31 - Brain Power Below the Belt

Hand on heart, ladies:Have you ever suspected a man of thinking exclusively with his pants?

I have. Sometimes, I really felt the real communication was happening somewhere between the zipper and the underwear. What I didn’t realize, though, is just how deep the male subconscious can reach into a pair of briefs—especially when it comes to men.

Last week, there were some occasional, shall we say, performance drops at home. Unlike the mister, I didn’t find them particularly alarming. I blamed it on overuse and an excess of new toys. I know my husband isn’t a fan of change—and now I’d literally pulled the comfort right out from under his crotch. He’d grown quite cozy in that familiar pair of underpants, and I could understand that he was a little pissed at me. But I trusted we’d find our rhythm again.

My husband, however, didn’t want to wait. And thanks to his newly prescribed little blue helpers, the issue was quickly resolved. At least, temporarily. Because soon it became clear: my husband was turned on by me—but not his dick. As soon as things started heating up, he was out of the game. Meanwhile, with the other ladies, he’d been performing like clockwork.

So… now what?

We did what we’ve learned to do in the past few months: have the conversations we’d rather skip. If you want things to stay hot, you need to face the fire. One doesn’t exist without the other. Did I enjoy that conversation? Absolutely not. Was it necessary?Absolutely. An open marriage is a trust exercise of the highest order. You’d better know that going in. If you treat every emotion your partner shares as a personal attack—or punish honesty by turning it into a reproach—then, honestly, stick with monogamy. Communication is everything in this kind of relationship. Get it wrong, and that initial “AHHHHHHH!” can quickly turn into, “Oh shit, the moving truck’s here.”

The mister told me honestly that my dating schedule wasn’t exactly turning him on, and gently reminded me that this wasn’t how our experiment had started. Not a reproach—just a quiet echo of my words. And I got it. I’d gotten caught up in all the possibilities, all the new and fascinating people—and the only one who actually noticed was his dick. Apparently, unlike me, he had still been keeping count—and thought four different dates a week was far too much. The mister admitted that, rationally, he understands why I’m dating more right now—he’s even happy for me. But he also admitted that maybe, just maybe, the combined weight of all those other dicks had been pressing down on his own, despite his best intentions.

After all, he couldn’t care less how many sausages the other apricots are snacking on. I listened, I reflected—and within a few days, his penis responded as if a huge weight had been lifted. Apparently, he just needed to be heard—by both head and heart. A few heartfelt words about feelings—and he was standing tall again, just like the first threesome. Now my husband’s dick and I are back to having regular, intimate conversations—he hangs on my lips.

So what did we learn?

His dick is smarter than we thought. As a girl, I had one of those mood stones that changed color depending on how I felt. Now I have a mood-cock by marriage—its hardness is a pretty reliable indicator of how things are going between us. My very own mood cock ring,

with a firm connection straight to my heart. And honestly? When Giovanni was the only one in the mix, everyone was in top form—well, except for the guy with the knee prosthesis.

Who would’ve thought that one day, my husband’s dick would turn out to be our relationship therapist?