Madame K is an international woman of mystery and writer of erotic fiction, who is eternally in search of the perfect mojito and the perfect orgasm, preferably at the same time. She fights for a world in which every woman can embrace their sexuality with honesty, humour, and oodles of enjoyment. This is not a sex health column, this is a sex mental health column.

When the Honeymoon Doesn’t End

Or “why do people think it’s a bad thing that we still want to shag each other all the time?”

“I just don’t get it,” my friend sighs. “At first we thought it was ‘cos you’d just got together. And then we figured maybe it was ‘cos you didn’t see each other that often. But it’s been about a year and a half now and you still can’t keep your hands off each other. What’s up with that?”

Is it a bad thing that after all this time I still want to shag my man every time I see him? Pretty much the very minute I see him? Even if I’ve just seen him an hour ago? That I feel a little tingle every time I catch his eye? That I want to hold his hand, walk like teenagers intertwined, run my fingers down his arm, let them linger in the waistband of his oh so trendy jeans? That we like to kiss, just kiss, for hours, til I’ve got stubble rash, and he’s got a crick in his neck, and neither of us notice or care because, ah, we’re in love? And it feels sooooo good.

Evidently it must be a bad thing, because it makes people Highly Suspicious. The message I keep getting loud and clear is “people in real relationships don’t have time for sex” or “obviously you’re not serious, you can’t possibly be, it’s just a physical thing” and just a little bit of “you should be spending your time on more important things, like tax returns, cocktail parties, and polishing your furniture.” People would have me believe that if I really loved my man, I wouldn’t want to have sex with him.

Now let me clarify something here: we don’t shag all day, every day. We hang out with friends. We both get huge amounts of work done. We do the shopping, all the regular stuff. It’s just that when we’re together, we like to be touching, if at all possible. Just a touch here or there. It’s like life becomes one big session of foreplay. And do you know why? It’s simple.

Because in everything we do, in every choice we make, we’re loving each other. We are making love. Yes, yes, corny, cliché, but, sorry to say, oh so true. The way he wipes the rim of my coffee mug before passing it to me is sexy. The way he traces the outline of my tattoo with his finger in the morning when he thinks I’m still asleep is sexy. The way he gets all hot and bothered playing footie and then wipes his hands on his shirt before taking mine is sexy. But also, the way he worries about me when I’m sick is sexy. The way he always remembers to buy my favourite chocolate for me is sexy. The way he makes sure things get fixed around the house is sexy. Hell, writing about him now is turning me on.

And of course I realise he’s not perfect. That’s just the point, he’s a very human being, and he’s choosing to be with me, and I, for one, think it’s not only fun, but healthy, to connect with the one you love on a physical level AS WELL as the mental and emotional ones. That in fact to dislocate any of those connections from the other would result in a dislocated relationship. That in every situation, every moment, every state, every emotion, there is something our bodies can say that the rest of us can’t. Because every time we’re apart, even for a few hours, there are things I want to say to him, that I feel imperative he needs to understand, and then, when we come back together, when we touch, I know I am just being foolish, that he knows without my telling, that he sees in my eyes and tastes in my breath and holds in his hands every worry and every care and every tear. And that, well, that’s the sexiest thing of all. And THAT is what’s up with that.