As the title of this post indicates, Jill and I had sex on New Year’s Eve. That’s hardly a newsflash, you’re undoubtedly thinking. Don’t you two have sex, like, all the time?

You could be forgiven for thinking that was still the case, what with the five-part  series  published  last  year that detailed our journey into complete and total openness. I’m happy to report that for all intents and purposes we are still open, still more or less poly. However, if you follow me on Twitter or if you’ve read some of our recent TMI Tuesday posts, you might have gathered that our sex life has stalled in a profound manner of the sort I never expected. It’s likely that Jill didn’t expect it either, even though the stall was essentially her choice, a defensive emotional reaction that I suppose I can’t blame her for exhibiting.

Simply put, in addition to being a festering dumpster on a global level, 2017 did Jill and I no favors on a personal level either. The past year brought conflict and doubt to our marriage, and an almost total cessation of sexual activity between the two of us. The seeds of this rift were planted, unbeknownst to us, more than a year ago; this will presumably be the subject of an eventual blog post or series.

Though we aren’t back where we were a year and a half ago, we are likely getting closer each day. I’ve spent much of the past several months analyzing the causes of the distance we’ve been experiencing, and have come to several possible conclusions, most if not all of which are likely true. All of this helps us rebuild, and the conclusions themselves will presumably also be covered here at the blog in the future.

(Before you go touching yourself lasciviously at the thought of some sort of juicy drama, I feel compelled to warn you that of the possible causes I have discerned, the most probable are less soap opera material and more humdrum real-life stuff. There is some drama, to be sure. But a huge part of what’s happened between us is probably simple [though insidious] complacency. It happens.)

At the time that I posted the above-linked series last year, I knew that things between Jill and I weren’t where we needed them to be. But as I had only recently become aware of just how bad things had gotten and was still analyzing – and indeed still hoping the situation could be fixed – I opted to share the posts and with it a very positive experience. At worst, it was a victorious moment in time I sought to capture and share; I did not intend to deceive.

I can admit that while I was in fact still processing and analyzing the situation, my failure to blog about the situation sooner was due less to that and more to my unwillingness to disclose what was going on. I wasn’t exactly eager to prostrate myself before those who in 2012 looked to Jill and I as some sort of sexual ideal, those who read our daily blog posts and got turned on by the things we tweeted. Or worse, those whose sex life was then what ours is now, and who hoped we’d eventually find ourselves in the same clichéd sexless marriage they were experiencing.

I was hopeful, especially in the early stages, that the situation would right itself on its own, and that I could eventually write about it in hindsight, having survived and perhaps learned a valuable lesson. On some level I knew this was implausible; how many life-altering situations can be safely ignored? I’m a pragmatic man who believes in tackling any issue head-on, but I’m also conscious of how I’m perceived. Ultimately I didn’t want to let on that anything was wrong until I absolutely could not stop myself from venting on Twitter.

Anyway, at some point I’ll fill in the blanks here at the blog. For now, just know we’re okay. We’re not good yet; we’re not always stable, even. But we’re okay. And we ended 2017 with a bang. Quite literally.

Two years ago, our daughter spent the last week of her winter break with my parents; accordingly Jill and I enjoyed much alone time, and our still-prodigious sex life got a shot in the arm. (Read about it here.) This week she is there once again. Given the slowdown this year, I didn’t expect a repeat occurrence, though an unexpected instance of middle-of-the-night sex on December fourteenth – the first in four months – gave me hope that we wouldn’t waste the time we had.

On New Year’s Eve, a few hours before midnight, we found ourselves watching TV and trying to figure out how to pass the time until 2018. It didn’t occur to me to initiate sex; I’d long since gotten tired of rejection, and even if she wasn’t one to say no, I’d rather not make my wife feel pressure to comply when she’s not feeling it. And the past year showed me she rarely felt it; by my count we had sex less than a dozen times in the last twelve months.

However, after a quick sortie to the bedroom, Jill returned naked from the waist down and told me I’d have to entertain her if I expected her to stay up until midnight. Even after the year I’ve had, I’m still capable of taking a hint; I quickly lost my clothes, then helped her take off her top. We lay down on the living room floor, in front of our still-lit Christmas tree, and resumed our connection as though we’d never stopped. As though there was nothing wrong.

The sex was as good as it had ever been; it wasn’t better because of the dearth of it, nor was it any worse because of the simmering resentment or prior disconnect. There was oral sex, kissing, and dirty talk, there were hands exploring flesh, and before my climax Jill asked me to pull out and come on her tits. I gladly complied; it’s a request she made seldom, even when we fucked more regularly. And it isn’t my favorite place to let go, but the urgency of her sexual agency – hell, the existence of her sexual agency – was exciting.

Afterwards, we showered together, then resumed our previous spots on the sofa. All told, it was a nice ending to a lousy year.