I came home from work one rare day in a swimmingly good mood, instead of my usual wanting to box the imaginary bag hanging above my welcome mat. (I hope to get a real one installed soon, but I’m not sure the crackling plaster can handle it).
It’s not that I dislike what I do. Sure, it’s draining and tedious correcting grammar all day, but that’s not the rub. Keep in mind I’m also new to the whole 9-5, growing older in a computer chair gig. And then I’m hyper and miserable at time management. But pathetically enough, one of the biggest factors is how long it takes me to get to and from my job.
I am one of those people who tends to take traffic too seriously and personally, inviting it destroy my dwindling energy and rest of my day. That damn road. I tell people all the time that I will most likely die on Palatine Road. Yup, that’s how I’m going to go—probably something self-induced while staring at someone’s back bumper, who has a license plate that reads “MY BONUS.”
The good mood came from a particularly awesome interview I had at work. I write for a trade magazine, so the writing I do is about plumbing and other like trades – not the sexiest and sometimes very complex for someone who has only been in the industry for as little as I have been. But still, the occasional intriguing story does fall into my lap.
The reason for my cheer was Audrey, the 100 year old woman who works for a company in Colorado that specializes in plumbing equipment. Yes, I said “works” as in she still currently works. Only two days a week, but still. Oh, and her 100th year of life is the year she chose to let someone live with her and not renew her license.
Audrey isn’t the kind of living fossil I could poke and inspect for secrets and philosophies. For the most part, she is a normal person with an average amount of knowledge. What is unique about her is that she is a regular person with an irregular attitude—meaning she LOVES work. And she loves people of all substance. Everyone is her family. She’s the kind of person you don’t know, would like to know, and have somehow known all along.
Audrey told me that I gave a great interview and had wonderful questions, something none of my previous interviewees have ever done. She said when she was 24 she didn’t know what the hell she was going to do. She told me I was sweet and asked for my home address to send me things. I told her she should could have my social security number if she liked. I think we’re pen pals now.
My new pen pal put me in a good mood. So when my boyfriend saw me soaring through the front door, he thought something might be seriously wrong. When he found out there wasn’t he began to nonchalantly slip his hand down my blouse and press little kisses into my neck. I giggled, but shimmied away.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Eh, I don’t know. Because I’m just not in the mood.”
“But you’re in a good mood.”
There’s nothing wrong with him trying to capitalize off my good mood. It’s true, I tend to want sex more when I’m feeling jolly or adventurous. But even then, lately, I’ve just been a little off. And my boyfriend, who owns a penis, started to notice that.
There comes a point in every long-term relationship when the so-called kids slow down. We are at that point. Well I am. My boyfriend told me that I only like to have sex with him on Saturdays, and that was beginning to feel like a schedule to him. He was honest about something that has been bugging him. He wasn’t pointing his finger in my face.
I opened up, too. I told him I’m not as interested and slightly bored at the thought of having sex in the same bed in the same few positions in the same way. Then I told him I wanted to connect with him more intimately during sex. Maybe I’m just getting to that point where I want to crack open a hot and heavy pulp romance novel. No, but seriously, I want more slow touching and soft talking instead of the pornographic acrobatics. Or lazy bantering over who’s on top this time. Finally, I just don’t always feel sexy, leaning too heavily on my physical appearance. The thought of my stomach jiggling around just kind of turns me off.
And he was okay with that, actually relieved that it wasn’t because I didn’t like him anymore. So after talking it out, we came up with a compromise because the physical part of our relationship is very important to us, not the most, but still essential. I would break the work like sex schedule. And we would to work on being more spontaneous and focus on our intimacy.
I understand that this sort of compromise is harder than it sounds. Luckily though, Sean and I had a vacation coming up, so that would be a perfect opportunity to re-establish our mojo, something that was quite impressive long ago. We’re the couple who have had sex in a stairwell under a towel. In the woods pressed up against a sappy tree. In a children’s park (at night with no children around, don’t worry, folks). One summer we jumped a fence while drunk and went skinny dipping in some poor soul’s heated pool. We easily forget how sexy (slightly creepy) we used to be, how electric we felt about each other.
So, we saved and planned for a road trip to Orlando with stops in Memphis, Gatlinburg, and then Atlanta on the way home. Illinois, the majority of it being rural (easily forgotten in Chicago or the suburbs), is a tough state to drive through. It’s basically one long, gaping scar of corn. Driving through, I found myself still clinging to my busy, stressed life back home. Sean would grab my hand every now and then, but instead of concentrating on the pressure of his hand on mine, I was distracted with the overwhelming undertones of worry, of which I feel I have little control.
And Sean too is busy. He is one of the go-to dudes at his job and works harder than anyone I know. Needless to say, we warily pulled into our hotel in Memphis around 12:00 a.m. Bug guts were splattered all over our windshield, and exhaustion clouded our eyes.
A rock like sleep in Memphis was all it took to jump start our eagerness to enjoy our vacation and each other, and most importantly—to freaking RELAX.
Our first excursion began with the Memphis Zoo. A little on the Memphis Zoo: though it’s a small zoo, it has hands down some of the best exhibits and most interesting animals. Brookfield Zoo is the rave in Illinois, but especially on weekends during the summer, it’s swimming with kids with sticky fingers pressed up or knocking on the glass of each exhibit, and generally people who shove past you to get a closer view than you.
