Ground Floor Manual / Sex with Esther Column

If that came with an instruction manual, erotic life would be a DIY project: diagrams, numbered parts, solemn warnings. The cot would be reduced to an assembly workshop, and the ground floor to a cogwheel that only works if the exact steps are followed.

The instructions would begin with serious warnings: “Before starting, make sure you have two conscious and willing participants available. Do not use this product if you are extremely fatigued, have family gatherings in the living room, or are on a work call.” Then come the illustrated steps: “Remove packaging gently,” “Use gentle movements to avoid damage,” “Do not expose to low temperatures without prior consent.” And, of course, the final threat: “Misuse may cause awkward silence or subsequent arguments.”

But reality doesn't work that way. No one skims a manual before launching a task . No one asks for time to read the "basic assembly" chapter when their hands are already moving down forbidden paths without GPS. One always starts at step three, convinced that the ground floor is quick to open. The other side claims that step one—that of sincere desire—is obligatory and that without it, the whole mechanism creaks. Between one and the other, the mechanics fail and, at the same time, reinvent themselves.

The manual would say: "Lubricate as needed." But in practice, a burst of laughter in the middle of the attempt or that rapid breathing that replaces any oil is enough. The manual would advise: "Keep your workspace tidy." Instead, clothes end up in a mountain of chaos, the cot creaks like an old machine, and the ground floor becomes a realm of organized chaos. Whatever is left over—shoes, socks, a clock—becomes temporary stage decoration.

If there were a guarantee, couples would ask for a replacement every time it failed due to fatigue, stress, or simple routine . But desire isn't a factory product, and its technical service depends on a knowing glance, an unexpected touch, that hand that interrupts a discussion to remind us that the lower level also serves as a negotiating table.

The inconvenient truth is that the instructions exist, yes, but no one understands them. Because it's written in a capricious language, full of symbols that change every day: a sigh that yesterday meant "go on," today might mean "wait a moment"; a door that yesterday opened effortlessly, today requires rituals of patience. A universal manual would be useless: each couple writes their own with crossed-out notes, homemade drawings, and improvised postscripts.

The good thing about it is that, despite the assembly errors, the invention never breaks down. On the contrary, it improves. The pieces fit together on their own; the ground floor appreciates clumsy insertions, and the bed—a martyr to repetition—celebrates every creak as if it were applause. No one remembers the official step-by-step instructions, but everyone remembers the laughter that erupted when the piece didn't fit , the kiss that resolved the technical glitch, the reconciliation that turned the manual into recycled paper.

Because that wasn't born to be obeyed like a household appliance: it was born to be explored like an unmapped territory. And perhaps that's where its charm lies: there's no manual to explain the perfect mix of desire, clumsiness, and longing . There's only trial and error and the certainty that the true instructions are written every night on the cot. See you later.