The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom by Robyn Harding Page B

our conversation in the wrong direction. If Karen was going to leave
Doug soon, she probably didn’t want me pumping up family life. “Although … you
know, sometimes I think family is overrated. I mean, the whole concept of
‘family.” I did those annoying little air quotes. “Do people really need other
people so much? Like, couldn’t people be just as happy alone, without the
burden of a spouse and children or trying to have children? If I were to find
myself alone tomorrow, I’d be okay. Not, like, if everyone was dead or
whatever, but just being on my own… it would be okay.” I reached for my glass
of wine, but Paul’s hand stopped me.
    “How about I make some coffee?” He was
extending the offer to the whole table, but looking directly at me.
    “Actually, I think we’d better be going,”
Karen said.
    “Yeah,” Doug agreed. “That was a really
early morning on the golf course. I’m exhausted.”
    When we’d said our goodbyes, I trailed Paul
to the kitchen. “So…?” I said suggestively, closing one eye to keep him in
focus. “What should we do now?”
    “I’m going to clean up this mess. You
should get to bed.”
    “I’ll help,” I insisted, grabbing a dirty
plate. The cutlery sitting on top clattered noisily to the floor.
    “You’re going to wake the kids,” Paul
hissed.
    “Sorry!” I sniped, sounding a lot like
Chloe.
    “Listen hon,” he said patiently. “I’ll take
care of the dishes. You get some sleep. You’re going to have a sore head in the
morning.”
    Sulkily, I headed up the stairs. I felt
like a scolded child, sent to bed before she was ready. I certainly didn’t feel
tired: I felt full of energy! I wanted to do something wild and spontaneous,
like take a cab into town and go dancing till dawn! At that moment, I
remembered the pink bag tucked into my lingerie drawer. This was perfect! What
better time to resexualize my marriage than right now, when I’d had a few drinks
to enhance my sexiness and lower my inhibitions? I was going to do it! I was
going to put on the new lingerie and jump my husband, right there in the
kitchen. Right there in the messy kitchen! The messiness of it just made it
that much more wild and spontaneous!
    Thankfully, donning the crimson water bra and thong was much
less complicated than my previous outfit. When I was dressed, I took in my
reflection. The bra did a great job of boosting my miniscule breasts, and the
thong… Well, who really looks that good in a thong anyway? But men go crazy for
them, for some reason. Before I headed downstairs to ambush my husband, I
slipped on an old pair of ridiculously high-heeled, strappy sandals: the pièce de résistance.
    “Hello?” I cooed as I walked down the stairs, running my
hand seductively along the railing. “Hello? Mr. Atwell? I’m sorry to interrupt
your cleaning, but I desperately need—”
    Suddenly, my ankle wobbled in its stiletto casing and, with
a sharp, shooting pain, turned dramatically on its side. I grasped frantically
for the railing, but to no avail. My body was pitched violently forward and I
fell flat on my face, sliding painfully, step-by-step, down the carpeted
staircase. Paul burst around the corner and saw me lying in a crumpled heap on
the hardwood floor.
    “Jesus Christ! Are you okay?”
    “Ow!” I moaned.
    “What’s wrong? What hurts?”
    Just my pride, and of course: “My ankle.”
    “Can you stand on it?” Paul took my elbow and tried, in
vain, to get me to stand in my three inch heels.
    “Ouch!” I winced and burst into tears.
    “It’s not broken, is it?” Paul bent down to inspect my foot.
    “It—it’s not broken,” I snuffled. “I just wanted… I just
wanted to surprise you. I wanted to… re-, re-, resexualize…” Another wave of
tears washed away my words.
    Paul kissed my hair then picked me up in his arms. “Off to
bed with you, my little wineo,” he said, before laboriously carrying me up the
stairs.
    The next day was a write-off. As