Anyone who says they don’t think about anything else other than sex while they’re doing the deed is like someone saying they only eat one bowl of cereal: YOU’RE ALL A BUNCH OF LIARS. 

Okay, we’re kidding. Maybe you do only think about sex while you’re having it, but in that case you’re a rare unicorn and we’d love to chat. Most of us are so preoccupied with the daily stresses of life that it’s impossible for our mind not to wander. We’re still enjoying it – we just get a little preoccupied.

Here are 10 non-sex things women think about during sex.

1. “Why did I eat so much today?!”

It’s like the minute we’re doing it, every snack/bad choice comes to the forefront of our minds. Did we really need to eat that leftover Pop Tart our kid didn’t touch? Whoops.

2. “The bathroom is really overdue for a good scrubbing.”

The bathtub tile really shouldn’t be that color…

3. “Shit, I have so much laundry to do.”

YEAH, and this bitch needs to do the whites ASAP. Uh, I mean, yes that feels good….

4. “John Stamos must be a vampire.”

Does he age? Like, does he?

5. “If the kids wake up I will weep gently into the night.”

Listen, once you have kids it’s hard to get in the sexy time. So yeah, we’re thinking about a zillion other things, but if the kids wake up and interrupt, THERE WILL BE HELL TO PAY.

6. “I could definitely go for some pizza.”

Forget #1, we could seriously put away an entire medium by ourselves. We’re technically working out right now anyway.

7. “Is this almost over? Because I take my sleep very seriously and this is kiiiind of cutting into it.”

Must. Not. Fall. Asleep. Repeat.

8. “Did the kids brush their teeth before they went to bed?”

Honestly, it’s anyone’s guess at this point.

9. “When was the last time I showered?”

When you’re trying to keep an entire household in order and making sure your kids stay in tact, showering is the last thing on your mind.

10. “Did I forget to DVR the latest episode of Scandal?!”

MAYBE the most horrifying thought to have during sex.

Featured image via. GIFs via 1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10

I have a sad story to tell. I don’t know the statistics, but I’m guessing just about every woman with a vagina will suffer from the ailment of which I am about to speak of.

Last week, I wrote a post about having sex for the first time after baby. If you missed it, you can read it here.

I received a comment from an older woman. Her name is Marcie. She told me about her friend. Her name is Bonnie.

They are both on the other side of menopause. Which means they are dryer than a prune on the equator.

Marcie is lucky. Her hubs doesn’t care much about sex anymore, therefore, Marcie doesn’t have to worry about it. Because, and I quote, “sex after childbirth is nothing compared to what you will face after menopause! It is painful beyond belief! Sex after menopause is like sticking knives AND sandpaper in there.

Thanks Marcie. Glad to know that I have something fun to look forward to. I love the feeling of sandpaper in my vijay jay. Said no woman ever.

Now, her friend Bonnie isn’t so lucky. She happens to be married to a sex machine. Pretty much no amount of KY Jelly will do the trick. There are drugs with dangerous side effects that she has to take so that her man can get his rocks off. And these drugs don’t even work all that great. I just hope she’s able to achieve the big “O” for her troubles.

Why is it that men can go at it like little Jack Rabbits and can procreate until their last breath? I still am amazed at how far Tony Randall went. That little horn dog. May he rest in peace. I just hope he’s not trying to hump my grandmother up there. Oh right, he likes the younger ladies.

What was I saying? Oh yes…sorry about that.

I love men. I really do. This is in no way a man bashing post. I’m just stating the obvious. And, also, I need to say that I’m totally coming back as a man in my next life. Because seriously, if I don’t have to have my ass ripped open by a human head ever again, I wouldn’t be happier.

Anyway, I did a little comparison. Correct me if I’m wrong.

