Oh we kiss, we hug. With about as much passion as a brother and sister. If I try to get closer to him, take our interaction beyond the platonic, Charles pulls away.
He tells me it’s stress, which I do understand. My husband is a civil-litigation attorney and has a lot on his plate. I’m not at all insensitive to that. But fourteen months? I thought sex was supposed to be a great stress reliever.
I get so frustrated that at times I simply want to give up. But then I think, how can I give up? This is the man I love more than anything. I’ll be married to him forever. And forever is a long time to go without getting any sex.
When I pressure him, he immediately shuts down, so I have tried to do subtle things to get his interest. Like give him a back rub, or reach for his hand as we sit on the couch together. But even that doesn’t work. Because just when I think he’s sufficiently relaxed and I might hit a home run, he’ll give me a chaste kiss and tell me he’s going to bed.
This happened last night.
The night before that, Charles went to bed after I did. He didn’t curl up next to me. He never does. It’s like there’s a line down the middle of our bed and he doesn’t want to cross it.
I cried this morning as I asked him if he still wants to be married to me. He assured me that he does—then kissed me on the forehead before heading out the door.
Truly, I am at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do. But I can’t throw in the towel. I have to find a way to help us reconnect as a couple.
Today, I am more determined than ever to get some love from my husband. I was thinking about ways to make that happen as I drove to the studio, and came up with the conclusion that I have to do something different. Something drastically different.
I’m thinking scented candles and wine and a completely relaxing environment. You’re probably thinking no big deal. And you’re right. But I’m going to up the ante by wearing something scandalous. The kind of outfit my husband won’t be able to resist me in.
We used to do this sort of thing in the early days of our marriage, but somewhere along the way I guess we got stale. Boring.
Great sex is on my mind as I lock up the studio. It’s a small space, one room and an office area in a strip mall-type building. It’s all I can afford in order to make a marginal profit doing the job I love. But the landscape out back is lush and beautiful and free—I use it often when taking photos.
This month has been a good one for me, with more weddings than I expected. Thankfully, I have a few extra dollars to spend. And I am going to spend them on spicing up my marriage.
There is one person who can probably help me in my quest. My sister. As I get behind the wheel of my Jetta, I’m already dialing her number on my cell phone. My sister and I don’t talk very often. We don’t exactly see eye to eye. But this is an emergency. I need her expertise.
I’ve always been the good girl. Samera’s always been the whore.
I love her in spite of it, and I can hardly blame her for her choices. My mother is a religious nut—if I haven’t said so before. Sent my sister right into the sex trade, while for a long time I thought that even feeling sexual desire would send me straight to hell.
For the past six years, Samera has worked as a stripper. She prefers “exotic dancer” but I like to call a spade a spade.
Samera’s phone rings and I wait. “Hello,” she says cheerfully when she answers after three rings.
“Hey, Sam. It’s me.”
She pauses for a moment, then says, “Annie. Wow, this is a surprise.”
“I know. Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I’ve been busy with work.”
“I hear you. I’ve been busy, too. Are you finally making decent money?”
What she really wants to know is if I’m making enough money to be self-sufficient. Samera hates the idea that if Charles and I were to split, I wouldn’t be able to support myself.
“Things are looking up,” I tell her. I don’t add, “Just barely.”
“Because if things aren’t going well, you know I can always get you work at the club.”
I chuckle sarcastically, like I always do. This is a running joke between us—though I don’t particularly find it funny. It’s Samera’s way of saying she thinks I’m a prude. Of course, she doesn’t think she’s loose. She says she’s sexually liberated.
“How about we settle on lunch instead?” I suggest. “Sometime soon. It’s been way too long.”
“You’re on, sis.”
It remains to be seen if this will happen. “Listen,” I say. “The reason I’m calling. I need to ask a favor.”
“Sure.”
“This is going to sound weird, but where can I find an adult store?”
“An adult store? You mean like JCPenney?”
She knows exactly what I mean. “No, a store that sells…stuff. You know.”
“You mean a sex shop?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Samera laughs. “I swear, Annie, I can see you turning red. I don’t know why you get so embarrassed. This is the new millennium. Women are allowed to say sex without fear of being persecuted.”
“I don’t need a lecture. Just directions.”
“What do you want exactly? Videos? Toys?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of sexy lingerie. I want to spice things up with Charles.” As I say this, I envision a laughing devil with a pitchfork. Believe me, it’s hard to undo eighteen years of my mother’s conditioning.
“Why not come by the club? That’ll get you both in the mood.”
“No thanks.” I wouldn’t be caught dead in a strip joint with Charles. That’s not the drastically different I had in mind. “I just want to find a place where I can buy some naughty stuff. Lace and feathers. Maybe even crotchless underwear.”
“Oh, my. You are serious.”
“You can stop your snickering. I haven’t been living under a rock.”
“Okay, okay.” Samera settles down. “Crotchless is great, by the way. Always gets a guy in the mood. So are edible undies. There was one time when I bought them for this guy I was seeing and let me tell—”
“Too much information,” I announce, cutting my sister off. Samera often gets carried away, telling me details I don’t want to know. “I just want to know where I can find a place to buy some stuff.”
“Where are you? Coming from the studio?”
“Yep.”
“There’s a place in Sugarloaf that I highly recommend. It’s on your way home. I get a ton of my stuff there. It’s called A Little Naughty. Corner of John and Hibiscus.”
Now that Samera’s said this, I get a mental image of this shop. I’ve driven by it but haven’t consciously noticed it. “I think I know the place,” I say.
“It’s got everything you could possibly dream of. Ask for Suzie. Tell her I sent you and she’ll give you a discount.”
I wonder how much stuff my sister buys there. Actually, I don’t want to know. “Thanks a bunch, sis. Listen, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“You