Not Always in the Mood: The New Science of Men, Sex, and Relationships

September 25th, 2020

Not Always in the Mood: The New Science of Men, Sex, and Relationships
$15 from Amazon

Sex and science are my butter and bread. I think my readers know this already. Though, I have sadly fallen behind on Science of Sex posts.

Still, don’t fear! Because I’m here to talk to you about an entire book about science and sex, and one that aims to examine something that we take for granted: male sexual desire.

In Not Always in the Mood, author Sarah Hunter Murray relies on her experience as a couples’ sexual therapist to delve into the complexities of male sexual desire and bring a more nuanced look of the subject — mostly.

This is a caveat that I need to address and early on. In her work, Murray works with couples. She specifically mentions men in their 30s through 60s. While it’s a pretty wide range, these men are presumably in relationships, and she doesn’t mention men in their 20s at all. I think the title and tone of this book suggest all men, but there’s clearly a large swath of them who are left out. And while it can be reassuring to learn that, yes, men are human, too, and their desire reflects that, not explicitly stating who she talked to for this book may lead some readers astray. Men who are younger or prefer casual sex over relationships might differ from the men who Murray talked to. Namely, they may not be as invested in their partner’s emotional and physical satisfaction. If those partners think this information applies to those men, I can see them being let down.

In short? This book might better be subtitled “The New Science of Some Men, Sex, and Relationships.” I wish that were explicit.

In her book, Sarah Hunter Murray tackles common myths about men, sexuality, and desire. As the reader dives in, they’ll see that Murray’s research is qualitative and not quantitative. She crafts amalgamated stories from her past clients and sometimes uses quotes. It’s helpful to know when sentiment has been frequently expressed by her clients. For example, they want their partners to initiate sex more often or sometimes find their desire has waned for no discernible reason.

But I cannot help but wonder if it would often be even more useful to see some hard numbers along with this qualitative evidence. Murray’s research almost seems incomplete without that. Right now, Not Always in the Mood is interesting and helpful to a select group of people, but it doesn’t feel groundbreaking. It’s reassuring. It might spark some conversations. But it’s all sort of common sense.

With that said, we all know that common sense isn’t always that common. Maybe too many buy into the beliefs that men always want sex or measure masculinity by the strength of an erection. These reminders are useful. I can imagine scenarios where I would recommend this book. It’s certainly cheaper than therapy. And once people start viewing male desire with more nuance, they may spread that knowledge to others: partners, friends, even children.

Not Always In the Mood isn’t the perfect book for everyone, however. Despite a disclaimer that it can be useful to those who aren’t straight or cisgender in the beginning of the book, it’s really heternormative. I would hesitate to recommend it to anyone who isn’t straight or cis.

Furthermore, while the author mentions some sexual research, she never really uses scientific terminology, the type which I have discussed on this blog in the past, that might tie her research into existing research on sex and relationships. In several instances, it would have been worth mentioning and comprising spontaneous and responsive desire by name, yet Murray did not. The dual-control method would have fit right in, too. In fact, she did mention Emily Nagoski, whose book Come As you Are, discusses both topics. It would have been a great way to show the similarities, between men and women to hammer home the idea of men as being just as complex and human as women, but this book never reached that point. Perhaps Murray thought the concepts weren’t basic enough for her readers. Or maybe she wasn’t personally familiar with them.

I don’t feel like I am worse off for reading Not Always in the Mood, but it may not be the ideal book for me, a lover of science who has mostly casually sleep with men in their 20s. I would love to have seen some statements made that applied to men more generally, coupled up or not. Quantitative evidence would give this book an edge, too. On the other hand, maybe I just wish it had a different subtitle. For example..

Not Always in the Mood: The Truth About Men’s Desire in Relationships

Okay, so it’s a work in progress. But it’s a bit less misleading.

I know I’ve gone on about this at some length, but I think that these things matter. Had this book simply suggested it was about lessons on male desire from the POV of a couples’ therapist, I would have had different expectations.

Frankly, that angle is precisely what the reader gets, and it’s valuable. Sure, the idea that men want to be wanted, too, have hangups about their penis size or looks, or that their desire is impacted by stress might be common sense if you stop to think about it, but people don’t think about these things as much as they should. We can use another authoritative voice speaking on these things.

