What is there to want, after all? He is mine, sacredly, in sickness and in other states of being.Įxcept he is not, and his absolute, nonproprietary realness can flash out so suddenly that the spell of marital monotony is reversed and he becomes again a free man. Until some lazy afternoon he would come into the bedroom while I was napping and wake me up and escort me through four shuddering orgasms and then, clearing his throat, go turn on the shower. For days and even weeks at a time I would forget there were such things as organs or pleasure or pleasure organs, like I was in the freezer, coldly buzzing on top of the dinosaur-shaped Broccoli Littles®.
#Wet n wild coffee buzz swatch plus#
Plus the drugs: Prozac’s gloved hand over libido’s mouth. The way the legs grow is diabolical, absolutely no mercy. Could it expire so early? Or perhaps it was taking a breather postpartum-understandable, surely, given how a six-and-a half-pound human body had been slither-pulled out of the place I get fucked, or one of the places.Īnd the child herself, coextensive with me at first and then tantalizing in her change, a body of mixed signals that consumed me and spared only meager scraps, like the dried bits of Play-Doh I sit among on the rug as I study a knee skinned for the very first time, knowing this leg will only get longer, thinner, and stranger to me. Maybe, I thought, the libido of a certain kind of woman is an animal that lives a little and then crawls into a cave and lies there panting for a few decades until, with a final ragged pant, it expires. We speak in short, muffled bursts, loving to her, not unloving to each other. This might, I figured, be “real” marriage, harder deeper marriage, marriage opening its cute mouth all the way and showing the mess that was back there.Īccidental iPhone video of forty minutes in the kitchen one night, a view of the cutting board and the wallpaper: You can hear a baby and the banging of something metal and you can hear our two adult bodies rustling around the space, running water, sliding a knife into the knife holder, dragging a chair across the wood floor, opening and closing the fridge―a sound like a breath and then nothing. I just wanted a nap, needed a nap, ached for a hot throbbing nap. I couldn’t pretend to be that surprised by the proposition, or ignorant of my part in engendering it. About six months after our daughter was born, my husband calmly set the idea on the table, like a decorative gun.
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