What women have to endure:

  1. Painful periods with mega bleeding out of their down between, cramps, nausea, migraines and mood swings for 7 days or more each month from adolescence until — dear God — too long.
  2. Childbirth. 9+ months of carrying a person on the inside of our bodies like an alien and then enduring hours of having to push this person into the world through a small hole. It doesn’t seem natural. But yet, it is.
  3. Menopause. Why do they call it this? To pause the menses? Then just pause it Mother Effing Nature and move along.
  4. Atrophy of the Vagina or Dried Vagina Syndrome. Sure, maybe that should fall under menopause but I truly and deeply in my heart feel that it needs its very own bullet point. No further explanation needed.
  5. Sagging butt, boobs and mid-life gut (or as the kid likes to refer to it as the “fupa” (pronounced foo-pah — pretty huh?)).

Just so you know, my husband looks better than the day I met him. Why does the gray hair at his temples look sexy when my gray hair just makes me look like an unkempt old maid? I have to pay hundreds of dollars a year to prevent this look from taking over my life. That is not a lie. But I digress.

What men have to endure:

  1. Premature ejaculation. I’ll give it to them that this must suck.
  2. Not able to “perform.” Eh. It happens to the best of us.
  3. The fear of someone kicking them in the gonads. I heard that’s pretty painful. Although I have been elbowed in the breast and it’s not like picking daisies.
  4. Wet dreams. I don’t know, it sounds kind of fun, no?

Okay, so we have 5 and they have 4. But can we compare apples to apples? No, it’s more like comparing apples to watermelon. Or even worse, an apple to the Loch Ness Monster. Does that sound dumb and not make sense? Exactly.

Now I am no man. So, I don’t know what it’s like to be one. But my hubs doesn’t complain about anything unless his stomach hurts, he cuts his finger or has a cold. Therefore, to me that means that there isn’t much to complain about.

Unlike us. See above. Yet, we do these things and we do it with dignity. Because, hello? Girl Power, that’s what.

May I just say before I go that may God never change the rules and decide that men should give birth. Because hello? That’s scarier than the thought of the apocalypse. Don’t you think?

This post was originally featured on Maureen’s blog, Momfeld. Featured image via

Note to Dad: This post is about S-E-X and a certain daughter of yours. Do not read any further if you think you might have nightmares. You have been duly warned.

When people talk about sex after kids, the first thing that comes to my mind is not sex after kids, but sex after babies. Like right after. It’s been a long time. I mean, it’s been a long time since I gave birth to my kid. 16 years, 4 months and 10 days to be exact.

So, can I legitimately talk about this subject? Do I have the right? Damn straight I do. Because having sex for the first time after healing from childbirth is like having someone clean out your insides with a scythe that has been wrapped in 60 grit sandpaper. Sure, that sounds pretty painful. That’s because it is.

Not something soon to be forgotten with time. No matter what they say. It’s a lie. Like saying that you will soon forget about the pain of pushing an 8 pound person out of your nether-area. Your lady jewels. Your motherly loins. That, too, is a lie. Because 16 years, 4 months and 10 days later I remember that shit as if it happened just yesterday. It’s as fresh as a daisy in the subconsciousness of my mind.

I dreaded it. “Six weeks” the good doctor said. When I arrived home after my postpartum appointment and the hubs was waiting with bated breath, looking for the green light, I should have lied. Six months probably would have been more like it.

I wasn’t dreading it because I dislike sex. I was dreading it because I know precisely what went on down below during childbirth. Things got pulled, stretched and ripped in places that should NEVER have been…well, at least ripped. Apparently, pulled and stretched is acceptable given the fact that we are the lucky God-chosen gender to have been given the gift of child bearing. But I digress.

Between walking like a stud with the biggest set of scrotums known to man for 2 weeks to avoid any chafing and spending 3/4 of my time sitting on a sitz-bath for 10 days to relieve the horrid pain exuding from my bottom, the last thing I needed was to have all that down there invaded by the exact thing that got me in that situation in the first place.

No, I wasn’t holding any grudges. It wasn’t his fault that this was how we chose to have a family. We both agreed to it. We did. But dang, a little advanced notice would have been nice. You know, maybe before we got into this situation called being pregnant?