Sarah Hunter Murray might yet come to be that authority, but I don’t think she quite proves it in Not Always in the Mood: The New Science of Men, Sex, and Relationships. This may not prevent the book from helping some people, but it may not help as many people as it could if Murray had taken a different approach.

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Categories: Books

On one hand, lemons

November 10th, 2017

I don’t know when I first stumbled across Dr Emily Nagoski’s post on Lemonade Sex. I think I began reading her blog after I read her book. I’ve continued to read and references her work since then.

If you’re not familiar with Dr. Emily, she’s an expert on sex whom I greatly respect. Teaching and speaking about sex are her day job and, I suspect, her passion. Among her work is a relationship guide, and her post on lemonade sex starts with the following sentiment:

I spend a chunk of time talking about coping in my relationship guide because it turns out that effectively coping with stress is quite possibly the most important thing you can do to improve your sex life.

I believe you, doc.

Dr. Nagoski goes on to explain how stress can kill one person’s libido or raise another’s. And it wreaks havoc on your relationships. This is where coping comes into play. Coping is all about taking the hand you’ve been dealt and making the most of it or, you know, making lemonade out of sour lemons.

The good doctor recommends having sex with your partner even when you’re too stressed to really want it. It doesn’t need to be amazing but maybe could be. And you don’t do it because you’re expected or you feel obligated to do it for your partner. Lemonade sex isn’t about how sex is good for you. 

Lemonade sex paints having sex like flexing a muscle to keep it strong or maintaining something even though you’re not actively using it. Emily compares it to eating vegetables, something that people rarely like but that they do because it’s good for them — just like lemonade sex.

And the analogy to veggies works for me because eating them isn’t amazing, but the energy is. I’ll periodically ingest something with tomatoes (okay, technically a fruit) or spinach that’s so tasty that I feel legitimately excited over something that’s good for me.

I’ve been there with sex, too. The slumps with my ex-husband were never more than a few weeks and less so related to a lack of desire and more due to a lack of habit. It’s easier to fall out of the habit of something, even sex and even if you’re a pretty sexual person, than we always realize.

So I’d throw my ex a bone, and sometimes he would me. I found that this bone, or lemonade sex, worked in exactly the way that Dr. Emily predicted. Where my body went, my head followed, even though it hadn’t been in the game just a few moments before (she describe this as responsive desire). A similar thing happens when I watch someone I’m in a relationship with masturbate. I think I’m only an audience member but find myself drawn to willing participation in short order.

The concept of lemonade sex is one that’s controversial, and Emily admits this in her blog post. No one is suggesting anything that’s nonconsensual.  It’s important that if you have lemonade sex, you do it for you, because it’s beneficial for yourself, and not your partner. I think that’s the emphasis that Emily is trying to make toward the end of her post.

That’s also what’s stuck with me since I originally read this post. The kneejerk reaction might be to view lemonade sex as something that’s negative and potentially blurs the lines of consent, but I certainly think that it’s useful to consider whether throwing someone else a bone is really throwing yourself a bone in the long run.

Check out Dr. Emily’s post about lemonade sex on the Dirty Normal, and stay for her other insights into sex.

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Categories: Everything Else

I’m Not In Love And That’s Weird

March 22nd, 2017

I’m always in love, aren’t I?

I’m always falling or fallen and pained because of it. There’s always someone. A person. Him. Occasionally Her.

For over half my life. Nearly every day of every year.

I am good at being in love, even if I am not good at being in a relationship.

But I am not in love now.

I haven’t been, not for a year. Give or take (and it usually is take).

I am infatuated with dead celebrities. Attracted to assholes who are terrible in bed. Curious about new people. But I am not in love.

That is okay, of course. I don’t always have to be in love. Sometimes I don’t even want to be in love.

But you can become accustomed to things that you don’t want or need. We do it all the time, even when we shouldn’t. Especially when we shouldn’t.

So when I realized that I wasn’t in love and that this is the longest stretch in my entire adult life where I haven’t been in love, it gave me pause.

