"Don't Bring Sports Illustrated to Bed'*

Sex for men is akin to going to the bathroom. I am convinced there is little in the way of conscious thought as to the where's and why's. Women ponder, dream and on occasion plan for sex. We think about what we'll wear or won't, what he'll be wearing and how we'll feel when he touches us. These thoughts are often mixed up with what to cook for dinner, bus stop times and whether ER is a new episode. Our lives, loves and concerns run a constant race in our heads. Sometimes sex wins; sometimes dirty dishes are the victors.

Sex for men on the other hand is an urge. Doesn't seem to matter that no one's underwear is clean and that little Susie needs help with math. When that innate drive rears its 'head', men find the shortest path to the bedroom. Not necessarily tied to anything else life hands us, nor the swirl of comedy and drama that surrounds us. When the time comes, be it the throne or a bare arm that draws them, they go.

I am in awe. There are areas in my brain reserved for sex, housework, and everything else. They mingle and cross paths, as do all facets of my life. Men have no area reserved in their brain regarding sex. It is inextricably bound to living. Unconnected, unrelated in the psyche to troubles and joys and the duties we're tied to. It just is. And when the urge comes they comply as if their stomach had warned them of near emptiness or their bowels sent the signal for overflow. We are wired differently, it's true. Timing for women is tantamount. Circumstances for men, unrelated. Heading for the bathroom or the boudoir is one and the same. This difference leads us to conflict. More duties and troubles for women balancing the shaky questions about what we have time to think about and do. What do we care about? Do we envy these clear thinkers or spurn their matter of life, single mindedness? I certainly have no answers. The Mars and Venus guy hits the mark for many women about our complicated lives. Nike reminds men to 'Just Do It.'

I have found a compromise. The more sex he and I have the more dishes he washes. The slinkier the costume the better chance he'll carry out the garbage, unrequested. I vanquish other concerns and enjoy the man beside me. Sex seems to trigger for him a better memory and an understanding of the workload I strap on with willingness and occasional martyrdom. Did I arrive at this formula through introspection or do I understand this as Pavlov's dog did? Last nights' sex sometimes equals clean laundry in the right drawer.

And I get to enjoy the way he makes me feel when he tells me I'm beautiful. When he whispers his want, the broken washing machine worries slip away. He makes me forget today's problems and burn into memory what will surface when life draws to a close and review is what remains. Will I remember the look of triumph on my daughter's face or the touch of my mother's hand on mine? No doubt. I'll also remember how the man that loved me showed me he did with touches, promises and reverence. How his wiring made me the focus of what is as natural to him as breathing. Viva la difference.