attractive since The Great Flood. It’s a theory that’s impossible to prove, and really of no importance anyway. But I’ll bet it’s true.
When you look around, just about everyone is relatively good-looking. You see very few odd body types or glaring asymmetry. Those men who are the least appealing physically tend to remain single, and so they don’t have any input on the looks of future generations.
I don’t like to think that something as superficial as appearance swayed my judgment too much when it was time for me to marry. The evaluators made sure all things were considered, at least for the first five. But I was the one who made the final selections. And from among all the more or less handsome candidates presented to me, I chose the men whose looks I liked best.
The process, of course, was different with John. I think there will always be something different between us.
It’s John I long for physically, in a way I don’t long for the others. But why, I wonder.
Are his features more finely chiseled than his brother Ryan’s, whom he closely resembles? Are his shoulders broader than Seth’s? Does his waist taper to his hips more enticingly than Tom’s? Are his eyes more piercing or his lips more tender than Andy’s or Sam’s?
In ancient times, women were valued for their beauty. Now we’re just valued because we’re women—because women are rare. So I wonder if it matters much anymore to men how we look. Probably not, since they don’t get to choose. They don’t have the luxury of comparing women. If they did, I think it would still matter to them.
Still, there must be something more to the equation than looks. Something more than positive qualities, and the likelihood of being compatible. There has to be, even now.
When I invite John to my bed, my whole body tingles with anticipation. I prepare for him more carefully than I do for the others. I think about him before, during and afterward. I would be happy and grateful if our world were such that he could be my only husband. Some people would consider that thought to be blasphemous. I’ll never express it, never say it out loud, but that’s how I feel.
It’s John whom I allowed to father this latest baby, though he’ll never know for sure that it was his sperm, and his alone, that was instrumental in the making of Ethan. I don’t even know why I did it. The qualities he’s passed on to our child are not likely to be superior to the ones that might have been passed on by Tom, for example, or Ryan.
He’s not even a better lover than the others. Not really. Not technically. But I respond to him differently.
He nuzzles my neck. Touches me with eager fingers. Kisses me with a kind of needy joy. And I respond in kind.
I lay my head upon his chest after we’ve coupled, and breathe him in—the warm, strong, maleness of him.
I may wake him up in the middle of the night, in a way that he especially likes, by putting my mouth on him, rousing him irresistibly from sleep. We’ll make love again. It will be primal, passionate, quick.
But now, it’s still early, and I just want to talk.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he says, stroking my naked backside.
When I’m with John it does feel as if he’s my only husband. And I know that, no matter what I do, my feelings for him will always be totally unfair to the others. Don’t they need and deserve a loving wife as much as John does? Then I remind myself that I do love them, each of them, in my own way. I’d never want any of them to feel unloved by me, or jealous of John. It’s something I always have to guard against.
“I think I’ve always loved you, even when Dora was still around,” he says.
It’s unusual for him to mention Dora. We hardly ever talk about her. But it’s Dora’s daughter, after all, who’s brought us together.
“Are you worried about Rebekah?” I ask. We told her the news today
When you look around, just about everyone is relatively good-looking. You see very few odd body types or glaring asymmetry. Those men who are the least appealing physically tend to remain single, and so they don’t have any input on the looks of future generations.
I don’t like to think that something as superficial as appearance swayed my judgment too much when it was time for me to marry. The evaluators made sure all things were considered, at least for the first five. But I was the one who made the final selections. And from among all the more or less handsome candidates presented to me, I chose the men whose looks I liked best.
The process, of course, was different with John. I think there will always be something different between us.
It’s John I long for physically, in a way I don’t long for the others. But why, I wonder.
Are his features more finely chiseled than his brother Ryan’s, whom he closely resembles? Are his shoulders broader than Seth’s? Does his waist taper to his hips more enticingly than Tom’s? Are his eyes more piercing or his lips more tender than Andy’s or Sam’s?
In ancient times, women were valued for their beauty. Now we’re just valued because we’re women—because women are rare. So I wonder if it matters much anymore to men how we look. Probably not, since they don’t get to choose. They don’t have the luxury of comparing women. If they did, I think it would still matter to them.
Still, there must be something more to the equation than looks. Something more than positive qualities, and the likelihood of being compatible. There has to be, even now.
When I invite John to my bed, my whole body tingles with anticipation. I prepare for him more carefully than I do for the others. I think about him before, during and afterward. I would be happy and grateful if our world were such that he could be my only husband. Some people would consider that thought to be blasphemous. I’ll never express it, never say it out loud, but that’s how I feel.
It’s John whom I allowed to father this latest baby, though he’ll never know for sure that it was his sperm, and his alone, that was instrumental in the making of Ethan. I don’t even know why I did it. The qualities he’s passed on to our child are not likely to be superior to the ones that might have been passed on by Tom, for example, or Ryan.
He’s not even a better lover than the others. Not really. Not technically. But I respond to him differently.
He nuzzles my neck. Touches me with eager fingers. Kisses me with a kind of needy joy. And I respond in kind.
I lay my head upon his chest after we’ve coupled, and breathe him in—the warm, strong, maleness of him.
I may wake him up in the middle of the night, in a way that he especially likes, by putting my mouth on him, rousing him irresistibly from sleep. We’ll make love again. It will be primal, passionate, quick.
But now, it’s still early, and I just want to talk.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he says, stroking my naked backside.
When I’m with John it does feel as if he’s my only husband. And I know that, no matter what I do, my feelings for him will always be totally unfair to the others. Don’t they need and deserve a loving wife as much as John does? Then I remind myself that I do love them, each of them, in my own way. I’d never want any of them to feel unloved by me, or jealous of John. It’s something I always have to guard against.
“I think I’ve always loved you, even when Dora was still around,” he says.
It’s unusual for him to mention Dora. We hardly ever talk about her. But it’s Dora’s daughter, after all, who’s brought us together.
“Are you worried about Rebekah?” I ask. We told her the news today
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