There are things nobody tells you about sex after 23 years of marriage, and there are things nobody tells you about sex during perimenopause.

Combine the two, and sex becomes less about seduction and more about catching each other on the same hormonal frequency.

My husband and I have been together long enough that there is absolutely no mystery left.

None.

This man has seen me give birth.

I have heard noises come out of his body that I will never be able to unhear.

We have witnessed stomach bugs, snoring, drooling, weight gain, gray hair, weird moles, back pain, and whatever the hell happens to your knees after forty.

At this point, there is very little either of us could do that would shock the other.

Which is actually kind of great for sex.

There’s no wondering what the other person likes. No nervous anticipation. No pretending we’re effortlessly sexy human beings who have never farted, snored, thrown out a hip, or eaten an inadvisable amount of Mexican food.

We know things about each other.

Too many things.

But after 23 years, we’ve also had plenty of time to figure out what works.

You know where everything is, you know which buttons to push.

We had a system.

Then perimenopause showed up and decided the entire operating manual was obsolete.

Suddenly, the equipment we’ve been successfully operating for decades has new requirements.

Things that used to happen automatically now require preparation. There are supplies, considerations, maybe a little stretching, definitely lubricant.

Then there’s work up to the act itself…there is a lot of talking, but not the dirty kind.

“Hang on. I need to pee.”

“Did you lock the door?”

“Where’s the lube?”

“Okay, touch me.”

“NOT THERE.”

It’s very sexy.

Then there are the hormones fluctuations, because my libido has developed a mind of its own.

Some days, my husband can walk through the room doing absolutely nothing, or he could be loading the dishwasher…and my hormones are suddenly like: THAT ONE. WE WANT THAT ONE.

Other days?

He could appear naked, freshly showered, carrying chocolate and a winning lottery ticket, and I’d be like: “That’s nice baby. Could you move? You’re blocking the TV.”

But perhaps the biggest problem with sex after 23 years of marriage and perimenopause is that we are almost never in the mood at the same time…

At all.

EVER!

We are basically living in two separate libido time zones.

When he’s ready to go, my libido has put up an OUT OF OFFICE message.

When I’m suddenly ready to climb him like a tree?

He’s tired, or busy, or just ate, or playing Fortnite.

HOW?! We live in the same house. We sleep in the same bed. We’ve been doing this for more than two decades, so statistically speaking, you would think we’d occasionally be in the mood at the same time.

But no. His libido works regular business hours…mine works nights, weekends, alternate Thursdays, and one completely random Tuesday at 2:17 in the afternoon.

There are moments when one of us looks at the other like, You wanna?

And the other one is basically: “Unfortunately, you have reached this libido outside of normal business hours. Please try your call again later.”

Then later comes, and we’ve switched.

It’s like libido phone tag.

Eventually I assume we’ll catch each other…probably sometime in November.

Then we have temperature regulation.

Sex traditionally involves body heat. This is unfortunate when your internal thermostat has been replaced by a small demon with access to a furnace.

Nothing kills the mood quite like suddenly throwing your husband off you because your body has decided we’re all going to experience the surface of the sun.

“GET OFF.”

“What happened?!”

“HOT FLASH.”

..…and after 23 years, the man knows better than to take this personally.

Sometimes I desperately want him.

Sometimes I desperately want him six inches farther away from me because his skin is generating heat and I find that offensive.

This is marriage.

Of course, our bodies are different now too.

We’re not twenty anymore. Some positions require risk assessment. We can’t just spontaneously decide to try something adventurous anymore.

You look at it and think: “Okay, but how are we getting back up?”

There are certain angles where one wrong move could turn date night into an urgent care visit.

And nothing says long-term commitment quite like stopping midway through sex because somebody’s leg cramped.

“WAIT.”

“What?”

“My calf.”

“Do you need me to stop?”

“YES. DON’T TOUCH IT.”

Then you’re both lying there naked while one person points their toes toward the ceiling and screams.

Twenty-three years ago, screaming during sex meant something entirely different.

But here’s the thing,

Sex after 23 years isn’t worse…it’s just different.

And sex during perimenopause isn’t necessarily worse either.

It’s just…significantly more complicated than it used to be.

There are changing bodies and changing hormones, aches and pains, hot flashes, strategic pillow placement…and lubricant.

There are two hormone schedules that share absolutely no access to the same calendar.

But there’s also something pretty wonderful about having sex with someone who has known your body through more than two decades of change.

Someone you don’t have to impress.

Someone you can tell, “Nope, that position has officially been retired,” without anybody’s ego collapsing, and most importantly, someone who knows that your body isn’t twenty anymore because, frankly, neither is his.

After 23 years, sex isn’t about looking perfect. It’s about knowing each other. It’s about being comfortable enough to laugh. It’s about figuring out the newest version of each other as you go.

And sometimes it’s looking across the room at the man you’ve been married to for 23 years and still thinking: Yep. I’d hit that.

Unfortunately, he’s currently asleep, and by the time he wakes up, I probably won’t be in the mood anymore.

But that’s okay, we’ll circle back next quarter.