His eyebrow rose, and his mouth popped open as if connected by an invisible string. He looked about to protest and then, in one move, stood and carried me to the bedroom.
I fell back on the mattress. He caressed the outsides of my thighs, hovering over me.
As his face dipped to meet mine, I shot up in a panic, forcing him to sit back. “Shit, wait,” I said. “I forgot to pick up condoms.”
“It’s fine.”
I frowned. “It is not fine. I told you I forgot to take a birth control pill last week. We need to be extra careful.”
“Come on, babe.” He nuzzled my neck. “You’re not going to get pregnant because you missedone—”
“I’m not taking the chance.”
“Yeah, I get it.” He flopped onto his back, blowing out a breath. “There’s a condom in the drawer under the sink.”
I shuffled to the bathroom and rifled through hairbands, bobby pins, deodorant, and eye drops until I uncovered a small foil packet.
“What’re you doing in there?” he called. “I’m falling asleep.”
“One second.” After checking the expiration date, I went and jumped onto the bed. “I’m sorry. Where were we?”
Frown lines faded as he rolled over and propped himself above me. I touched his pecs, trailing my fingers down to a flat, slightly soft midsection. Goose bumps sprang to attention across his skin.
“My, my, Mrs. Wilson,” he said. The designation always made me think of Bill’s mom, but I’d managed to control my grimace over the years. It remained one of the reasons I hadn’t given up my maiden name. “What big green eyes you have.” He touched his lips just above my cheekbone and brushed a lock from my forehead. “And such pretty blonde hair.”
“Not blonde, just plain brown,” I said with a pout.
“What?” He feigned surprise and ground his hips against me. “You must be colorblind. I see some blonde strands in there.”
“Highlights fade.” I cocked my head to the side. “You just want to tell people you married a blonde.”
“Agree to disagree then.” His smile creased his adorably crooked nose. He loved to say he’d broken it during one-on-one, but the truth was that despite getting hit in the face with a basketball once, the bridge of his nose had always been that way.
He unhooked my bra swiftly and gently cupped my breast in one of his hands. I didn’t quite fill up his palm. The unmistakable sounds of a heated basketball game blared from the television.
The motions were familiar. Over time, his touch had become defter, more confident, and his natural woodenness more fluid. He groaned my name as he pushed into me, pulling my hips closer. I echoed his movements, my arousal growing with his satisfaction. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, more apparent when his face screwed up with pleasure. He didn’t kiss me again, but I was fine with that. Make-out sessions were better suited to the adolescent and sexually frustrated.
I inhaled his natural scent, enhanced by a salty concoction of shampoo and perspiration—it was always sharper when we made love. I gasped with a twinge between my legs, but it faded like a soft sigh on a breeze.
It wasn’t long before he came, squeezing his eyes shut as he collapsed onto me.
“Sorry,” he breathed after a moment. “Do you want—”
“I’m good,” I reassured him, suddenly tired from the alcohol. “It was nice.”
It took him less than two minutes to fall asleep—I knew because I often watched the clock as I waited. Untangling myself from his clutches, I tiptoed out of the room.
Most nights, sex was quick, and that was fine. Not even a marathon session could get an orgasm out of me. It wasn’t that I didn’t get pleasure from our lovemaking—I did. Feeling physically connected to Bill wasn’t a problem; I just couldn’t climax with a partner. I’d never been able to with Bill or anyone else. And the harder he tried, the more self-conscious I got, which only frustrated him. When it came to sex, something inside me was fundamentally out of order.
Once the apartment was dark and still, and I’d washed my face of the day, I returned to cocoon myself in our cotton sheets. Bill stirred, unconsciously reaching for me. When he and I had started dating, I’d had to learn to find the comfort in post-coital cuddling. I never passed out like him, so I was the one left with tingling limbs, hot breath in my hair, and sweaty skin as I tried to turn off my brain and sleep.
Tonight, I wasn’t in the mood to play bedroom Twister, so after a few minutes, once he was out cold, I moved to my side of the bed.
A twinge.
It wasn’t much of anything. I rolled my head to the side, toward my husband. At one point he’d wanted my orgasm as much as I had, but it was the one thing I couldn’t give him. We’d experimented in the beginning, including with toys, but neither of us was comfortable with them. There were times when we’d been close, when stars and body parts had aligned, and I’d shuddered in response, climbing the mountain to the peak. But when it came time for the grand finale, I always buckled under the pressure. Every time.
Bill had found comfort in the fact that it wasn’t just him—I’d been with other men, mostly in college—but I had yet to find peace in any of it. My incapacity to give Bill all of myself was my eternal flaw—and as a wife, my greatest inadequacy. If things were the other way around, could I live with the fact that I couldn’t pleasure Bill?