The light turned GREEN and it was game time. The pain made my toes curl, took the breath out of me, made me want to cry out for my mama. But I didn’t do that. Cry out for my mama. That would have been weird. And a major buzz kill.

But don’t worry. After that first time, all is well. Every time after that is hunky-dory. Back to normal. Have all the sex you want. Well, that is if you can come out of your lack-of-sleep induced coma from having a newborn wake you up at all ungodly hours of the night. Then by all means, carry on. You’re a trooper.

This post was originally featured on Maureen’s blog, Momfeld. Photo via

“You’re too focused on the kids,” our therapist announced. “You need to reconnect with one another.”

She was right. Lately our marriage had felt more like a business partnership than a romantic relationship. I tried to remember when we’d had our last date. When we’d last done the deed. It had been weeks.

Back at home, we sat on the couch. Fully clothed. Blaming the other for our mutual non-tango.

He says when I go to bed early in my flannels and my zit cream and I pull the covers up to my neck that I’m sending the message I’m not interested in sex.

I say he’s looking down at the mail when he comes in the door at the end of the day or he goes to the kids first and he doesn’t appear to be interested in me.

We were both starved for attention. And we didn’t talk like we used to.

I know that sex is not a substitute for love and healthy communication. But It was late and I didn’t want to argue anymore. Also, it had been 15 minutes and I needed to wash the algae mask off my face.

“How about this?” I blurted out. “We have sex every day for a week. That should get us out of this rut.”

Jonathan’s eyes lit up like he had just stepped into Penthouse Forum: The Movie.

And so began our 7 days of sex.

Day One: I am a Geeeeeeenius.

Seriously. How great is this idea?! Greatest. Idea. Ever. And I came up with it! We got right to work and ended up a breathless heap on a bearskin rug. OK, we don’t own a bearskin rug, but if we had we’d have ended up on it. Just 6 more sextastic days to go! What was I thinking? Should’ve made it a 30-day challenge!

Day Two: The Road to Sexy Land

What do you mean I didn’t come up with this idea? My friend had informed me that another blogger had already written about having sex every day for a year. A year! Not only that but there’s also a book called 7 Days of Sex Challenge. A book! Dammit. I really prefer to be original.

When Jonathan came home our bad moods collided.

Okaaay. Why did he bring in the car seat I had left in the driveway? “It’s cold out,” he said. But I washed it. It needed to be left out to dry. “It’s not going to dry tonight anyway.” But still. Just leave it there. I was peeved. Why bring a wet car seat into a dry house? Who brings a wet car seat into a dry house?

Someone I’ve committed to having sex with later, that’s who.

Before bed, the kids did just what I’d predicted. They played in the car seat and their pajamas got wet. Because the car seat was wet. And needed to be left outside. Like I said.

How would we get to Sexy Land from here?

Fortunately Jonathan changed their clothes and put them to bed without my help. And I was grateful to have 20 minutes alone. Just enough time for me to let go of my anger so we could have sex. When he came into the living room he smiled. “I was cranky about work,” he said. I smiled too. “Don’t mess with my controlled environment,” I said. Then, with the cloud lifted, we had sex.

We were getting past petty problems that could’ve lasted days— the 7-day plan was working!

Day Three: Phone it in.

Smalls was sick so I had to keep her home from preschool. I was behind on work. I hadn’t been to the gym all week. Due to an unknown allergy, I’d been applying cortisone cream to my face four times a day. I felt out of shape and unattractive. My throat was dry and I was probably coming down with the same thing Smalls had.

At the end of the day, sex was the furthest thing from my mind.

So I phoned it in. Not like “Hi, I’m Amber tell me how you like it.” I phoned it in as in I went about the motions even though I had my feelings. And guess what? My feelings changed. Because no matter how grumpy I get, my husband is still a hot piece of ass.

Day Four: Manual Labor

You can figure out what that means. Think about it. And yes, it counts.

