I took a big, if unoriginal, step in a recent relationship: I suggested we shouldn’t have sex for a month. She was a little taken aback by the comment; we would make love a lot of the time and, even though it had been a year or so spent together, it wasn’t boring or mechanical yet. I had read an article about this couple who’d decided to have sex every single day for a whole year, whether they felt like it or not, and were remarkably upbeat about it. With the day job taking me away from home on occasion, this wasn’t an option – what about the other way around, I thought?
Okay, so lots of people go for months with sex the majority of the time, but how might it affect a relationship that was fuelled primarily on the very act? She asked me how I saw it working: quite simple, we could do anything we liked except for actually making love. She thought about for a moment or two and then, with a wry smile, professed to having a better idea: if we weren’t to have sex, then we weren’t to see one another naked either. After a second of hesitation, and not to be outdone, I upped it even more – no orgasms. Agreed.
Almost immediately, I realised this would be near impossible to police. Showers, bathrooms, time alone, time at work, almost any opportunity away from one another would have to be taken on trust. I certainly stuck to the rules, and for what it’s worth I reckon she did too. We were both competitive; I figured it would turn into a battle of stamina more than who could have a sneaky wank. This bit had to be taken on trust.
You know what? The first week was easy. I actually got a shit load of stuff done. Suddenly, I had a couple of hours extra each day. I wrote, gardened, read; we played games, got creative with future plans, drank and cooked together more than usual; it was good. The second week was just as carefree. Perhaps it was easier because she was on that week, and sleeping next to her wrapped up in joggers and a t-shirt was cosy rather than frustrating. All was well.
And then week three hit. And it hit hard.
It started with a text. A picture message with no words. She was in the bath, her long legs the focus with a blurred, reflection of her in the mirror. Close to rule breaking but clever enough not to. The game was suddenly afoot. I got back home and went up to the bedroom to grab our handcuffs before cuffing her to the chair in the kitchen. She didn’t resist at all, telling me later that she was hoping I was about to lose the agreement. But no, it wouldn’t be so simple. I started to prepare our meal, pouring wine as usual, before walking behind her and pressing my hand down the front of her jeans. I knew she’d be wet, and took my chance to slide my finger round and round her clit. I took her sharp intake of breath as lust, want, and an ache for more. My breath was on her neck. My voice articulating how bad she’d been to send the picture. With a gentle bite I withdrew my roaming hand and went back to cooking. Yeah, I left her there until I was finished.
This opened the floodgates. Mischievous is probably the best description. That evening she came into the bedroom in her special tiny shirt, the one with ever so slight underboob, and ridiculously small hot-pant nightwear. I responded with a tighter pair of boxers. The nights were a to-ing and fro-ing of teddies, shirts, frenchies, stockings – to be honest, she had me covered with the variety. We left filthy voicemails and dirty audio messages. We masturbated beneath our clothes and duvet. We wanked each other in the most revealing public places. But we never came. And we never looked at our naked forms.
I recall the final Sunday morning. She brought breakfast to the bedroom and – as if were nothing – flicked on some porn before another type of flicking altogether. These mornings I would always be at my horniest and I almost broke. I really did. The whole day was spent edging. Nothing else was accomplished. And after falling into a restless sleep I was stirred by the tell tale feelings of a perfect blowjob. I went to pull away before realising, wonderfully, that it was past midnight. I relaxed into one of the greatest orgasms I have ever, ever had.
We didn’t go back to sleep; spending the rest of the early morning hours exploring each other again. I felt like a teenager again and, as the sunlight peaked through the curtains, her hidden body was revealed in slow motion, the shadows casting over her breasts and hips, our sweat glistening as one.
The following days and weeks were another level of sex. No opportunity was missed and my phone would buzz with proposition and innuendo. Don’t worry, she got more than her share, too. My lips would feel the electricity in her body and I worshipped her every moan. Nothing. Felt. Better. Than. Her.
If you are in a tolerant and trusting relationship, I urge you to try something like this. It’s like courting but with the knowledge that you are already each other’s. I’d do it again…perhaps not for a few months, though.