There are those who don’t like change. A consistent life, in the office at 8, out at 5. Lunch at Mr V’s on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Friday night, leave the office half an hour early. Anticipation, he drives home a bit above the speed limit. He manages not to get a ticket.

Again.

A favorite meal, smiles across the candle-lit dinner table. A familiar face. Has she changed? Yes, of course. Thirty-seven years will do that. But changes so slow that only the Kodachrome photos on one side of the room from the many vacations to the Oregon Coast – every year during the first week in June, because it is off season and the room costs less – only those photos admit the aging process.

That steak was perfect, so was the baked potato, and he takes her hand in that familiar way, and leads her into the gently lit bedroom. Her modesty is as unchanging as her smile and her turquoise eyes, but she allows the bit of light he needs to unbutton her blouse, peel it over one shoulder, then the other. He kisses her soft and long, and unsnaps her bra. She acts surprised as it pops open, and they laugh.

They enter the bed, from the same side, and he disappears under the blanket. Her hips jerk when he opens them and presses his tongue deep into her. He knows every trigger, plays every note to perfection like a musician with his favorite song; it’s the one piece he plays every time he practices. Two orgasms shudder from her, and he’s so hard the tip of his rod pokes his abdomen. She feels so warm and soft as he slowly enters her, and posts up on his strong arms, and luxuriates in her body. She rolls like waves on the beach, bends his rod just the way he likes, circles his tight sac with her middle finger and he nearly comes too fast; she lets him off the hook. He wags his finger in front of her face, and she bites it.

They collapse together, encircle each other’s bodies tightly with intertwined arms. They move in a perfect rhythm and the old box spring sings in perfect time. They can’t last long like this. Not with the feel and smell of sweat eroding carefully applied perfume and cologne. No.

A great yell, a chorus, rings out from them. They kiss deeply through the orgasm.

Just once a week. Pretty much the same every time.

Exhausted, they begin to doze in the nude, the only night of the week that they do so. And tomorrow he will wake to eggs, bacon and toast, to greet the weekend.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

*****

Sometimes, erotica is all about the pivot points, and rightly so. Sexuality is a great changer. But one of the most memorable depictions of sexuality I recall from a young age was when a friend and I were sleeping outside one summer night, talking about sex, as we often did. For some reason, we talked about the very religious couple next door, and he described how he figured it happened between them. It was mundane, and plain, just as he intended it. Somehow, this always struck me as sexy.

My little vignette above is a bit of an homage to my old childhood friend’s supposition about the sex life of the middle aged couple next door. Maybe some of the best stories are about change, about pivot points, but that doesn’t mean consistency can’t be sexy.

Maybe it is the whirlwind that has been my life in the past two months that has driven me to write about a couple who finds passion amidst their very consistent lives together.

Whatever the reason, I’m glad you came along.