guttural noise that brings to mind the onset of food poisoning.
As in most relationships, the frequency of lovemaking in ours has lessened. During our courtship and our early married years, four or five times a week was the rule, and we enjoyed lazy sessions that stretched on for hours, occasionally requiring snack breaks to refuel our spent energy. Now, we carve out fifteen-minute tête-à-têtes when we can manage it, after the kids are down. I know this is merely the naturalprogression of a married person’s sex life. And yet, for some reason, perhaps the fact that menopause is looming in my not-so-distant future and wreaking havoc on my hormone balance, I am suddenly overcome with a sense of loss. Even as my husband pushes himself inside me with his usual sharp intake of breath, I feel a quiet desperation, an anger at all of the unfulfilled promises and shattered illusions that saturate the lives of the middle-aged.
I
am middle-aged. I know they say that forty is the new twenty-five. But
they
are full of shit. Forty is forty, and forty-two suddenly seems fucking
old
.
“Are you okay?” Jonah’s voice is a hushed whisper. I look up to find him staring intently at me, his rhythmic thrusts temporarily suspended.
I nod and smile reassuringly, hoping that the hot water from the showerhead is camouflaging my tears. I reach my hands around his waist, noting that his has not expanded much over the past few years—well, at least not as much as mine has. Grabbing his ass, I pull him against me, forcing him deeper inside me, and the sudden pressure in my loins causes a grunt to escape my lips. That’s all it takes. Jonah immediately returns to his task, the task of giving me pleasure. Eyes at half mast, his breath comes in ragged gasps as he presses me against the tile. Pumping into me, speaking into my ear about how much he loves me and how good I feel and how well we fit together.
I make all the right noises, but I just can’t seem to give myself completely over to the act. It is as though my mind is detached from my body. My limbs are responding to the commands I give them: lift right leg and intertwine it with Jonah’s (carefully, so as not to catch any of his hair in my ragged toenails); squeeze Jonah’s buttocks with both hands (trying not to think about Charmin toilet paper); undulatelike a belly dancer on PCP (does the local rec park offer classes?); moan lasciviously and say “Give it to me” and “Oh baby oh baby” and “Oh my god oh my god ohmygod” over and over again.
But I am merely an actor in a play, a bad actor at that, waiting for that blessed moment when I can exit stage left. I know that Jonah won’t finish until I am sated, and I also know that a comet will crash into earth and wipe out mankind before I actually
will
come, so I pretend increasing fervor, forcefully hitching my breathing and sinking my fingernails into the soft flesh of Jonah’s ass, gasping urgently as I nearly tear a chunk out of his earlobe with my teeth. I clench my thighs tightly around him and shudder spasmodically, crying out, “Yes yes YES!” All the while thinking that Meg Ryan deserved a fucking Oscar for the deli scene in
When Harry Met Sally
. I know it’s pathetic that my thoughts are centered on a romantic comedy from 1989 while my husband is about to explode inside me. Yet I am relieved that this will all be over in about eight and a half seconds. And although I can’t help but feel slightly guilty, I am well aware of one of the most basic truths known to wives the world over: A fake orgasm can be a woman’s best friend.
• Five •
I have found that the only peace and quiet and absolute privacy I can get while my husband and children are awake and at home is when I’m in the bathroom. My kids learned early on that when Mommy is “making number two,” she is not to be disturbed. And over the years since then, I have milked this edict for everything it’s worth. Which is why I am on the
As in most relationships, the frequency of lovemaking in ours has lessened. During our courtship and our early married years, four or five times a week was the rule, and we enjoyed lazy sessions that stretched on for hours, occasionally requiring snack breaks to refuel our spent energy. Now, we carve out fifteen-minute tête-à-têtes when we can manage it, after the kids are down. I know this is merely the naturalprogression of a married person’s sex life. And yet, for some reason, perhaps the fact that menopause is looming in my not-so-distant future and wreaking havoc on my hormone balance, I am suddenly overcome with a sense of loss. Even as my husband pushes himself inside me with his usual sharp intake of breath, I feel a quiet desperation, an anger at all of the unfulfilled promises and shattered illusions that saturate the lives of the middle-aged.
I
am middle-aged. I know they say that forty is the new twenty-five. But
they
are full of shit. Forty is forty, and forty-two suddenly seems fucking
old
.
“Are you okay?” Jonah’s voice is a hushed whisper. I look up to find him staring intently at me, his rhythmic thrusts temporarily suspended.
I nod and smile reassuringly, hoping that the hot water from the showerhead is camouflaging my tears. I reach my hands around his waist, noting that his has not expanded much over the past few years—well, at least not as much as mine has. Grabbing his ass, I pull him against me, forcing him deeper inside me, and the sudden pressure in my loins causes a grunt to escape my lips. That’s all it takes. Jonah immediately returns to his task, the task of giving me pleasure. Eyes at half mast, his breath comes in ragged gasps as he presses me against the tile. Pumping into me, speaking into my ear about how much he loves me and how good I feel and how well we fit together.
I make all the right noises, but I just can’t seem to give myself completely over to the act. It is as though my mind is detached from my body. My limbs are responding to the commands I give them: lift right leg and intertwine it with Jonah’s (carefully, so as not to catch any of his hair in my ragged toenails); squeeze Jonah’s buttocks with both hands (trying not to think about Charmin toilet paper); undulatelike a belly dancer on PCP (does the local rec park offer classes?); moan lasciviously and say “Give it to me” and “Oh baby oh baby” and “Oh my god oh my god ohmygod” over and over again.
But I am merely an actor in a play, a bad actor at that, waiting for that blessed moment when I can exit stage left. I know that Jonah won’t finish until I am sated, and I also know that a comet will crash into earth and wipe out mankind before I actually
will
come, so I pretend increasing fervor, forcefully hitching my breathing and sinking my fingernails into the soft flesh of Jonah’s ass, gasping urgently as I nearly tear a chunk out of his earlobe with my teeth. I clench my thighs tightly around him and shudder spasmodically, crying out, “Yes yes YES!” All the while thinking that Meg Ryan deserved a fucking Oscar for the deli scene in
When Harry Met Sally
. I know it’s pathetic that my thoughts are centered on a romantic comedy from 1989 while my husband is about to explode inside me. Yet I am relieved that this will all be over in about eight and a half seconds. And although I can’t help but feel slightly guilty, I am well aware of one of the most basic truths known to wives the world over: A fake orgasm can be a woman’s best friend.
• Five •
I have found that the only peace and quiet and absolute privacy I can get while my husband and children are awake and at home is when I’m in the bathroom. My kids learned early on that when Mommy is “making number two,” she is not to be disturbed. And over the years since then, I have milked this edict for everything it’s worth. Which is why I am on the
Similar Books
