The One About the Orgasm
A few months ago, I started a series called “10 Ways to Save Your Marriage.” I got bogged down when some of the “ways” started overlapping, and the list wasn’t exactly 10. Frustrated, I never finished it—especially since I never got to the teaser.
The one about the orgasm.
More specifically: Give Her an Orgasm Every Day.
I was being cheeky. While I like to think my skills have improved over the years, the idea that my wife would benefit from legendary Casanova-level attention every single day—or even want it—is a stretch, even in my fantasies.
But I didn’t pull that line out of thin air
.
As our marriage has grown, I’ve learned that certain small actions make my wife genuinely happy. So I started doing them more, even when they weren’t things I cared about. I knew she was doing the same for me.
Sound familiar, guys? (Wink, wink…nudge, nudge.)
Here’s how it played out for us:
I get up at 4:30 every morning, long before her alarm rings at six. I leave for work around 6:45, usually when she’s in the shower. By the time I come home and change out of work clothes, the bed is made. She always finds the time. She’s told me it matters to her—having the bed made makes her day go better.
So sometimes, while she was in the shower, I’d make it for her. She’d always thank me.
Then one day, she took it a step further. She texted me:
“Sometimes the bed being made is better than an orgasm.”
We both laughed, but whether she meant to or not, she had spoken to me in a language I instantly understood.
Because I like orgasms. They rank pretty high on my list of favorite things.
Her text was a light-switch moment. Suddenly I understood just how much the bed being made meant to her. It was a little embarrassing that she had to connect it to my lizard brain for me to really get it, but it worked.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I’m 49. I’ve been chasing orgasms since my early teens. That’s nearly four decades. Back when we were first married, I wanted one every single day. I asked for sex a lot. Pressured her. Sometimes guilted her. (Okay—definitely guilted her. Ugh.)
Meanwhile, how many times did I make the bed for her without being asked?
That thought stung.
So I made a change. I committed to making the bed every morning.
If a made bed is, to her, sometimes the equivalent of an orgasm to me, then I’m giving her one every morning.
It usually takes less than two minutes, which sounds oddly familiar. So, even if I’m running late, I stop myself. Because if she had been feeling frisky before I left for work, would I risk being late? Of course. So the bed gets made.
The only time it doesn’t is when she’s still in it. Then I’ll lean down, kiss her cheek, and ask if she wants an orgasm or if she's just too tired. It’s become a private joke. Most mornings, she gets up.
About a month ago, I heard her complain about dishes in the sink. It stressed her out to come home and see them piled up. I thought about how much she appreciated me making the bed, so I started taking care of the dishes more often too, just to give her a different kind of release.
These things have become habitual. And while we weren’t struggling before, I can feel these small changes drawing us closer.
Maybe I’ll start making dinner more often too. Something non–Kraft Mac-n-Cheese related. We’ll see.
I know these routine maneuvers hit her where it counts.
I can see it in her face.