20 – Coming With Complications

You might remember that, in the early days of our open marriage, my hubby thought I was too “in my head” when it came to dating—mostly because I’m not a fan of meeting strangers in their (man) caves.

That wasn’t just due to my slightly unhealthy dose of paranoia (which, for the record, has served me well in life). It was also because I need a certain level of comfort to actually enjoy sex. Like, say, a car with a spacious backseat. Even if that seat is shared with two sticky child car seats.

What makes my libido run for the hills?

• A musty flatshare bedroom that hasn’t been aired out since last summer

• A bare-bones bachelor pad with a rickety bed

• A judgmental cat silently watching the action like it’s morally above me

• Or worst of all: tiptoeing around Lego bricks in heels just to reach the bedroom—because nothing says “foreplay” like a surprise foot impalement.I want to be laid by him, not by his kid’s toys.

  
  

That’s why I prefer sex at home or in hotels: no distractions, no weird smells, no feline spectators. Just clean sheets and clean vibes.

The mister loves to tease me for this. According to him, my ass is not the only diva in the house—I apparently have a matching personality.

But life has a wicked sense of irony.

Because not only did he go on another Tinder date—keeping up his 100% closing rate (he’s more successful than most call center agents selling insurance)—but he came home and said:

“It was okay, but…”

“But what?” I asked.

I mean, really—what could possibly go wrong when you drive to a stranger’s house, someone you’ve never met, and immediately jump into bed? Sounds like the perfect blend of romance and true-crime podcast.

Honestly, I was just relieved it actually was a woman—and that he was back home, sitting next to me in front of the fireplace, sipping a “WTF just happened” whisky instead of wrapped in crime scene tape.

“But something was always… just a little bit off.”

Her apartment was freezing, for starters. The mister was genuinely relieved when she finally grabbed his dick—mostly because he feared it might develop frostbite.Then, every sex position they tried was just almost good. Like an IKEA chair built without the manual—wobbly, slightly dangerous, but you’re already sitting on it, so you just commit and hope for the best while ignoring the fact that it squeaks with every thrust.

The hubby was almost about to come when he got hit with a calf cramp so intense, it was like Zeus was cockblocking him personally. His whole body seized up, and for a brief second, he saw his entire sex life flash before his eyes. And thanks to Tinder, that flash included not just my weird orgasm face.

The bed? Slammed against the wall so loudly that he was convinced the neighbors had already started taking bets on his stamina. With popcorn. So instead of aiming for climax, he was stuck in noise reduction mode. Forget dirty talk—he was doing silent sex Sudoku. Pro tip: When you're thrusting to the rhythm of muffled shame, nobody wins.

And because all that wasn’t ridiculous enough, they had to correct her daughter’s homework right after sex.

The topic? Industrial monoculture farming.

Now, that’s a post-coital vibe shift.

Honestly, I would've loved to read their edits—seeing as they'd just done hands-on research themselves, scattered some seeds, and clearly weren’t practicing monoculture at all. 

The harvest? Hard-earned satisfaction. Zero pesticides required.

The verdict? Biodiversity isn't just sexy—it's sustainable.