There’s a chip in the wall opposite my bed. Many small beauty marks such as this decorate the walls of my bedroom. This particular chip has a pinkish hue underneath the vanilla cream paint. I’ve spent hours staring at it in the dull light of morning. The world will wake soon and pull me from my slumber. I can hear her strong breath hit the stiff sheets she cocooned herself in. It’s the sound heat makes on brisk mornings. I stare thinking how I would love to wrap her tighter inside her cocoon until the sound stops and the heat cools.


The force of my thought causes me to shut my eyes as if to stuff it all down into the place where we keep all dark things. Then the alarm sounds and our eyes open.

She moves quickly from underneath the covers to the edge of the bed. Coldness fills the space she once warmed. I lay there as she sits for a second. We say nothing. Then like a mechanical creature we start the routine that has passed 12 years this way. I reach for the toothpaste, she steps backwards. I bend to spit, she side steps. To get to the coffee pot between the sink and kitchen island we circle one another. It’s a dance of sorts. It has a rhythm our routine. Even the way we drive is orchestrated. She still takes the route to work one Tuesday out of every month as if she’s clocking in on time. We bob and weave out of traffic. As I pull into the parking space across from the hotel she side steps to avoid a businessman walking through the hotel door. There’s a certain beauty to our dance. But I grow tired still. And my head is beginning to ache from trying hard to keep the thoughts at bay.

I never liked speaking much. Her voice however was a sound a liked the most. Now it offends me even with the simplest sound. The sound of her chewing on her pen cap as she works her spreadsheets. The clack of her heels on the hardwood floors; I can imagine the microscopic scratches each step makes. She hasn’t even noticed. I set the plates for dinner and she clacks her way to the dining room. She removes her shoes as she sits and sighs. I imagine asking if her day was busy but I don’t feel like hearing the sound of a lie escape her lips. I say nothing and sit. Dinner is just a formality. She makes a joke and I attempt a laugh. I pass the dishes and we eat. The dance continues. We let the window up above the sink. A breeze filters through and cools the stale air.

It freshens for a moment.

Our hands touch in the soap water. I had forgotten the feeling of skin. This soft, rubber like organ that fascinates the darkest of my senses. We pause. A giggle escapes from one of us. Maybe both of us. Soapy water drips from her fingers as she tucks a braid behind her ear. A tiny purple pool sticks to the side of her neck. She must’ve forgotten to keep it hidden. I use to do that for her. Then I feel an intense need for another touch of skin. I wrap my arm around her and pull her hips to mine.

Lips find their way around each other, down necks, to chests. We find our way to bed. I had forgotten how wonderful skin feels against my skin. I know there’s a climax approaching. Her phone rings in the other room and her breathe stills. I try to bring her back to us but I can tell she’s distracted.  I release and with it the thoughts I stuffed loosen.


My hands find their to way to her rubber like neck. I want to see how much pressure it will take to warp this thing that fascinates me. A minute or two passes. Her moans turned gargles. Her hands grasping, scratching like a passionate lover. She releases.

The circle enclosing her neck begins as a soft pink then slowly fades to an angry red, then purple or maybe black. It reminds me of the pink chip in our bedroom wall. I turn from her and begin staring at it in the silence. The sun dims and moves across the room. Even the vanilla paint turns an orangish red until I am bathe in a room of crimson. I sit in it feeling more relaxed than I know I should but somehow it all feels like home now.


Great sex after a hard day is indescribably wonderful.



There are so many mental, emotional, and physical benefits to shaking the sheets like lowered stress levels, improved job/life satisfaction, even headache relief. We could talk all day about the goodness a hefty orgasm brings us but I want to flip the script and discuss how sex is often used to combat things better addressed by other forms of therapy. Because sex can be therapy but it is NOT a real therapist.


Therapy Supplement

We use sex. When given the opportunity we let it be a distraction, stress reliever, a filter for our unfiltered emotions. We allow sex to be the conductor of our frustrations, aggression, and anxiety. Instead of using our words to discuss the argument, we choose to have makeup sex. We release our anger in an acceptable way with angry sex. We even use it to express that “I love you” we’re too afraid to speak or as a way to boost our self-esteem in feeling desired and wanted.

More often though, many of us use sex as a way to wax over the scars that we never pay attention to. Our sex lives become our primary way of dealing with difficult emotions that we’d rather not focus on. Hard day at work?…we hit the hay with someone we find attractive. We do this instead of exploring our emotions. We substitute talking for kissing. Crying for moaning. Cursing for…well nvm both use that one. You get my point.

Sex becomes our means of therapy but this form of therapy never heals the scars simply because it never even acknowledges their existence.

Having an inactive sex life doesn’t disqualify you from this conversation. There have been times in my life where I found myself avoiding sex as a way to “protect myself.” I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with abstinence or restraint but my reasons often highlighted my fear of opening up to others in any real intimate way. Because sex is an intimate act for me I use it as a gauge when dealing with others.

When we find ourselves using sex in copious amounts or avoiding it altogether we should take a minute to inventory our emotions.


The therapy of talking is just as cathartic as the therapy of bumping uglies.

Inventory Your Emotions

Take a minute to think about your current emotions. Focus on the “why” behind those emotions. Now, think about your sex life or lack thereof. Are you satisfied with the connection between the two? Is there a connection? Now think about the last time you spoke with someone you lay with about your emotions. Are you satisfied with that connection?

Sorry to be all up in your business, trust me, I’m all up in mine too.




Real Talk Therapy

Sometimes real therapy doesn’t have to come with a mountain of degrees. Real therapy could just be talking to another person about how you’re feeling and what you’re thinking. Real therapy is choosing not to stuff it all down and release it in the bedroom but to inventory your emotions. Expressing them through multiple forms of therapy including sex. Knowing when to knock the bedframe loose and when to take a moment to discuss your frustrations is an important skill. The therapy of talking is just as cathartic as the therapy of bumping uglies. Nothing replaces a need for a conversation like a conversation. Not sex, not video games, not even shopping. When it’s time to use talk therapy no other forms of therapy will truly satisfy.


sex can be therapy but it is NOT a real therapist.


As we get older, our ways of coping will only solidify themselves as habits. We should ensure that those coping habits are truly helping us live our best lives. Ultimately speaking with a professional counselor or therapist when life becomes too much helps to not only get us on the road toward a healthier life but a healthier sex life as well. No, sex is not a real therapist but sometimes you don’t need one. Sometimes you just have to be honest enough with yourself to know that your use of sex in blocking other internal struggles isn’t healthy.

When in doubt, talking with someone you trust gives you another beneficial release just like sex does. It’s all about balance. This conversation is meant to ensure that our sexual actions are intentional, fun, and only one form of therapy that we use for our emotions.

Let’s sex with a purpose.