Day Five: The School Fundraiser as Foreplay

No kids. Karaoke night in Venice Beach. I had mojitos. He sang Allison.

Elvis Costello? Some nights were easier than others.

Day Six: I’m Not Laughing at You, I’m Laughing with You

This is hilarious. We’re about to have sex again. Haha! We just did it last night. And the night before. And the night before and the night before and before. For some reason sex every night was very, very funny. We made jokes. Some lewd, some not. Then we had sex. Even though we were laughing. Because we were still making jokes. While we were having sex. Which was really, really funny!

Day Seven:  And on the Seventh Day…

We rested. Look, even God had to rest on the seventh day, people.

The truth is, we got in a fight. It looked like a fight about how he’s always leaving things lying around or how I’m always throwing those things away… but it was really about something deeper. This time, the plan for sex wasn’t enough for either of us to let the fight go away.

We went back to the therapist and shared about our 7 days of sex. She listened and smiled. Then she took a deep breath and said, “How about ‘How was your day’ instead?” She gave us a prescription: At the end of each day, spend 10 minutes looking into each others eyes… and talking. Uninterrupted. No complaining. Just sharing the good. And this way we begin the process of reconnecting. Eventually, sex will follow.

We’re actually on day 15 and it’s going really well.

This post was originally featured here. Photo via

Move over Dr. Phil…unless you are going to start asking people to have sex onstage, you are now old news.

Yes, you read that right.

Welcome to Sex Box, an American version of the British reality show. If your husband (like mine) runs screaming from the room at any mention of counseling, this show will really throw him for a loop. WE tv calls Sex Box an “extreme therapy reality concept.”
You don’t say.

Here’s how it works:

1.) Troubled couple arrives on-set to discuss their concerns with a panel of experts, including a relationship therapist, a clinical psychotherapist, a pastor and – perhaps not coincidentally – a comedian, who guides the couple through the experience.
(Most of it.)

2.) Expert panel provide their initial assessment, then instruct couple to go to the camera-free, sound-proof Sex Box and, well, have sex.

3.) When the couple has done the deed, they ring a buzzer and then emerge, once they have composed themselves, to resume the discussion.

4.) The experts continue their analysis, working with a now-more-relaxed couple, and try to solve for x.

The post-nookie conversation is expected to be much more direct and open, based on the theory that the oxytocin released as a result of the “exercise” inspires trust, honesty and intimacy. Said differently, there’s power in the afterglow.
You don’t say.

I, for one, am very interested to know if the show’s producers have considered the following potential kinks in the plan:

1 – Performance Anxiety
Unless you are in your twenties, you can’t always count on the solider to stand at attention, on demand. It’s really going to suck for the guys in this scenario, particularly ones who can’t, er, “focus” under duress.

2 – Forced “relations”
I can only imagine what my husband would say if we had just been psycho-analyzed for 15 minutes, and then were instructed to go and make some love. Is “Let’s just get this over with” foreplay for anyone else? Because it would have to work for me, in this scenario.

3 – How can they prove you didn’t fake it?
Someone, somewhere, is going to be hiding a deck of cards or a couple of iPhones to kill 20-30 minutes instead of actually having sex in the box. You know it’s going to happen. What do they do about the cheaters??

4 – What if you don’t stay in the box long enough?
Let’s be honest…if you’re basically being instructed to have sex, it’s going to be the most perfunctory sex you’ve ever had. Strip down, get everything where it’s supposed to go, bing bang boom, and it’s over. When “Let’s just get this over with” turns into a quickie out of pure, self-conscious necessity, are you going to get penalized for not taking enough time in the box? I guess you’ll find out, along with the rest of America.

5 – What if you stay in the box too long?
What if you and your partner are suddenly inspired by the notion that your problems are about to be solved? What if you are feeling closer than you have in a while, and this kooky new experience heightens that emotion? What if you get so inspired – I mean, there are no kids around, no babysitter waiting, no dog that may wander in – that you decide to completely get down in a way that you haven’t since the early days of pure pleasure? What if you get so carried away that you’re in the box for an hour or more?


