Meg does the dirty on her own sex.

GQ (Australia) - - INSIDE - MEG MA­SON


the only bev­er­age avail­able is pre-mixed Skin­nygirl mar­gar­i­tas, but it’s a risk I’m will­ing to take if the prize is help­ing male GQ read­ers do bet­ter in the arena of mar­i­tal arts. That is to say, sex-hav­ing. Specif­cally, the long-term monog­a­mous kind. Like tripping the fat boy in the play­ground, mak­ing fun of mar­ried-per­son-sex is easy and a guar­an­teed laugh. In real life, monogamy is a high call­ing – some­thing for which hu­mans may not even be bi­o­log­i­cally built, but at­tempt out of in­tense, in­sanely am­bi­tious love for an­other per­son. Still, for all the bliss­ful se­cu­rity, com­pan­ion­ship and sweat­pant-based ac­tiv­ity mar­riage of­fers, the car­nal side of things can slide once the tin an­niver­sary’s been and gone. And you didn’t get her any­thing. Which, in a nut­shell, is where the chaps are go­ing wrong for their part – ac­ci­den­tally not do­ing any­thing even vaguely ro­man­tic af­ter the frst 12 months. It’s an easy mis­take to make, for­get­ting to buy flow­ers for 15 years, but even so, it’s not ad­vanc­ing the noc­tur­nal cause. Ladies, on the other hand – and thus be­gins the ex­posé for which I will al­most cer­tainly be thrown out of my book group and barred from all branches of Curves women’s ft­ness – are guilty of de­ploy­ing a raft of tech­niques de­signed to en­sure no sex gets done, ever. Es­pe­cially not on week­nights. That was the ta­ble-wide ad­mis­sion at a re­cent girls’ night out – also now my last. The evening soon took a con­fes­sional turn, and it was broadly agreed that any woman punch­ing to­wards a decade of mar­riage has her ways of get­ting ros­tered off bed­room du­ties. It’s not that we don’t like it. It’s that, be­fore things have started, we’re un­able to be­lieve we wouldn’t ex­pe­ri­ence as much phys­i­cal plea­sure from stay­ing on this sofa, in leggings, with those fun-size Toblerones. Also, as you will have heard, we’re all quite tired. ‘Not tonight, dar­ling, I have a headache’ is widely held up as the stan­dard bearer when it comes to sex­avoid­ance. But it’s never used in real life be­cause it’s ac­tu­ally true. Ev­ery woman in the world has a headache right now. Mi­randa Kerr’s got a split­ter, An­gela Merkel’s just taken two Aspros at her desk and Tina Fey can’t see out of her left eye be­cause of the pounder she’s had since her SNL days. Ev­ery­thing we achieve is done with a throb­bing pain in our tem­ple, sex in­cluded. When needs must, the ac­tual strate­gies are far more in­ven­tive. Fake tan, for ex­am­ple. We know you hate the smell. So do we. ‘Why can’t they make one that doesn’t reek of bleach and off yo­ghurt’ you’ll have asked, as we climb, stick­ily, into bed and pro­ceed to make a streaky or­ange crime scene of the ft­ted sheet. They can. Of course they can. But when we need a solid eight hours and no funny busi­ness, there’s noth­ing so ef­fec­tive as a lib­eral spritz­ing of boy re­pel­lent. It’s like Aerog­ard for men. Fake tan is of­ten used in com­bi­na­tion with an ex­ces­sively early bed­time (any­thing be­fore 8pm you must know is a straight-up sex­ual shut down) and/ or the im­i­ta­tion of in­tense REM when you come to bed six hours later. If we’ve failed to plan ahead and fnd our­selves turn­ing in at the same time, we’ll be forced to start an ar­gu­ment. Prefer­ably about money, though any­thing from the ‘Your Fam­ily and Their Ways’ cat­e­gory works. As does tar­geted me­dia con­sump­tion. A grue­some true crime pro­ce­dural right be­fore lights out, or any­thing with a dog that dies, guar­an­tees cud­dling-only un­til fur­ther no­tice. More widely, ex­per­i­men­tal fash­ion and ag­gres­sive geo­met­ric hair­cuts go a long way to mak­ing sure you’re fne not to put out. As in­no­va­tive as the fash­ion in­dus­try is, men con­tinue to favour ‘skirts’ and ‘longish hair’ so we know that styling out a dropped crotch, con­fus­ing con­cep­tual sleeve or, hair-wise, Skrillexed sec­tion and state­ment fringe will see us safely stood down for up to a month. There’s so many more – work is­sues, bloat­ing, hav­ing three chil­dren – and we’ll use any or all of them to make sure ab­so­lutely no one’s hot for it. If, hav­ing done so, your sex­pec­ta­tions re­main undi­min­ished, we still have our trump card: Feel­ing a bit sad. You’ve no an­swer for that one, be­cause we don’t even have to have a rea­son for be­ing the tini­est bit weepy – though as­sume it’s in some way your do­ing, as you reach for the only source of warmth and en­ter­tain­ment that evening, the ipad. Should it so hap­pen that you out­wit us and get some­thing up and go­ing – eas­ier now that I’ve handed you the en­tire play­book – re­mem­ber this. Af­ter­wards, when we’re down­stairs fry­ing ba­con in knick­ers and your sweat­shirt, look­ing as rav­ish­ing as we ever will, when that mo­ment comes and we look at you lov­ingly and say, ‘That was in­cred­i­ble. We should do that more of­ten,’ fght your frst re­ac­tion, to sulk and say, ‘I told you that! You say that ev­ery time!’ Any man with an eye on the long game will swal­low hard and say, ‘Babe, I’m sure you’ve lost weight.’ n

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