26 – Ride Me, I’m Ergonomic

This year, my husband fulfilled a sexual dream for his birthday—and I wanted to do the same. But my dream looked quite different. Imagine a long, reclining letter B, with the upper curve much higher than the lower one.

Between the two? A perfectly shaped spot for a butt. If you’re now picturing a leaning Adonis with a proud chest and a heroic erection—you're way off. Well, I mean—he could be lying on my gift.

For years, I’ve been longing for a piece of love furniture—a fuck couch, or, to put it more elegantly, a tantra chair. The only reason one hadn’t entered my life yet was the cost—and that nagging question: How often would we actually use it? But with an open marriage, the good piece naturally sees a lot more action. That was precisely my argument when I justified to myself (and the mister) ordering a custom-built love lounger from Spain—because IKEA just doesn’t do foreplay. Even the usually minimalist male crowd got oddly enthusiastic about this purchase. Funny—I’ve never heard men ask so many follow-up questions when I talk about a new kitchen. And yet, there’s plenty to devour in there, too.

I waited six weeks for my new toy—like others wait for a Wi-Fi signal while loading porn.  And when it finally arrived, it came—like a Michelin-starred meal—with a menu. Nothing was served here—just bodies in motion: riding, gliding, loving. The only ingredients required are any number of willing bodies and a generous dash of creativity. Optional extras: knee pads and magnesium for the overachievers.

We could choose from a wide range of positions, such as:

The Cushion Captain—he takes command, she reports for duty.

The Sofa Surfer—she rides the wave until it splashes.

The Edge of Ecstasy—where pleasure and pain shake hands.

The moment the thing was hauled up the stairs, I knew we were going to be friends. I thought I was ordering an accessory for the bedroom—instead, I’d bought a portal to the pleasure multiverse.

In theory, I’ve always liked the idea of being on top. In practice, something often seemed off—wrong angle, too soft a mattress, nothing to hold on to… or some other logistical hiccup. But with this piece of furniture, everything was pure wet heaven. I was blissful and buoyant—and the hubby?

Knocked right out of his socks (not that he’s allowed to wear any in bed anyway).

Honestly, I don’t understand why health insurance doesn’t cover this kind of thing. Not everyone has a sexy private physiotherapist like my husband does. Ergonomic sex well into old age—it saves money on physical therapy, postpartum recovery, pelvic-floor training, incontinence pads, probably lowers antidepressant use, and may even reduce divorce rates. Which, by the way, is healthier for everyone.

The only downside might be a rise in prescriptions for little blue pills—but those are private prescriptions anyway, so they don’t burden the public health system.

Maybe Pfizer should start a bonus program: buy 100 boxes of Viagra, get a free Position Holder 100.

And before you ask—yes, my couch may be blue, but it’s completely prescription-free.