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Sex With You

Sex With You

Ratings: (0)|Views: 1,341|Likes:
Published by maria
A comedy about midlife sex after children. Louisa Moore doesn't want it. Her husband leaves her because of it. So she goes back to school, a Berlin Sex School and learns all that she never knew about sex and why it isn't so important after all.
A comedy about midlife sex after children. Louisa Moore doesn't want it. Her husband leaves her because of it. So she goes back to school, a Berlin Sex School and learns all that she never knew about sex and why it isn't so important after all.

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Published by: maria on Jul 19, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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 sex with youbym.t.lennon Ch. 1Need: The Mother of InventionIn the end it was the pancake puffs. I would never have realized just how desperate my poor John was, how rigid, how brittle and unyielding I’d become had it not been for those pancake puffs. It made me face what was missing in me, it made me take charge, let go, travel the world, have sex. Like sex. Love sex. Those pancake puffs changed my life in ways you cannot imagine. Yet.Wait. The beginning. A familiar one. Waking up next to an unfulfilled husband. He’s mad, you’re guilty. If only I’d done it, if only I’d said yes, it wouldhave been so easy. I love him, what’s wrong with me? Morning came but I had notslept. I looked over at his tanned shoulder and moved in to hug him. “John,” Isaid against his back, “I’m sorry.”“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”“I’ll try harder, I know I haven’t been⎯” I folded the sheet over the linenduvet, “well, I know, I⎯”His hand went up, the gold band dulled and tight. “Stop. Lou, just stop.” Hethrew off the covers in that awful haphazard way I hated, got up, head down, skin warm, a miserable giant. “Maybe I just don’t do it for you anymore,” he pulled his robe on, a blue Polo robe I bought for him years ago, when sex (or lack thereof) wasn’t such a big deal. And he was gone.How was I to know something had come undone the night before, something sounexpected, so totally foreign had clicked in my dear husband’s brain? Like a sleeper cell suddenly activated, the sleeper cell of a twenty-year-old man who nolonger wanted this life.Up until two weeks ago I would have said we’d be faithful forever, buried beneath, lying next to one another, a sign reading that we had made it through all
the potholes. Funny that, funny how the tide can turn with a sentence, an incident, a bad night, the word No.The catalyst came out of nowhere, a dinner. A couple who had⎯and had I knownthis I would clearly never have gone⎯four children, a perfect two-story whitewashed Christie Brinkley of house on a calm, clear lagoon, a white boat, of course, and a disgustingly active sex life which they waved under our noses like a cloying full-bodied wine. It’s what brought my little house down.There we were in a booth at a Greek restaurant in Malibu with them, he happened to be one of John’s biggest clients, Patrick and his wife Carolyn. Two shining examples of what California life can do for you wherever you come from. Muscular and trim, both with large, hard breasts, tanned, teeth unnaturally whitened,bright, shiny piano keys. Politically correct and health conscious. Clear, neutral accent. Harmless, right? Another business dinner, talking about kids and food, the usual banter. Halfway through my hummus and pita plate, she pulled out her phone, started showing us pictures of her Newport California home, on the water, shiny white boat docked. The house was horribly spotless.“It’s so clean you must not have children.” I said stupidly, naively.“Four.” They shared a glance, you know the ones, the ones that said we’re one. Ugh.“She’s great,” his hair glistened like a pin-up super hero, he pulled the sourdough rolls apart, his muscles flexed. “Takes such good care of me,” he winkedin John’s direction, “if you know what I mean.”John cleared his throat, “how’s the lamb?”But I couldn’t let go. “And it always looks like this?”“Yep.” He looked at her, “it does.”Dumb me, stupid me, I kept digging, hoping for a flaw, something that wouldreveal the truth that at the end of the day we mothers were all alike, tired andsexless. Desiring only a pair of well-worn pajamas and silence. “How old are the kids?”“Two sets of twins, six and eight.” He stabbed his meat.Four kids under eight! What! “And you go out?”“Of course!” He wiped his lips, “we’re not dead, you know?” He took a huge gulp of water, his hand nearly covering the glass. “Our relationship is number one. If our needs aren’t met, then how can we meet our children’s, right?” He chewed the meat like the caveman he was. “Rule number one, baby.”I swallowed, my brain raced, screamed, back it up, get out of here now! “Right, well the house looks lovely, more wine?” I leaned over John, grabbed the bottle and poured.“We’re all grown-ups,” he shrugged like a college boy, “don’t know about youJohn, but if I’m not getting it three or four times a week, well, I’m a bear tolive with.”