Still, it feels good. Somehow. I am not in love, but I know I will yet again fall in love. I can look forward to the good (and brace myself for the bad) of falling in love.

I am something of a fresh slate, ready to be written. Then crossed off and erased. Modified and corrected. Maybe it’ll even be a happy story for a time.

Either way, it’ll be fodder for this blog. For my writing.

I’m not in love now. That’s okay. I’ve got time.

It’ll happen sooner than we all think, anyway.

 

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Categories: Dating

She, Tigress

February 22nd, 2015

When my best friend talks about her marriage, it’s as though she’s describing life as a caged tiger in a zoo. But she wasn’t plucked from her homeland by hunters who wanted to make a quick buck and fast. Rather, she followed the metaphorical steak, so tantalizing that it usurped her entire field of vision, right into that cage. And she was the one who locked it tight after the door swung shut.

My best friend, the tiger, spends most of her time lamenting about unhappiness inside the cage. Yet, she sees no way to make her escape. Not only has she locked the door behind her, but the things that happen once one marries — financial burdens and children specifically — have piled up on the inside of that door, making it seem all bit impossible that she could even escape.

After some eight years of marriage, three children, moving across the world and back and no less than three Army bases, she has begun to lose some of her luster. Her hair is thinning. She looks more haggard than ever before. We play, but not as frequently as before and, perhaps more importantly, it lacks a certain sense of freedom that we once shared. This, I imagine, is similar to the tiger’s life in captivity. His stripes will be a little less intense. His fur will be less shiny. He might mope around, or he may do nothing at all.

My friend’s thoughts of liberation are confused at best. She fiercely wants to protect her cubs. From the cruel world outside. From her husband and their terrible never-ending fights and sometimes, I suspect, from her own self. It cannot be an easy slavery. She describes the lack of romance from her husband. Sex occurs rarely. I suspect he views physical coupling as a way for them to connect. She does not. He must coerce her. The times that their romps have been notable she can count on one hand. I cannot imagine a sex life so dismal.

And I would be remiss if I called her husband her captive. I think, if I am being honest, he is like another animal. I am not entirely sure that he is a tiger she like, and this might be where the problems arise. But he is also a caged beast, and like most beasts, he does not know how to communicate his thoughts or feelings. Instead, he emits a roar loud enough to get attention but perhaps too feeble to get anything done.

Thus, the pair of them, with their litters, lives in a cage from which they both would like freedom but neither of them are sure how to escape. Truth be told, they’re not entirely sure what freedom looks like anymore. and that scares them. They’ve been together for most of a decade, and the world outside their cage surely doesn’t resemble their lives before their mating in any way. Freedom is change, and change is terrifying.

Isn’t it unfortunate, then, that everyone on the outside of the cage feels so sorry for these two? My heart breaks for my best friend, but she is in part master of her own captivity. The boulders against the door are as much in her head and, from the outside, I can see that the key has never been removed from the lock. All she has to do is reach around to open the door.

Scary? Absolutely. I’ve been in a similar position, and looking forward was nigh impossible given how terrifying it was. Damning? Hardly. Here I stand, on the other side, ready to hold her hand and help her to take her first shaky steps on new legs. If only she would stand up first.

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Categories: Everything Else

My Sex Life Can Legally Vote

February 3rd, 2015

And marry. And it can drink in Japan.

That is, to say, I’ve been a consciously sexual being since I was around 8 years old. Give or take.

I don’t remember the first time I masturbated exactly. I remember simply grinding against balled up blankets — never pillows — until I became sweaty and hot and felt finished. In hindsight, that must have been an orgasm. But either I didn’t know the word or maybe it really wasn’t. Perhaps I felt some sort of other closure. And I would stop for the night.

Some twenty years later, I occasionally find myself getting off in the same way. I almost-but-not-quite wake up in the middle of the night, reach down for a corner of my blanket and grind against it for dear life. I’ve always been a fan of grinding.

Of course, it’s not the only routine in my repertoire now, but that’s how this all got started. I was still in the single digits, and I was humping blankets when I was supposed to be sleeping. I suppose I became bolder, sometimes doing it during the day time. I recall masturbating in my best friend’s bed one night while she talked in the other room. I couldn’t quite remember where her brother was. I was relieved to know he wasn’t in the room.

