To be clear, this exchange happened long ago between myself and my ex-husband, AKA Spawn of Satan. Sleeves wouldn’t consider such a thing. Not yet, anyway. It’s too early. He still has something to prove. 

This is, by far, my favorite phase of boy/girl relations. You know each other well enough to banter, but not well enough to poop around them or attempt morning sex without the proper warm up. You try not to wake them when you leave. If they leave first, you make the bed. You’ve seen enough of each other’s crazy to almost understand them, but you still like each other enough to try and be normal. If it were possible to keep this level of consideration throughout an actual relationship, I might consider a more permanent situation at some point.

Sadly, it’s not. After a while, we lose the magic of giving a shit. Not only do we poop, but we fart. Loud. On purpose. We shave once a week instead of daily. We aren’t as happy to see one another. We begin to keep score. He works late on purpose. She develops convenient headaches. No one makes the bed.  Eventually, he doesn’t care if he wakes her with his pee boner because she only blows him on his birthday and hasn’t touched him on purpose in six months. She pretends to sleep and no one hides their crazy. 

We get so focused on moving on to the next stage in a relationship that we forget to appreciate the slightly uncomfortable now. We fast forward and dive straight into locking that shit down. If marriage and kids is your deal, great, but remember, it’s not 1920. If our grandparents wanted to communicate with someone new or rekindle an old flame, they had to write a letter. On paper. With a pen. And then buy a stamp, put it in a box, and wait. They couldn’t swipe and they certainly couldn’t just pop down to the courthouse and file a petition for dissolution. Many stayed together simply because the alternative was too much work; instead, they resigned themselves to mediocre sex and generalized contempt. 

Today, marriage is literally a piece of paper. Sure, it’s a symbol of a vow, blah, blah. But in the eyes of the law and for many of us, it’s a piece of paper. A piece of paper which can easily, albeit expensively, be replaced with a different piece of paper. Statistically speaking, marriage is no longer the final phase of a relationship. I cannot fathom why anyone would race to obtain a disposable piece of paper when they are currently living what will end up being their fondest memories of their time together. 

Instead of sprinting down the aisle, let’s try calming the fuck down. Keep pooping in private, keep making the bed, keep giving a shit, and keep our crazy to ourselves. Who knows, we might just have a shot at decent morning sex and contempt-free blowjobs for a little while longer. 

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