Sex. Every. Day.

We’re talking about numbers, interest rates, payment schedules; and so far I’m keeping up. But my eyes are again drawn to that familiar tuft of hair at the base of his throat, the sexy brown scruff that darkens rugged jaw from ear to ear. I’m marveling (again) at how soft it is, how it feels when his chin is nuzzling my neck or his face is buried in my ass.

He’s completely oblivious, and thinks my look of deep thought is focused on understanding bank statements. That complete lack of awareness of his easy masculinity is almost as sexy as the whorls of blond fur that cover his ripped forearms.

He’s still talking, but now I’m thinking about those arms, and how they reached over to me last night, pulled me in, held me down. I’m mesmerized by the outline of the pecs that braced my bare feet, toes curled in thick brown chest hair, as he fucked me senseless.

We’re nearly three years into this experiment: Sex every night. The results were not what we expected.

The wham-bam quickies that formed the foundation of our sex life when it was an haphazard, erection-driven, twice-weekly exercise; today those are rare. We’ve learned too much about ourselves. Now, even when we intend to just toss off a load with each other, more often than not, we find ourselves an hour later in a pungent tangle of sweaty, greasy manflesh with sleepy smiles of deep satisfaction.

Knowledge is indeed power.

Now, with cheek lying on furry muscled abs, I can spend an eternity savoring with wet fingertip or tongue that miraculous sheathe of texture, nerve endings and scent that is his foreskin. Any grief over the loss of my own is like salt on caramel; it just sweetens the blend of power, lust, and love I wield through this relatively small bit of surface area on my big muscular husband. How was that beautiful snout just a visual thing during our first decade together? How, during so many years of sucking his dick did I not get that this glorious, fragrant glove is nearly an organ unto itself? And how did he not know to tell me?

Today, my quiet husband’s throaty words for my dark, furry ass pleasure me as much as his big hairy cock. His delicious obsession with the ring of coarse black hair around my sphincter, its feel on his tongue and the sight of black strands plastered along the girth of his big pink dick on each withdrawal; my stoic love now wraps these intangibles in words rumbled hoarsely into my ear. And I am fucked at both ends; my ass with his glorious cock, my mind with his rich baritone. How did we not know, we who fell in love while writing to each other, that he could fuck me as thoroughly with his words as with his dick?

Heights of feeling and sensation that were once focused purely on penetration or orgasm are now available simply by running tongue across taint. And instead of boredom or stagnation, the steady care and feeding of our sexual selves has granted access to an unknown garden of erotic knowledge that informs every moment of every day. Sex is no longer something we do, but an expression of who we are. It’s a practice that saturates every aspect of our relationship and lives. It’s the home base we return to and the spring board we dive into the world from. And three years in, the only thing we’re absolutely sure about is that we’re still just scratching the surface.

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He’s looking at me and we both realize we're somewhere else. I’m savoring the lovely stretched feeling in my ass that is now my constant companion. A flush travels up my spine and my fingers brush the beard burn he left on my neck last night. I flash back to him rising from bed this morning. His nude athletic body and its carpet of rich, honey-colored fur running unbroken from Adam’s apple to ankles. I take in the sight of his heavy, hooded morning glory rising from fragrant brown bush and inhale the comforting wave of our smell from the covers he's tossed aside.

Without a hint of self-consciousness he squats to give our chocolate lab a good morning nuzzle and I’m presented with his broad, muscular back and a beam of morning sunlight perfectly spotlighting the even coat of fuzz across his deeply-clefted glutes. And even though my favorite parts are now concealed, even though I was thoroughly sucked and fucked just a few short hours ago; this simple act of greeting the day with a puppy snuggle sends my lust back into overdrive.

But there are schedules to keep, jobs to attend. I savor the image and lovingly file it with those of a thousand mornings previous knowing that, at some point later today, the picture of him exuding raw masculinity and sleepy boyish pleasure will resurface and, momentarily, obscure my view.

Like now.

He recognizes the look and his eyes smile. Without a word, one hand goes to his chest and a single finger dips between shirt buttons, twisting through a whorl of dark blond hair and making a slight rasp he knows makes me shiver. He has his own mental library of steamy images, and as his eyes move from smile to smirk, they lose a little focus.

I’m not sure what he’s thinking about right now – my ass, my mouth, my tongue, my cock – and after nearly two decades of marriage, that is delicious. Five years ago, I’d have been fairly sure it was all about my ass planted on his face, his dick and eventually his load, deep down my throat. That was when it was about coming.

Now it’s about indulging the raging curiosity and hunger of the sex-crazed teenaged boys that still live within each of us. It’s about savoring each other. It’s about surprising each other. We have found that safe under the warm blanket of our comfortable intimacy, we can find new ways to expose ourselves, new ways to be naked. We blow past limits we didn’t know we had to find artistry in the expression our love.

And it’s about coming.

By making sex a daily routine, we seem to have eliminated routine sex.

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