I remember, in high school, masturbating with the door to my room not quite closed. Could someone in the living room see the movement of my feet and legs and guess what was happening even though I wasn’t making a noise?

It wasn’t that I was a voyeur. I was just a horny teenager, and I couldn’t resist if the mood strike. And strike it did — hard and often.

During my teen years, I spent countless hours in chatrooms talking to boys, men, women. Cyber sex, they called it. Back then, it was simply erotic roleplaying. There were no photos and videos, not really. People would try to encourage them, but I wasn’t comfortable in my skin in any way shape or form. During those times, the blood would rush to my clit and my G-spot, making me feel like I had to pee. I read plenty of articles about G-spot stimulation, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t impending orgasm. I just mistook the equivalent of blue balls as a different sort of bodily fluid.

I experimented with technique during these times. I once read that you could use the handle of a Venus razor as an impromptu dildo. I tried. It wasn’t necessarily pleasurable and I freaked out when I realized I was bleeding. I was never entirely sure if it was a cut from vigorous thrusting of a first-time penetrator or if that was my hymen. It didn’t hurt, and neither did sex for the first time. I didn’t give it much thought. I was happy to be masturbating and having sex.

I guess there must have been other household objects, but nothing stuck. It was that blanket or nothing. At some point, I added in fingers to rub my clit, which afforded me the opportunity to jack off wherever the hell I wanted. Eventually, the feeling-like-I-needed-to-pee sensation would fade away, and I’d forget about it.

It wasn’t until 10 years after I started masturbating that I bought my first sex toy, a purple jelly beast. In hindsight, it might have been a bit large. But I used it for a couple years, and it worked for several years after that without the purple glitter jelly leaking. I was surprised. I enjoyed this toy internally and externally, but it wasn’t doing me any favors. I can now recognize that my body just wasn’t used to masturbating in different ways.

I decided that I need clitoral stimulation, too, and plopped down money on another purple beast: the Rabbit Habit. In less than a month’s time, I had broken it because my tendency was to pull the base upward, forcing the shaft to bend. I bought another, not realizing the dubious construction or materials were something that should prevent me from doing so. I hadn’t ever thought about silicone, even though the original Form 6 had already been added to my wishlist.

The second rabbit eventually broke, too, but because loose beads are simply a terrible idea. But between the two bunnies, I had managed to have a toy-induced orgasm. Except, I had no fucking idea what it was. The quick contractions of my vagina felt like an alien, and that’s literally how I described it to a Livejournal group I was part of. Some women replied with “Yes! That’s an orgasm.” Others thought I should see a doctor.

I spend a lot of time researching whether or not a person, especially a woman, could have an orgasm and not realize it. Weren’t they all supposed to be toe-curling and earth-shattering? Mine surely weren’t. In fact, to this day, I’d still describe them as somewhat perfunctory. There have certainly been some pleasurable orgasms, but they’re notable, not frequent.

A few more shitty toys, including pocket rockets, would call my makeshift converted shoebox home before I would finally upgrade to something better, mostly thanks to this blog.  I still focus on clitoral stimulation, and I often use nothing more than my fingers despite my growing collection.

Rabbit after rabbit followed. An interesting night with k-balls and the Miracle Massager led to me squirting for the first time, awakening my G-spot. Or perhaps re-awakening it and reminding me of sensations I had experienced but learned to fight years before.

The years following would include more clitoral and G-spot vibrators, glass, wood, stainless steel and various ceramic toys. Several of those years were spent with my ex-husband.

5 years ago, my marriage started to crumble. Although masturbation was much the same, my sex life would change forever when the divroce was finalized a little over 4 years ago. For months, I would struggled to be aroused and masturbate without fantasizing about my ex, an issue I still face when dealing with heartbreak.

For three years, I would remain sexually celibate. It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, but I also didn’t want to deal with the hassle that came with romance and/or sex. I was sick of terrible first dates. And for nearly two of those years, the hot geek was unintentionally breaking my heart.

