"We are more loving, more affectionate, more patient and more playful together." Photo / Getty Images
Not only has the sex itself vastly improved, a reader says, but her whole relationship has been rebooted.
On the wall of our kitchen, near the Nespresso machine and neatly categorised recipe cards, hangs The Calendar. I bet many family’s weeks are still dictated in this analogue way because isn’t there something soothing about physically writing and ringing in reminders? Ours has five columns: one for me; my husband; our two girls, 15 and 12; and, in the absence of a third child, the labradoodle.
On Thursday mornings, between 8:45am and 10:15am, is a blocked-out box in the Mum and Dad columns with “admin”, accompanied by a smiley face or star, depending on our mood. We’ve had this diary date for eight months now and only my husband Stephen* and I know what it means: sex.
Yes, we actually diarise this most basic of marital acts. And, yes, I, too, would have shuddered at the thought a year ago. But it’s revolutionised our 17-year marriage. Before then, sex, for me, had sunk to the level of de-scaling the shower head – necessary to keep things flowing, but still a chore in which I hardly relished.
Once upon a time, we’d sneak off at parties together and make love in the sea giggling as Brighton OAPs swam past, but our relationship had reached the stage where I’d freeze if Stephen so much as put his arms around my hip in the bathroom in case it meant he wanted sex.
We bickered about everything from the frequency of visiting in-laws to whether our eldest was allowed a party with alcohol (a strict no from me; an irritating “lighten up” from him).
That’s not to say I didn’t love my faithful, funny husband – who still has decent triceps at 51. But in between raising the girls, precarious freelance careers and a hefty mortgage on our south London terrace, sex and romance had ground almost to a halt. We had morphed into housemates who happened to share the same taste in box sets.
However, having seen enough friends’ marriages hit the skids when sex dries up, I did not want this for us.
I also knew in my heart that much of Stephen’s recent grumpiness could be blamed on our lack of bedroom action – he’s not a complex man.
It was one Friday night over rosé with two girlfriends – one newly single, discovering the joys of a younger man, the other in therapy with her husband – that the idea was first floated.
“I’m surprised you don’t schedule sex, Naomi?*” joked friend A as I bemoaned my lacklustre marriage. “You’re so anal about everything else!” I bristled slightly as they poked fun at my colour-coded fridge organisation, but, admittedly, I am that woman.
I raised it with Stephen on a walk the next day. “You want to put it in the diary?” he snorted. “Should I block out time between bin night and your mother’s call?”
“Yes,” I tartly replied. “Thursday. 9:30pm, once the kids are in bed and before you start snoring.”
“Cool,” he shrugged. “Present me with a feedback form afterwards.”
Despite my spouse’s lukewarm enthusiasm, he agreed. He also knew we needed to address this. But that first Thursday wasn’t wildly successful. We did it, but the sex itself felt a bit stilted. We did fall asleep holding hands in bed, however, which we hadn’t done in months.
The next week we were both ratty after work and parents’ evening. That’s when Stephen suggested we try Thursday morning “sexy time” instead, when the kids are at school and we both work from home.
I was dubious as mornings are when I get things done, but also I was touched he was trying, so it was agreed. It felt so madly out of character to be “bunking off” and going back to bed at 9am that we giggled at the absurdity of it – and while the sex wasn’t earth-shattering, it made me remember us as the carefree, more naughty couple we once were.
That was back in January, and now, with the exception of sickness, we’ve honestly kept to this weekly routine ever since. And I promise you, not only has the sex itself vastly improved (which seemed unthinkable last year), but our whole relationship has been rebooted.
We’ve perfected the drill now: we batch-cook the night before so we get a night off kitchen duty, and Stephen knows that I don’t really relax in a messy bedroom, so, without me asking, he picks up his dirty socks and even started buying flowers or beautiful-smelling candles for the room. It sounds small, but these things make a difference to my mood.
I’ve appreciated that he shaves the night before, too, not just his face but all the bits and bobs that sprout madly in midlife from places you don’t want them. I’ve found myself buying some better underwear, if not Agent Provocateur then at least “comfort with ambition”, perhaps. We send each other flirty texts some Wednesdays, with rude emojis, in anticipation. And the odd quickie in the week is no longer unheard of.
We are more loving, more affectionate, more patient and more playful together. It’s not that our Thursday mornings have been overtaken by Ann Summers sex toys (though we have tried a bit of that), the game-changer is really that our time is ring-fenced to talk and laugh more (midlife sex is rather funny, let’s face it) and “check in” with each other.
Stephen is less snappy with me, which we’ve since discussed and established that he felt like he was bottom of my to-do list – which, to some extent, he was. Now, if he kisses the back of my neck, or squeezes my bum, I don’t tense up, I smile. I know it’s a tender gesture, not a point he’s making about wanting sex. We actually kiss properly, with open mouths, not just perfunctory pecks on the cheek.
Instead of spontaneous sex, I suppose we now have the “intentional” kind (pass the sick bucket). And we now protect those special 90 minutes, always clearing the air about domestic niggles so neither one is nursing resentment. If we can’t have that time slot for any reason, we reschedule it. Because it’s in the diary now, it matters.
I couldn’t have predicted any of these other benefits before we gave sex scheduling a go.
Not everyone gets it. My friends say it’s “unsexy” and use it as further proof I’m uptight. But I smile along, smug in the knowledge that my marriage is on track, thank you.
Stephen, unsurprisingly, is fully converted and loves the fact he’s “getting more” than the average married man (and with his own wife). He compares it to his running routine. “I don’t always feel like doing it,” he admitted last week, as we lay in a post-coital tangle. “But I’m always glad I did.”
Which, frankly, is the most romantic thing he’s said since 2015. We must be doing something right.
*Names have been changed
– As told to Susanna Galton