I have no doubt that people will embrace this concept…after all, it is controversial. It is also reality-therapy, a good combo in the States IF you can get people to have sex in a box, on TV. I guess we’ll soon find out; Sex Box premieres Feb. 27 at 10 p.m. ET on WE tv, and is executive-produced by Relativity Television’s Tom Forman and Brad Bishop.

Photo via The Hollywood Reporter.

Dear Man With Whom I Have A Sexual Relationship,

We need to talk.

I know, I know, those are the four most disturbing words a woman can utter to a man and why didn’t I warn you before I said that?! I can see that glazed, unfocused look starting to shadow your eyes and am well aware that you’ve already begun blocking the sounds coming from my mouth and are searching desperately for your happy place (Baseball, beer, Halle Berry. Baseball, beer, Halle Berry) but snap out of it bitch! This is important.

To get straight to the point, we need to talk about foreplay. Or more accurately, the complete lack of foreplay in our relationship that has made me want to tear out my hair, wear sweatpants to bed every night, and refuse to have sex with you again until you learn the importance of a good make-out session.

I know that men don’t need much to be turned on. I’m well aware that all I have to do is casually touch your hand or maybe say ‘sex’ out loud and you’re on top of me like a cheetah on a dead antelope. But you’ve got to understand that I, on the other hand, need a little more than you sticking your hand down my pants to be in the mood. I am a woman and I need kissing and hugging and touching and all the other crazy things that they do in that far away place called The Movies.

Now it’s not that I’m opposed to the occasional quickie. But unless we only have 10 minutes until the kid wakes up and we haven’t had sex in 3 weeks and my period’s coming any second now, I honestly feel that a little more effort should be put into the whole mating ritual. It’s not just that I want to be in the mood to have sex, I physically need to be. If I’m not turned on beforehand, then sex is like a fifteen minute fire, burning in my crotch. And I mean that in the most ladylike way possible.

Please understand that it’s not that I want another reason to nag and bother you because you are really so wonderful in every other way. And when you do things like change the roll of toilet paper or make breakfast, my mind wants to have sex with you, it’s just that my body hasn’t sat down all day and isn’t quite convinced that this is the most productive use of my already limited energy levels. My body forgets very quickly how good sex can be, and it’s your job to convince it.

In order to be of assistance, I’ve made these helpful charts to demonstrate my point.

So, let’s assume this detailed and accurate medical illustration is me:

Then this would be an example of proper foreplay:

And this would not:

In case you need a little more explanation, I have outlined a few important rules:

1.) Crawling in bed behind me and poking around the back door for twenty minutes until you find a hole is a waste of time and there’s a 50% chance you’ll find the wrong one. It would have taken half the time to just kiss my neck first and let me show you where to go.

2.) If you decide in the middle of the night while I’m fast asleep that you want to have sex, understand you’ll have to work twice as hard to wake me up and turn me on and you might get punched in the face in the process. It might be worth going back to sleep and waiting until the morning.

3.) Grabbing a bottle of lubricant does NOT constitute proper foreplay. Other things that don’t constitute proper foreplay are farting, leaving your dirty socks on the floor, not putting your dishes in the dishwasher, suggesting that I go down on you, and turning on Sports Center.

4.) You naked laying in my bed, not a turn on. Put on some shorts man and leave a little room for the imagination! Penises are ugly… and finally…

5.) When in doubt, think about what turns you on, and then do the opposite.

I hope that this letter has helped you understand the importance of the matter at hand and that you will take immediate actions to resolve the problem or I will be forced to take more dramatic measures, which I have not thought of yet, but will be HORRIBLE! Feel free to print this letter out and keep it as a reference.


The Woman Who Loves You Enough To Wash Your Dirty Underwear

Originally featured on Eve’s blog, That’s My Apple!