How Much Sex Is Too Much?

This weekend, the unthinkable happened. 

My boyfriend told me we were having too much sex. 

My boyfriend--a living, breathing, young, healthy, always-ready, typically-randy man--told me we were having too much sex. 

Truth be told, it came as a shock. Jeff and I live a few hundred miles apart, he in Los Angeles, me in San Francisco, and see each other every two or three weeks; whenever I see him, I feel like we're making up for lost time. And our reunions are generally explosive and fantastic.

Last Friday, he'd just gotten into town, I'd made a quick dinner, he opened some wine, and we sat on my couch watching a cable movie we'd both seen. I leaned over and kissed him. He kissed back. I leaned in for another kiss. He patted my head. I put a hand on his leg. But he wrapped me in a huge, chaste bear hug and sighed.

"Lindsay... do you ever feel like we have too much sex?" 

I blinked twice. This, from him? 

"I mean, not that I don't love it. It's fantastic. It's the best I've ever had. I just... well, sometimes I just want to hold you. And cuddle. Like this. We don't always have to have sex. We do have a lot." 

Wow. 

I had never thought that a guy in general, or Jeff in particular, could really get enough. I realize, of course, that the idea of males as sex-crazed addicts is a gross stereotype; I certainly don't assume that Jeff is always thinking about sex. But in my experience, I'd turned him down much more than he'd said no to me. He always seemed ready to go. So had we really started having too much sex? 

Talking it over with Jeff, as I lay there in his arms, I told him that I felt closest to him when making love. We were extremely compatible, and we both loved our physical adventures together; sex was something that truly did bring us together. And Jeff agreed. But sometimes, he confided, he was afraid of our relationship becoming too sexual. "When we go at it too much," he said, "sometimes I'm afraid it's all we can do. And I don't want to feel that way with you." 

So we kissed, and he stroked my hair, and I suggested Monopoly. We finished the wine and giggled in friendly competition as the game swung back and forth. About an hour later, we both grew bored. He scooted around the table and started to kiss me again... this time, with intent. 

It only took him an hour or so to come around. But as we came together that night, I knew more than ever before that our relationship wasn't just about sex to him. Or to me, either. And knowing that, the sex was better than ever. 

To Call, Or Not To Call?

In my single days, my cell phone was a constant source of anxiety. After a date, or two or three, I'd want to call the guy I'd just had a great evening with--to say hello, to reconnect, to move things along. But how soon was too soon? Could I call the next day? If he'd called the day before, could I call back? But what if I had been the last one to call? 

Faced with one of these dilemmas, open phone in hand, I would feel about fifteen years old. If you want to call him, my more mature self said, just call. I had the hardest time trusting my own judgment. In every aspect of my life, I was confident, self-assured, almost headstrong. But when it came to pursuing relationships, I became a waffling, weak-kneed mess. 

Fast-forward to today. My boyfriend Jeff lives 500 miles away, so aside from our weekends together, we communicate phone-to-phone.  I'm finally in a relationship where I feel secure; I know one errant phone call won't shake either of our convictions and love. Neither will minor annoyances, or a silly fight, or even a full-scale argument. 

Yet there are nights when I pick up the phone and give it a second glance before dialing his number. While Jeff is always glad to hear from me, he's a single-track mind kind of guy: if he's busy with work, or his pickup basketball team, or his college buddies, he might forget to give me a ring. I'm just wired differently: no matter how busy my life can be, he's generally floating somewhere inside my head.

So I'm usually the one to call him. And as deeply as I know that he loves me, I can't shake the feeling that I'm somehow bothering him. That too many phone calls will look desperate. That I'll look too needy, or too attached. And that my care and concern--or even just the ring of his cellphone--will somehow scare him away. 

And I don't think I'm the only girl to feel this way. My best girlfriend confided that she often felt too clingy when she called her boyfriend for no particular reason--even though they, too, have been together for years. "I just hate to think that he'd see my number pop up on his cell phone... and he wouldn't want to answer," she sighed. "That thought scares me more than anything. So sometimes I don't call." 

What is this fear of showing affection? Perhaps it stems from years of being single, when playing the game was all-important, and showing interest too early really might capsize an otherwise promising connection. Perhaps I'm still getting used to being truly loved--not unconditionally, I suppose, but not provisionally, either. And perhaps we, as girls, do tend to care more, do tend to want more time on the phone or sweet little notes or kisses before work--and acknowledging that desire scares us to death. 

But whatever the reason, I still sigh with relief every time my phone rings and it's Jeff on the line. He's calling me. The ball's out of my court.