I woke up in the middle of the night because something was pushing into the small of my back. No prizes for guessing what. My boyfriend’s hands were all over me and no matter how many times I said, “Not now, I’m tired” he just kept on trying.
It wasn’t distressing. I didn’t really mind. The truth was, I was into the idea of middle-of-the-night-sex, I was just tired. Eventually, I woke up sufficiently, we had sex and he pulled me in close, a super-tight hug, and we both went back to sleep.
Or so I thought.
The next morning he woke me up again, this time less insistently, but still wanting exactly the same thing. I rolled over and looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m kinda exhausted from the last time, can I just sleep a little longer?”
He looked confused.
“What are you talking about? We haven’t had sex for days.”
Now I was confused.
“We had sex last night. You woke me up in the middle of the night and wouldn’t leave me alone until we’d had sex.”
He looked horrified. And then I thought about what I already knew about my boyfriend. That sometimes he would sit bolt upright in bed and talk at the top of his lungs, remembering none of it the next day. That once, I had woken up to see him trying to get dressed and leave the house because he needed to see his grandad, at 3am. That we often had complete conversations in bed that the next morning he wouldn’t remember at all—because he’d actually been asleep throughout.