2 years ago, I finally left my celibacy behind. I was glad to have broken the fast, but it didn’t enhance my sex life. My drive might have been kicked alive once more, but the very act that was the catalyst for this change also opened my eyes to the fact that there would be no coming back for seconds with this person.

Just under 2 years ago, I would begin a haphazard romantic and sexual relationship with the bartender. There were as many highs as there were lows, but the sex was some of the best in my life. It brought out parts of me that I hadn’t understood or perhaps had even hidden from light for years. I felt whole and I finally understood that my sexuality can never be quite complete without a partner.

1 day, 1 week, 1 month from now, I don’t know how my sex life might look. I can imagine. I can hope that the next time I have sex, it will satiate me in every way. But if there’s anything that the past two decades have taught me, it’s that the life my sexuality takes on is bigger, bolder and better than I can imagine.

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Categories: Everything Else

Love, Yourself

November 19th, 2014

They say you have to love yourself before others can love you. Or maybe they say you need to love yourself first, before you can love another. And no doubt that a love shared between people who love and respect themselves with be a truer and more respectful love, but they don’t tell you how people will love you anyway. And you’ll love others, too. It will be messier because you’re so far from self-actualization, but this won’t make it any less powerful.

And you won’t be able to let people truly love you as long as you don’t believe you’re deserving of it. Sometimes, they’ll walk away. But some people, people like myself, with love you all the harder because of it, because of the potential we see in you, the light of hope in your eyes.

People will get hurt. It’s inevitable. Even people who know they’re hoping against hope in a reality that just can’t cater to them. Even when no one wants to get hurt. Even when, at the end of the day, there could be love between people. People get hurts.

I guess that’s life. I suppose it’s easier to sing along with that lesson as an Alanis song than to learn it yourself, especially when it takes so many times for that lesson to really sink it. i’m not entirely sure why that is. Perhaps it’s just hard to be a realistic when you have the heart of an optimist. Maybe I am doomed to always see the best in people even if, in reality, they’re more likely to hut me than to be their best.

How many more times do I ignore warning signs, I wonder, before I turn off this path?

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Categories: Dating, Everything Else, The Bartender

You First

November 21st, 2013

I never say “I love you” first. I always say it in reply to someone else. This is probably for a couple reasons.

I fight falling in love. I fall too quickly, so the logical part of my argues with myself. “This can’t be love.” Eventually, it tuns to “Well, it’s not going away. Maybe this is love.” Eventually I resign myself to the fact that I am in love. “Fuck. It’s love. Now what?”

There’s also a safety in being the second person to say those three “little” words. I’ll let you bare yourself first, thank-you-very-much. Because waiting for someone else gives me time to figure myself out. It also means I don’t have to be vulnerable first. While I want someone with whom I can be vulnerable, I’m ultimately more afraid of rejection. If I let you go first, it’s okay to say “I love you.”

This all ties into the fact that I come off as reserved when it comes to things that I love. Music, movies, TV, games.. it’s all the same. You wouldn’t know that I am OMG obsessed with something unless you know me really well. I keep my cool. I keep my cool because it helps me retain control or, perhaps, the illusion of control. Because I can’t control anything else, only the way that I react. So I’m not going to throw myself at someone. At least, I’m going to try my very best not to. And when I find that control slipping, I feel angry at myself. So if I’m going to lose control and have a frivolous, emotional outburst such as “I love you”.. it really has to be a safe place.

This is partly due to the fact that I have expressed love — of people and things and ideas — and I’ve been made of for it. I’ve received flack from people whom I loved, from the very people who I expected that I wouldn’t have to be reserved around. Nothing hurts quite like the hurt from the person to whom you said “I do.” And maybe it’s not necessarily healthy or helpful to keep my cool, to hide parts of me. When I say it like that, it’s obvious that it’s all some sort of defense mechanism.

Even now, I think I owe the bartender an announcement of “I love you,” but I can’t quite put my finger on “Why?” and I certainly haven’t figured out the “How?” It all seems so sudden, so abrasive when I have to say it first.

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Categories: Everything Else

Image © MisterUnlucky; used with permission.