What is the price of sex? Down by the harbour, it’s £70 an hour or two tokes on a crack pipe. Or at least so I’ve heard. At home however, sex is supposed to be free. (Unless it’s sex with the Swedish au pair, in which case it costs double time and your marriage.) So why do I find myself paying the highest price of all for cumming in the comfort of my own home? Allow me to elucidate…
The bedroom in which my girlfriend and I perform our bedroomly duties is ostensibly perfect, the sort of idyllic setting in which women the world over dream of losing their virginity. (And not just because it happens to me my bed and therefore my meaty shaft pummelling their hymen into oblivion.) In the centre of the room, there is a wooden four poster bed bedecked with strings of star-shaped fairy lights that hang behind the headboard and gently illuminate the proceedings. The bed covers are black, the lights are low and the mood is quintessentially romantic. It is not the sort of seedy bedsit in which one gropes, makes out or - god forbid - fucks. No, this room is designed for making love in. All that’s missing are two components - a beautiful girl and a horny boy with a ball-load of spunk. Thankfully, my girlfriend has pulchritude in abundance while I am similarly well-endowed in the sperm department. Like the bedroom itself, we are ostensibly perfect and fit for purpose. But then the beautiful girl jumps on top of the testicularly blessed boy and the problems begin. No, not those problems – these problems: As our bodies start to convulse, so does the four poster bed, which in turn causes the fairy lights to join in the jouncing. These rattle against the wall with the resonance of a ghost rattling its chains, causing a cacophony that wakes the bairn, who was hitherto sleeping in the next room. There follows the sound of covers rustling and cot bars creaking as the baby stirs and promptly bursts into tears. My girlfriend’s sighs change from pleasure to displeasure as she dismounts and dashes through to calm the caterwauling. A few minutes later, she returns, I re-erect and we go for take two. Only now I can hear the sound of the bairn’s mobile in the next room, exuding mollifying melodies to induce her back into soma. Soothing as the lullaby is, it is the last thing I want to hear right now, as the music naturally makes me think of my daughter lying in her cot, and nice as that thought is, it is not conducive to sustaining…yeah, you know. I can’t even bring myself to say it in this context; it’s just wrong. And so we start again, trying our damnedest to block out the cutesy sounds emanating from the next room while stifling the rhythmical sex sounds emanating from our own, but this time we just can’t get into our groove, knowing that if we surpass the decibel threshold again, the bairn will reawaken, and will stay awake for an hour or more just to spite us. My girlfriend wearily dismounts and walks through to the adjoining bedroom while I head to the bathroom and empty my pent-up frustrations into the sink.
What is the price of sex? When it happens in my bedroom, in all its headboard rattling glory, the price is no sleep by dint of a screaming brat. While sex can be bought, sleep will always be priceless, which is why I find myself reluctantly eschewing the romance of a fairy-lit four-poster bed for the substance of a cold, loveless fuck by the ocean’s edge.
The bedroom in which my girlfriend and I perform our bedroomly duties is ostensibly perfect, the sort of idyllic setting in which women the world over dream of losing their virginity. (And not just because it happens to me my bed and therefore my meaty shaft pummelling their hymen into oblivion.) In the centre of the room, there is a wooden four poster bed bedecked with strings of star-shaped fairy lights that hang behind the headboard and gently illuminate the proceedings. The bed covers are black, the lights are low and the mood is quintessentially romantic. It is not the sort of seedy bedsit in which one gropes, makes out or - god forbid - fucks. No, this room is designed for making love in. All that’s missing are two components - a beautiful girl and a horny boy with a ball-load of spunk. Thankfully, my girlfriend has pulchritude in abundance while I am similarly well-endowed in the sperm department. Like the bedroom itself, we are ostensibly perfect and fit for purpose. But then the beautiful girl jumps on top of the testicularly blessed boy and the problems begin. No, not those problems – these problems: As our bodies start to convulse, so does the four poster bed, which in turn causes the fairy lights to join in the jouncing. These rattle against the wall with the resonance of a ghost rattling its chains, causing a cacophony that wakes the bairn, who was hitherto sleeping in the next room. There follows the sound of covers rustling and cot bars creaking as the baby stirs and promptly bursts into tears. My girlfriend’s sighs change from pleasure to displeasure as she dismounts and dashes through to calm the caterwauling. A few minutes later, she returns, I re-erect and we go for take two. Only now I can hear the sound of the bairn’s mobile in the next room, exuding mollifying melodies to induce her back into soma. Soothing as the lullaby is, it is the last thing I want to hear right now, as the music naturally makes me think of my daughter lying in her cot, and nice as that thought is, it is not conducive to sustaining…yeah, you know. I can’t even bring myself to say it in this context; it’s just wrong. And so we start again, trying our damnedest to block out the cutesy sounds emanating from the next room while stifling the rhythmical sex sounds emanating from our own, but this time we just can’t get into our groove, knowing that if we surpass the decibel threshold again, the bairn will reawaken, and will stay awake for an hour or more just to spite us. My girlfriend wearily dismounts and walks through to the adjoining bedroom while I head to the bathroom and empty my pent-up frustrations into the sink.
What is the price of sex? When it happens in my bedroom, in all its headboard rattling glory, the price is no sleep by dint of a screaming brat. While sex can be bought, sleep will always be priceless, which is why I find myself reluctantly eschewing the romance of a fairy-lit four-poster bed for the substance of a cold, loveless fuck by the ocean’s edge.
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