Steamy Windows 

My husband and I used to have a lot of sex in the car. Once upon a time because we were young and in love and didn't have a place of our own. And then there was the second phase, many years later, when we no longer lived with parents or roommates, but — alas — were in a situation even more challenging. We had teenagers ...

Anyone who has kids realizes that having children and getting laid are typically mutually exclusive. Ironic, right? Given that it's that very love of lust that results in all those kids. Who gets knocked up on purpose? Seriously — babies? First of all, they're boring — one demand after another and they can't even hold up their end of a conversation. Second, they're constantly peeing and pooping and puking all over you. Essentially, you're being cried at constantly while covered in someone else's bodily fluids. It's like being some kind of fetish-indulging sex worker, except without the sex. Just the work.

So then the kids get old enough for you and your partner to sneak away for five minutes — and by the way, when you have kids, five minutes is no longer a "quickie," it's just "sex." Because when the going gets good and you're thinking, yeah, baby, the damn kids are going to barge into the bedroom wondering why daddy is moaning about how good the kitty cat feels. Or they're banging on the bathroom door while you're bent over gripping the toilet seat and wondering how it's come to this. 

And speaking of coming — forget it. Too many interruptions, too much fear of interruptions. It's nearly impossible to relax and by the time you get those five minutes to shag, a moment later you're wishing it would wrap up because you're so paranoid about being interrupted.

If you can get off under those circumstances, well, clearly you're a terrible parent who doesn't deserve sex or children, you orgasm-having asshole. Ahem.

And then your babies become teenagers, which is worst of all because they know what you're doing. They're teenagers! They're either having sex or wishing they were having sex and, in any case, they have sex radars that blip at sexual activity within 100 miles. If that's triggered by their parents having sex? Oh my god, how gross.

You know how most kids go through that phase of wishing they were adopted because their parents are so uncool? Teenagers go through a phase of pretending they were conceived via immaculate conception because the idea of old people having sex is so completely disgusting. And by "old people," they mean anyone over the age of 30.

Seriously ladies, you might think that your stylish haircut and hard-earned gym butt mean you're holding your own, but let me tell you, all you have to do is go stand next to a teenage girl and man, it's all over. You're old. No number of squats or sassy highlights or Brazilian waxes compares to that goddamn genuine youthful glow.

And you guys? Maybe you don't obsess in the mirror as much, but believe me, that young surfer dude with the six-pack V-ing into his just-right jeans? He's inspiring way more fantasy than your beer gut busting over that pair of chinos you bought back in 2001.

Spend enough time around those vibrant young people and you won't want to see yourself fuck anymore either. But here's some comfort: There's something worse than parenting a teenager: being one. Right?

Because at least we know what to expect. Sex isn't a mystery. Ladies, remember when you were young and had all those awful boyfriends and then finally you had that guy that lasted longer than 60 seconds and he thought about going slow and then going fast and then going slow and then going faster and faster and oh my god your entire body exploded into your first orgasm and your brain turned inside out? But you had no idea what was happening because they didn't cover that in your stupid sex ed classes and all your parents ever told you about sex was don't do it and so you thought you were dying, no wonder the French call it "la petite mort," and so as the throbbing subsided, instead of moaning "thank you," you instead burst into tears, terrified?

And guys, you owe the first 10 women you had sex with an apology. Because it wasn't good for them. No, really. It wasn't good for them. Think about now. Think about then. If you don't see the difference, then, oof, my sincere regrets to your current lover.

But back to the car. True, you're no longer a hormone-crazed teenager in a '67 Mustang, you're a practical grown-up with a Honda, very sensible, with teenagers of your own at home, which is why you are here, straddling your husband in the backseat just like the two of you used to do 20 years ago — the car's gotten smaller and your ass has gotten bigger, sure, but once again, the backseat has become the only place you can get laid. And you know what? You'll find yourself grinning afterwards, your shared moment all the better for having gotten away with something. You'll lean into your husband's shoulder as he drives you toward home, slide your hand across his thigh and whisper in his ear, "You know, babe, this would've been so much easier if we'd bought an automatic."