By Neil Humphreys
My brother just got married. As I’m writing this, he’s sunning himself on a Jamaican beach, deciding how often he’s going to have sex. That’s what newlyweds do: They have lots of sex for a few weeks.
Otherwise, what’s the point of getting married? It’s certainly not to spend an evening enduring a cacophony of aunties bleating: “So, when are you having babies, hah? Cannot wait too long, okay? Must act while your pencil still got lead. Take your wife to the bathroom now! Got time before the speech.”
No, it’s definitely the sex. Before marriage, there are lots of dates, movies, meeting parents, weekend travel breaks and cuddly photos in front of the Merlion – plus those occasions when you end up doing something hot and sweaty. They certainly did for me: After one date, I helped my future mother-in- law change a flat tyre.
But a wedding certificate is a short-term sex guarantee; a hall pass to the hot stuff. It’s the end to all those means. It is – let’s be honest here – the very least you deserve.
Having spent months staring at seating arrangements, floral displays and potential wedding dresses while slowly losing your will to live, you were always thinking: “Our honeymoon better make those wild, hedonistic orgies of the Roman Empire look like a scene from The Sound of Music.”
And, in fairness, they usually do. Women, like men, are peculiar creatures of habit in many ways; sticklers for tradition. So the wedding night rarely disappoints.
A friend once told me after his exhausting wedding, he was awakened in the morning by the pelvic thrusts of his bride. She was still in her dishevelled wedding gown and – to use his words – “practically raping” him.
He didn’t complain. On the contrary, he insists it was the best alarm clock he’d ever had.
But that’s the wedding couple in early bloom – a period of sexual discovery, experimentation, exploration and the odd mission to the G spot (there are men who have more chance of finding Jupiter than the G spot, but that’s another column altogether).
And then, you reach my stage of marriage. (I got hitched in 1812.) Over time, things change. In that bygone era of hormonal, youthful exuberance, sex was something that filled gaps in the day. If there were any gaps in the daily timetable between breakfast, lunch and dinner, work and a night out, sex sufficed.
For newlyweds, there simply aren’t enough gaps in the day. Back then, if you had a gap in your teeth, you went to see a dentist. But if you had a gap in your day, you went to a carpark on Mount Faber. It was a great time to be alive.
And then something desperately dull happens to your mind and body. You start worrying about “stuff”. Newlyweds worry about sex. Established married couples worry about stuff. Whether it’s bigger golf clubs, hired helpers, a promotion or the world’s most expensive TV to watch the world’s crappiest pirated DVDs, we start fussing over stuff more than we do the sex. And it leaves us exhausted.
When I was younger, a Saturday might involve playing a football match, dinner, a movie, off to the bedroom and then the late night EPL game.
Then it became afternoons at Ikea, rather than a football match, swiftly followed by less sex and a bigger waistline. It’s only a matter of time before weekends of golf and sex became golf or sex – there’s neither the energy nor the inclination to do both.
But we can’t let all this stuff get in the way of the sex; that’s a crime against our species. My wife is more beautiful now than the day I met her. And I hope you feel the same (about your own wife – not mine!). So, tell her. Or better yet, prove it. Demonstrate it right here, right now. Rip her clothes off and party like a pair of randy newlyweds (I assume you’re at home reading this, or you might get kicked off the MRT).
Sex in a marriage is like a pet dog: It’s not just for the holidays; it should be for life.