After sex: immediate clean up or cuddle in the wet patch?
I know what I want to happen after sex. I want to lay together, body to hot sweaty body, post-sex heat our only blanket, clinging together in glorious love – well, mainly stuck together with the velcro of rapidly drying bodily fluids. I want it to be just like ‘in the movies’ (films, for us Brits). To immediately drift into the deep peaceful sleep of the newly-shagged, in candlelight (without any thought of the fire hazard) and wake up in the morning still clinging together. As if we were Jack and Rose. Only Jack didn’t have to die and Rose let him climb on the damn door. My makeup would be absolute perfection through the night, until the sun’s rays gently woke us from nauseatingly romantic slumber. My pillowslip would most definitely not look like a clown’s washcloth. Nor would my face.
In reality, I have the numerous and boring worries of the 30+ year old woman. That puddle’s going to make a mess of the sheets you know, and they were clean on this morning. I just washed my hair, and I do love you but I don’t want to shove it into your sweaty armpit for a cuddle right now. I need to wee and wash straight away or I’ll get yet another UTI – and you know they last about a week for me – and do you really want another 7 days of cranberry-juice-gulping whiny bitch on your conscience?
All this and more, like a record on repeat. Yeah, that’s how old I am. A record.
I don’t like the wet patch. I don’t find it sexy. When it’s a hot patch, sure. I can see the appeal. Cold, wet patch of goo under my naked body? Get. Out.
I used to welcome the chance to fuck like a cat in heat, then after rutting for hours simply lie happily in our combined filth. To feel it ooze out of me, slipping between that curved crevice at the base of my lips as I lay on my side sprawled across him on the bed. Light on, light off – it didn’t matter. To revel in the filthy sex stench of our just fucked bodies – no it’s damn well not a heady musk, it’s ALL filth – and cast aside any notions of cleanliness.
I can’t really pinpoint when this change occurred, and the specific reasons why. Maybe I’ve progressed to a point in my sexual life where experience has taught me to avoid future pain by not ‘sleeping in the wet patch’. I do this by not staying in the same sticky lump we find ourselves in after sex, exhausted from our exertions, til dawn. Instead, I cuddle for a polite amount of time then excuse myself as gently as possible to wee and wash. Perhaps I’m simply OCD about cleanliness and can’t stand the sticky feel. Or maybe I’m just a cold and unfeeling bitch.
To be perfectly honest, I think it’s mainly down to the amount of UTIs I’ve had. The amount I’ve suffered through, I should say. Bodily fluids are all very well (dear chap) but when they’re up your urethra for hours and plotting punishment for that stolen hour of bliss then you start to go off the idea of lying in them all night. Peeing them out seems to be the only sensible thing to do. And that’s what’s happened. I’ve become a sensible fucker. I use safe sex toys and conduct my sex safely.
You’d think I’d get more UTIs from flavoured lube use. God knows countless women have claimed that flavoured sugary lubes really irritate their vagina, therefore they also tend to irritate lube reviewers to the max. Whenever I use lube (during masturbation or sex) I wash afterwards so nothing lingers in the urethra or in my pussy, which may be why I don’t suffer with lubes, sugary or otherwise. I’m more careful to clean him away from my urethra than lubes. Sex fluids have given me more UTIs than lubes. I have taken the other necessary precautions – well, wearing cotton knickers, basically – and all that’s left is to make sure I wee and wash after sex. It’s the only thing that consistently works.
It’s not even the UTIs that are the only thing that puts me off the wet patch. It’s a wet patch, people. It goes cold on the sheets, I sleep naked, and it’s just not comfortable. It’s the bedtime equivalent of wandering into the kitchen in your best fluffy socks and treading in a puddle of milk. Then keeping the socks on all day simply because you love the feeling of cold wet fabric against your skin.
So no, sadly I won’t be lying dazed in his arms for hours after sex, gazing into the dark nothingness and enjoying the lingering throb of that last orgasm that tipped me over the edge. I won’t be laying, too exhausted to move, in the slowly-turning-to-cold-soup wet patch, leaking from me and coating my pussy, where the fluid plots its pain-filled revenge.
I’ll be slipping out of his arms in the darkness for my 5 minutes clean up in the bathroom, so I can have pleasure-filled sex on any night of the week.