Married Sex

Paul McLaughlin

Sometimes the Sex Begins at Breakfast
Ducati Sex
Do I Miss It?
Sex and Singles
B-mer Sex
Sleeping Spooned


Sometimes the Sex Begins at Breakfast

Sometimes, the sex begins at breakfast:
something minor sets it off--
a joke,
a story in the morning paper,
your breast brushing my shoulder

as I pour my bran flakes--
and then we spend the rest of the day
conspiring wordlessly with
secret meaningful glances
advertent meaningful touching
throaty meaningful laughter
and increasingly lingering embraces
as arm-in-arm, we slowly climb
the long spiral staircase of

Ducati Sex

crotch-rocket a racing motorcycle designed so the rider leans forward over the gas tank
Ducati a high-end brand of Italian racing motorcycles

You'd think that after thirty years of marriage,
our crotch-rockets would be worn--

the chains weak,
the sprockets missing teeth,
the tires bare,
the brake cables stretched beyond repair.

But hey! We have Ducati crotch rockets!
We can still accelerate like teenagers,
do wheelies when we feel like it,
and find new positions to ride in,
new roads to explore.

So maybe after forty years we'll slow down,
but until then, pop that throttle, baby!
I'll race you to the corner!

Do I Miss It?

Do I miss the nervous two-step
called "Do I have a chance?",
the "Will she, won't she?" tango,
the "Do we, don't we?"

line dance
of romance?

Do I long to feel once more the phoney feeling
when every move I make, I fake
as I hope against hope for a little grope
though I'm absolutely broke
and I know the rule:
No money, honey?
Don't be a fool!

Do I miss the gap that gapes and separates

who I am
and what I do to score,
the no pain, no gain pain of paying for dinner,
wondering, "What am I paying for?
Is there possibly something more?",
her hesitant invitation "up for a drink"--
and probably something more?

And what about smelling the strange smells
of a stranger's space late at night,
fumbling for her bra clip,
tumbling on the bed,
fumbling on a condom,
mumbling words I've said
late at night,
many times before,
not knowing what is liked
and what is not,
and whether what to me is cool,
to her's just too damn hot?

Do I miss the fuzzy waking up in someone else's night,
the queasy search for carkeys in the early morning light,
the worry, should I call her
or should I wait to see
if she calls me

or am I free to see another--
as I think she might think
she might be?

Do I miss all this?
Actually, no. I lo-o-o-ve being married.

Sex and Singles

All I know about sex and singles
I know from memory

(well, okay, that's mostly
dim and misty
from talking to my kids
(like, they'd tell me the truth)
and from watching Sarah Jessica Parker in
"Sex and the City".

B-mer Sex

Married sex is like driving with someone you love
in a well-maintained, 10-year-old BMW    325    i.

By now, everything has become
comfortable and familiar.
The driver's seat sags a bit,
but it fits your butt perfectly.
You can still corner like a quarter-horse--
well, okay, an aging quarter horse,
but a quarter-horse nonetheless.
Oh, the gearshift knob is kinda worn
and the upholstery's thin where you put your arm
and there's a slight rumble somewhere in the drive train,
but most of the time, these signs of age don't matter
because you're only going from A to B.

But every so often, you come home late from a party
and there aren't any cops around
and you've both had maybe a little too much to drink
and you find yourself on a curvy country road
you both vaguely remember from years ago,
and you glance at her and she nods back at your
so you down-shift and stomp down
hard on the gas pedal and to your surprise,
the old B-mer has more spunk than you thought.
You twist through the woods
like you were on rails--
the gearbox is still as
smooth and soft as butter
and as you lean through the curves,
your feet dance from pedal to pedal
like you were playing a finely-tuned grand piano.
You feel a stomach-grabbing rush
as you accelerate up a hill and burst over the crest,
and you remember for a moment why they call it
the ultimate    driving     experience!

Sleeping Spooned

I love it when we go to sleep spooned,
my butt nestled into your right-angled hips,
your breasts pressed against my back,
your sleepy arm snuggled under mine,
our legs entwined
as you pull me close.

At times like this,
in this space,
I sink into a
and while you sleep,
I write poems in my mind.

Like now.

Like here.

Like this.