We went to the Memphis Zoo on a Saturday at noon. No big crowds, no rude elbows. Everyone was polite. I didn’t feel like punching anyone in the face. Not to mention the zoo had pandas, panthers, and a bunch of other animals I have never seen up close.
The bonobo monkey was one of the animals I have never seen. It’s basically like any other chimpanzee I have seen— cocoa bean brown and mid-sized (compared to other primates) with stringy arms and big, pink gums. Except there was one crucial difference—its private parts.
The two female bonobos we saw wore their coconut sized, pink, spongy-looking vaginas on the outside of their bodies. And it was as if these parts were turned inside out. Sean and I exchanged awkward glances and tried to not to look the bonobos’ appendages directly head-on.
The bonobos turned out to be an entertaining lot. At first they were lazing around and uninterested in anything aside from picking bugs out of their fur. And then, one of them, stuck her whole fist into her mouth until she vomited.
Everyone watching – Sean and I, as well as a mother and her two kids – was horrified when the bonobo sat unfazed cupping her leftovers in her hand. She used her unoccupied hand to knuckle over to her pal who was splayed out on a pile of hay fondling her brain of a vagina. The bulimic monkey reached her long arm out and handed the other one half of her handful. They both began to happily munch on puke chunks that looked like cornmeal.
This was probably one of the top 3 most nauseating things I have ever seen. I can safely say the others’ stomachs were churning away too. We stood with our ruined eyes unable to look away. I was the first to start dry heaving, something I willed myself to stop immediately.
We were about to call it quits when the bonobos suddenly dropped their lunch and lunged at each other. The bulimic monkey straddled her friend and began to thrust manically, and they both began to rub their big parts together. The poor, red-faced mother we were standing next to turned and shielded her laughing children. And the bonobos had no care in the world. Once they detached themselves, they sidled over to their food, picked it up, and resumed their munching.
It took a while to get over the nausea, but eventually Sean and I were stomach stable enough to talk about what had occurred. We were left in wonder about these monkeys. What the hell were these things? What was with their weird parts and peculiar sexual behavior? We wanted to know more about these freaks. We decided to hit up the old Wikipedia. See full info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonobo
The bonobo, or the pygmy chimpanzee, is an endangered ape. It is popularly known for its overly interested nature in sex. As it turns out, the bonobo uses sex to satisfy arousal and affection needs, resolve conflict and reduce stress, and for social status.
Bonobos like to get in on in a variety of positions and with different combinations of partners—male and female. This explains the female on female clit rubbing we witnessed. They are the only non-human animal to do it missionary style, French kiss, and perform oral sex.
Oh, and the bonobo has a clitoris that is three times bigger than a human’s. That’s a lot of surface area to stimulate. The clitoral grinding happens about “once every two hours on average.” And this behavior is not just exclusive to the ladies. The male bonobos have a “penis fencing” ritual that they partake in as well.
That’s a lot of sex, Sean and I thought. (Side note: If this isn’t prime proof we evolved from monkeys and are meant to be homosexual, heterosexual, or anything in between, I don’t know what is). We read on to find out they are one of the least aggressive breeds of monkey. That means that sex chills these guys the hell out.
Sean and took a leaf from the bonobos’ page and enjoyed the rest of our night together in Memphis. We sauntered around lazily on Beale Street, soaking in the city’s deep love of music. Sipping vodka concoctions out of orange swirly straws and fishbowls, we listened to the feel-good grooves oozing from every pore in the street.
Local musicians exposed their souls. We saw a 300 pound man in overalls play harmonica and barrel through bluegrass songs; a woman with a large fro and no bra belt out blues like it was everyone’s business to know what she was feeling in that moment; a scrawny 20-something sail through Free Bird on guitar like he was strolling through a park. In any case, I’d take any of their layers and raw musical talent over American Idol any day.
Memphis, one of the birth cities of blues, was buzzing, no gyrating, inside Sean and me. We realized how caged we both were and began rattling the bars of monotony. How were we living like this? What was stopping us from experiencing each other?
We could barely keep our hands off each other by the time we reached our hotel. Sean kept losing his hands in my hair. In the elevator, his eyes roamed my body. I felt my face heat up with an electric smile as I eyeballed his button down shirt, plucking them open one by one in my brain.
I didn’t think it was possible for a couple that has been together for nearly 7 years, but we explored each other like it was the first time. When it was over, our souls belched like they just had a meal of a lifetime. How do we keep this going when we get home? we asked.
Maybe next time I come home with my hands balled up in tight fists, I can remember how good it feels to let go, to forget the day’s past, and to simply fall into Sean’s arms since I know he’s there to catch me. And I’m here to catch him. And we could fix the kinks and tighten the loosening screws of each other. When it’s all over, we can feel a little more like the unique, separate selves we are meant to be together.
I have someone who accepts me for who I am—who loves me enough to let me broadcast our sex life all over the internet, I remind myself. I need to stop acting like my life is miserable because it’s not. I just need to let go of pointless bouts of road rage and other useless bits of anxiety over things I can’t control. All that meaningless stuff should be just as funny to me as it used to be. Then maybe, just maybe I can finally unbutton my pants and enjoy my sex, too.