“He’s a bear,” she shrugged too, but lightly, like a doll following his lead.John drank his wine, changed the subject. I watched him, something clicked and he wasn’t laughing anymore. No jokes, no snickers, nothing. When we paid, said our good-byes to the happy couple, John said nothing at all, nothing until wewere halfway back to Los Angeles. And then he said, simply. “I don’t want to dothis anymore.”“Have dinner with them?” I laughed, “agreed. So agreed. They’re awful, so full of shit too, please, that house! So staged!”“No, Lou,” he looked over at me, “this, you and me, this.”It was different his time, he was different. I ran through responses in my mind, tossing them out by the second, there was no excuse that I could give, nothing left to say. “What do you want to do?”“Change this,” he said, “go to a counselor, whatever it takes. We have to turn this ship around before it sinks. And it’s sinking.”“You want to be like them?” I said, desperation clawing at me. “Ken and Barbie back there with nothing in their brains but the desire to copulate.”“Don’t.” He said sadly.Still, I tried. “And what if I don’t feel like it?”
He turned. “Am I that unattractive? Am I?”“No.” I sank back in my seat.“Do I smell?” He hit the steering wheel. “I’ll shower. Does my mouth smell bad? I’ll brush. Floss, chew gum. Tell me what you want Lou, or else I swear it’sgoing to get real bad for the both of us.”I looked out the window, gulped. I don’t know how it happened but we hadn’thad sex in two years, two.When we got home, I changed into my favs, Old Navy pajamas so well worn, inthe right light the lines of my ass could be seen, though not in a good way. I see that now. We stood at our sinks, brushing, flossing, rinsing. Married foreplay. I listened for the lightest noise coming from the kid’s rooms, something to run to.I waited until he was done rinsing, eyed him. “Man, are you as full as I am?” He shook his head, I flossed the lower rack of teeth, removing bits and piecesof food, holding them up to the light. “Lamb takes like two days to digest, disgusting huh, rotting flesh,” I rubbed my stomach, pushed it out for better effect, “in here for two days?”“Stop it, Lou, alright. I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.” He nodded in the direction of our marital bed, “come on, it’s time, alright,now. We have to do this now.”“Really?” I said, “you’re not too tired? What about tomorrow?”“Lou!” He tossed off his t-shirt and dove under the sheets.I rinsed, looked at my watch and wished he had a mistress. I walked to the bed with less courage than Ann Boleyn had the day her head was to be chopped off.“Hi,” he said awkwardly, his arms trying to find the place where my body used to slip in so easily, the spot where when we touched, we felt like there couldbe no other. But it was long gone, dried up to a trickle like the long gone LosAngeles River.“I can’t get⎯” I was frustrated and tired and wanted to turn to the other side and sleep.“What’s wrong?” He tried valiantly, arm under neck, arm under shoulder, to the side, me on his chest.“Where’s my spot, John?” I sat up, “I can’t find my spot.”“Come here,” he pulled me into him, “let me touch you,” he took my hand, “touch me⎯”God, I put my hand on his poor, neglected penis begrudgingly, really it allsounded so desperate, I could barely go through with it. Like a child, play withme, touch me, I don’t care how tired you are, I need you. Same thing I got frommy sons all day long. But they were less hairy and smelled better.“Oh, you feel so good.” He panted while I remained achingly tired.And then I made the kind of mistake that stops everything, the kind of thingyou do without thinking, like when you yell at your child over something that has not just happened but for things that have been happening all week. My eyes were on the electric clock, it was after midnight and it just slipped out, “can you just get on with it? Just get on top of me and do it?” His hand dropped away,he looked at me like I’d just put a pillow over his dog’s head and sat on it.“What? Guys do it like that all the time in movies, they like it, they complain about foreplay all the time,” I stared at him, “I’m giving you carte blanche, just do it, flip me up, flip me over, just do it,” I sounded and looked like aworkhorse, a tired old mule with an extra and unexpected burden at the end of along day. And he was horrified. Something clicked, I could see it. It wasn’t like before when he’d just let it go, breathe out a little hot air, and wake up tothe smell of my cooking. Nope. I could see the impasse, it was here and now.“If I wanted a hooker, Lou,” he turned away from me, “forget it.”“Wanna hand job?” I asked quickly, time was of the essence, anything to sleep, “I can do that if you’d like?”“Sounds dreamy Lou,” he punched his pillow, “but I’m gonna have to pass.”I shrugged, turned to my side, “fine, sorry you’re not into it, I tried⎯” But the guilt would not let me sleep.There are times in marriage when you know you’ve really screwed up. This was

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