It was 11:45 p.m. on a Wednesday night. My wife and I were exhausted and cozied up in bed together. We both had one thing on our minds. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the same thing. I was craving sex and she was craving the season three finale of “Friday Night Lights.” We were at a standstill, experiencing what some might call a “21st century marital pickle.” It seems Netflix and sites like Hulu just might be the modern couple’s greatest obstacles to a steady sex life. The continuous supply of great TV is so accessible and so compelling, many a good couple become hooked like crackheads and forget about making their own entertainment. Through burning eyes and next day regret, couples machete through a season of “Lost” or “The Wire,” ignoring or forgetting to fuel their loins. But on this night, something in me snapped and I drew a line in the sand … with my penis. “Babe,” I said, “we’re in a losing battle against awesome TV. It will never end. There are too many TV shows out there; when do we get to do it?”My wife took in what I was saying. She looked at me, looked at our alarm clock and sighed. She turned toward the computer screen and slowly back at me. “But, don’t you want to see what college Lyla Garrity winds up going to?”
“Ah crap!” I said. She was right. I did want to know. In fact, it felt more like I needed to know. Lyla worked her tail off to get into Vanderbilt and now her dad wipes out her college fund on a hair-brained business deal and she’s forced to go to San Antonio State?!
I began losing my libido to a flood of questions. Could Lyla truly thrive at State? Would it be academically challenging enough? Would Tim Riggins bring her down or could Mrs. Taylor find a third way to solve all this? I was no longer in my bedroom in Brooklyn. I was deep in Dillon, Texas. Focus Wehle! I collected myself. “ I got it,” I declared with pride to my wife. “Let’s merge.”
“Yes, combine our needs. Sex-flix. It’ll be like ‘smores; two great things made better together.”
“Really?” she asked. I nodded with confidence. “Fine,” she hesitated. “Let’s give it a shot.”
What ensued was not what most would consider lovemaking. It was not the union of two people—deeply enmeshed, emotionally and physically—majestically working together to achieve erotic bliss. In between establishing shots and minor plot lines, my wife and I would tug at each other’s bodies and haphazardly fondle various private parts. During fade-outs we would turn to each other to quickly kiss or establish eye contact to acknowledge each other like two kids in a middle school hallway. At one point, my wife seemed to offer me her breasts solely for the purpose of occupying me so she could better concentrate on Coach Taylor’s locker room speech.
Was this going well? I wondered. About ten minutes into the program, we were both fully aroused by the unfolding drama and marginally ready for intercourse. “Should we do it?” I asked my wife. Her eyes locked on the screen, she replied, “Sure,” delivered in a short whisper as if we were bothering the show’s characters. “OK, don’t mind me,” I said jokingly, “we’ll just be having sex.” During the mating, we jockeyed for position to get a clear shot of the screen. To a spectator it would appear more like a junior college wrestling match than a session of intercourse. A few times, my wife asked me to stop breathing so loud and on one occasion rolled me on my back so she could better control my movement. Eventually, we settled into a sort of steady “red light, green light 1, 2, 3” routine in which we would do our humping in calculated spurts and stop suddenly during important scenes.
Strangely enough my mojo seemed to elevate during the Lyla and Tyra Collete scenes. My wife’s arousal seemed to spike with the arrival of Tim Riggins’ on-camera time. I found myself feeling like the fifth wheel when Riggins would tussle his dumb hair or gaze into Lyla’s soul with those gorgeous eyes. “Should I leave you two alone?” I joked to my wife. She didn’t seem to hear me as she was clearly fantasizing about being ravaged in the back of Riggins’ pick-up, parked underneath the Dillon High Bleachers. “Hey, that’s my wife you got there, Riggins,” I moronically felt like screaming to my laptop.
A few moments later, I began closing in on an orgasm. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was my wife, but as luck would have it, my big moment coincided with a tight Landry close-up followed by some serious Buddy Garrity screen time. NO, NO, why was this happening? I thought to myself. His giant, red, mailbox of a face staring dead at me—taunting me. Don’t let me go out like this. At least give me … Saracen’s mom? Mayor Lucy Rodell?! Santiago?! SOMEBODY ELSE. Damn you!
It was futile. Suffice to say I had achieved an emotionally upsetting but surprisingly potent orgasm. My wife rubbed my back for 10 seconds and lovingly threw me off of her. We both lay quietly beside each other. Platonic and placid like two kids at a sleepover or two kittens nuzzled up. We watched the remainder of “Friday Night Lights” together—engrossed and unencumbered the way nature intended. A lesson well-learned: Sex-flixing is no ‘smores.