A young and rather beautiful friend of mine once said to me, “I don’t understand it. I’ve been living with (Dickwit – but I think she said Paul) for three years now, and I just don’t fancy him any more. What’s gone wrong?”
Easy peasy answer. Time has gone wrong. The clock starts ticking the first time you gaze into those blue/brown/grey/bloodshot eyes and scream to yourself, bloody hell, get your clothes off right this second.
Hormones have an inbuilt clock. They are like little timepieces, jumping around and waving their little hands around, applauding all the fun everyone’s having when they first fall in lust. When the time’s up, they stop waving and start skulking about looking for trouble. Or someone else to fancy.
I should take bets from new lovers on how long their passion will last. I’d make a fortune!
Who can believe this fabulous longing for sex 24/7 will ever end? How is it possible this desire to climb into each other’s every orifice will fade? It’s so strong, it could move a ten ton truck with one pelvic thrust, so go away with your miserable predictions and knowing looks. We’re in LOVE, and it’s FOREVER. So THERE.
Just hand over the hundred quid, sister, and come back and see me in three years time when you wonder where your mojo went.
Then I can tell you those soft romantic lightbulbs pop when the three year span is up. Instead, on comes the strip lights and there we stand, every part of us exposed to the cruel white beam. Not only are we in its full glare, but the scales fall from our eyes too.
Now you see the weird shoulder blades, smell the bad breath, notice the hairs in the shower. The charming way she slurps her coffee now grates on the nerves. The way he picks his nails when he’s nervous isn’t an “aw” moment any more. It’s a yuk one.
So the little hormone clocks are sulking and sex flies out of the window. The wandering hand, the nibble on the ear, the lusty gaze no longer turn on, and we switch off. The stroking we once found so arousing grates on the nerves like nails on a blackboard. How could we have been so blind, we ask ourselves. What has happened to those feelings which made us lust and foam and long for that body, that touch, those lips every minute of every day and every night?
If you happen to be married, it’s a very nasty shock. The words “until death do us part” ring out, along with “forsaking all others”. Forever is a bloody long time.
If you’re not married, or committed, then why not step on the jolly merry-go-round of the Three Year Cycle Ride. It keeps the hormones happy and you just get a new one when the old one’s stopped your clocks. Not so good when you’re collecting your pension, but hey, hitting the sack with a fellow crinkly might not be so bad. You could take up ironing together.