Year one: Sex, sex, sex. All you could want. On the floor, in the woods, the car, the beach. Every time you’re alone, you’re banging like rabbits. Nothing is off limits. Nowhere either one of you won’t lick, tickle or tease. Each time you look at her naked body, you are filled with gratitude that God has given you this woman.
Year two: It slows down, but you try to keep it hot just out of fear. You don’t want to become one of those couples. But now there’s no more spontaneous blowjobs. Things are more routine, but that’s OK because you’re still getting it regular and you’re happy.
Years 3-5: Along comes the house and kids. Through it all, you find less and less time or reason to have sex. You go from 7 or more orgasms a week down to probably once a month. You get a bloated beer belly and your love handles turn into big bulges. She gets flabby with baby weight that just won’t go away. The second kid is even worse. She refuses to get stitched up after the second kid and so she’s now so loose you can’t even come inside her. When you do have sex, it’s like fucking a bowl of pudding.
Years 5-7: You decide to get back in shape, to try to revive your sex life. You get trimmed down at the gym, almost to where you were before marriage. She gives it a half-hearted effort, but can’t make much progress. She refuses to wear any lingerie you buy her, instead coming to bed in a T-shirt (if you’re lucky) or a torn up set of PJs. And you now have to beg and schedule sex, which is cold and automatic. You now are masturbating regularly. In the shower, in the bathroom at work, anywhere, anytime you have a private moment. But the effect is minimal and you are constantly horny. For the first time, you will contemplate divorce. You’ll visit web sites about it and perhaps skim a book in the bookstore about divorce.
Years 7-9: You find yourself staring in amazement at this woman and trying to remember when she was hot. Want a preview? Picture your girlfriend, now thicken up her arms by a third. Picture her ass all flattened and her legs thicker and more muscular. When you do convince her to make love, she usually quickly gets on her knees for you to enter her from behind and asks you not to fuckup her cold cream while you’re doing her. She’s dry as a bone and the scent of unwashed ass wafts up as you’re trying to bang her. She is hoping for another baby, but it seems unlikely. Your stomach churns at just the thought. By now you’ve had an affair or two. Maybe a crazy chick at the office or a couple hookers now and then, but the stress of it is too much. You are in disbelief that you are actually now masturbating in bed beside her as she snores.
Year 9: It’s over. You occasionally score some outside poontang, but it’s expensive. Your wife now openly scorns any advances you make. If you suggest she get in shape, she labels you a woman-hater. Real men like women with curves, not sticks. Curves, sure, you think, but not roll after roll of blubber. She has stopped shaving, so that if you try to go down on her the hair is everywhere, matted and full of snarls. You hope to God she’s banging someone on the side, but you know it’s unlikely. You try to titty fuck her, but she doesn’t like that. There’s now no way to have an orgasm while you’re actually touching her.
Year 10: You can’t sleep through the night. Even masturbating doesn’t help. You surf the Web or drink into the wee hours, praying for death’s sweet release to come and take you or her. You’ve talked with a lawyer, but after he lays out the reality for you, you know that can’t afford divorce unless you’re prepared to live in your parent’s basement while all your income goes toward maintaining your wife and kids. Plus, you love the kids. You can’t bear the thought of splitting up their family. Your future stretches before you like a desert, baking and sucking the life out of anything that tries to cross it.
), the half-hearted you could be just as happy washing the car sex, the eventual experimental shove a feather duster up her ass phase (well maybe that was just us 
