Although sex was something we both regarded as wild and glorious, marriage, by contrast, seemed a confining house, voluntary incarceration in a world of big opportunities; the ultimate hell for two gregarious, daring souls. When we were single, this was what all the married guys told my husband-to-be. I’d even said it to tease my unmarried sorority sisters—don’t put on the iron maiden yet. It turned out, however, to be a lie.
Our house, our marriage set us free. Free from the embarrassment of being caught necking in front of our parents, free from unseemly public groping, and free from hurried, desperate moments in our favorite no-tell motel.
Free to do it in the bedroom with all the lights on. Free to do it in the kitchen standing up. Free to do it on the dining room table before it was completely cleared after the party. Free to do it in the den, behind the desk, hidden from the front window. In the back yard in the leaves, on the wet spring grass, in our parkas making flying snow angels in the ambient light of early morning, and naked in the pool on starry summer evenings.
And when the kids were conceived, we snuggled like spoons on the king-size bed. And after the kids were born, we added on, pushed them upstairs while we remained on the floor of our adventures, two steps down to the four seasons of outdoors.
We did it in front of our Polaroid camera. We did it in front of the bedroom mirror. We did it in costume. Under the rec room’s strobe light. Sober, intoxicated, or high.
Marriage freed us for all life’s adventures—exotic vacations, risky business ventures, and daring parodies. It was a house of stability and respectability within which our imaginations could soar.

Apologies to: Michael Chabon’s story “House Hunting,” and Stuart Dybek’s “We Didn’t.”