16 - Between the Sheets and Spreadsheets

Even though my husband is a total stats nerd, even he has limits.

He’s not keeping an Excel sheet of our dating life—despite his proud 100% match rate, which even I remember. We don’t keep score.

Not who gets more matches.

Not who goes on more dates.

And definitely not who gets more hands, tongues, or other body parts involved.

That would be a very different kind of pivot table—complete with columns like “moaning intensity” and “positions requiring core strength.”

Not something you wanna screen-share on Zoom with HR.

Of course we talk about these things. But we don’t keep score.

Love isn’t a competition—neither between us nor between our marriage and the people we are involved with. It’s a wild adventure we get to share. And luckily, it’s roomy enough for more than two.

I’ve actually never asked myself whether Chloé might be better in bed than me.

I know she’s different—and I know she can do things that honestly impress the hell out of me. Things I would’ve thought were porn-industry fiction if I hadn’t heard them firsthand from the hubby—who I consider a trustworthy source, because he’s not exactly known for exaggeration.

Up until recently, I didn’t even think those things were anatomically possible.

Apparently, Chloé got the deluxe backdoor upgrade—while I’m still working with a squeaky door and a complex user manual. I enjoy anal sex—but I need lube, preparation, the right angle, and a fair bit of tender attention. And even then, it’s more like entering a spa with a password.

Chloé, on the other hand?

She just… does it.

As if her ass were custom-built by German engineers for smooth rides in the left lane.

Zero prep. Zero friction. Zero speed limit.

I find that fascinating.

Do I feel threatened by it?

Absolutely not. Quite the opposite—it makes me want to dive deeper into the topic.

And guess who gets to be the test subject? That’s right: my poor husband.

So yes, he suffers twice.

And the moral of the story?

Never judge another ass by your own.

Even Giovanni, who could melt granite with his words, quickly realized my ass is pickier than the Nobel Prize committee.

He’s the kind of man who feels deeply and knows how to express it—with a level of sensitivity and eloquence that moves me… and turns me on.

My husband, the statistician, is wired a little differently.

I gave him a notepad of check-the-box love notes.

“I adore you.” “You smell nice.” “No, I didn’t forget our anniversary.”

He’s used, maybe… five. In ten years.

Statistically, I have a better chance of getting struck by lightning while giving birth to twins.

Romance, by the numbers.

Does he feel threatened by Giovanni’s gift of words?

Of course not. You saw that coming, didn’t you?

Because that kind of expression just isn’t part of his personality—

just like my ass is way more of a diva than Chloé’s.

And that’s perfectly okay.

If we were all the same, this entire open relationship thing would be pointless.

The idea is to explore new experiences—and celebrate them with each other.

At the end of the day, the only reason we get to live all of this is because we both believe in our love.

And we know that neither the most acrobatic butt nor the most poetic words will ever change that. 

Because at the end of the day, love always scores. Not in spreadsheets—but definitely in bed sheets.