It’s Wednesday night, and the rhinestones on my pussy are ready to rock! On Monday afternoon while Andrew was at the office, I got a full bikini wax. It was an afternoon spent in agonizing pain and mortification. After years of hearing about it, I finally caved in and had my girl vajazzled. The idea of rhinestones on my private parts seemed like fun. I also wanted to surprise him and hoped that the rhinestones in the shape of a heart on my girl would add a bit more excitement to our sex life.

During a quick trip to Santa Monica Place, I purchased some new lingerie. Maybe the new demi bra and underwear set would excite my unexciting lover. I look up to the heavens, praying that the white sheer silk set will work its magic. I want my rhinestones to shine even with the underwear on. The fuchsia set I wore last week did nothing for him. Nada. After all these years, I know deep down inside, my fiancé will never care for fancy lingerie. He could never tell the difference between lace and cotton underwear. Lingerie, along with foreplay, doesn’t matter to Andrew. It’s inconsequential during our lovemaking.

Some couples fuck three times a week, some five, and I am well aware of couples who fuck several times a day like rabbits. Andrew and I … well, we do it every Wednesday night unless it’s that time of the month. It’s been like this for about two years. Then a few months ago, I realized that getting laid once a week is better than not getting it at all. He seems completely fine with the schedule having been the one who came up with it. A few years after he asked me to marry him, we started discussing children. We both went to see a fertility specialist who informed us we would never be able to conceive together. Since children were no longer a priority, my fiancé didn’t see the need to have sex as often. It broke my heart, of course, and my female genitalia constantly feels neglected.

Our usual date night consists of a nice meal at one of our neighborhood’s vegan restaurants and then a leisurely stroll along the boardwalk. That’s romance for us. For the past two years, every Wednesday night.

It’s nine o’clock, and I’m ready for my night of romance with Andrew. Proud of my girl’s new look and the sheer lingerie I spent a fortune on, I spray a little Creed’s “Love In White,” assuming he’ll be taken by the scent. I walk over to the mahogany dresser and turn on the iPod that sits on a Bose docking station. The first notes always hit me. As Chris Botti plays “En Aranjuez Con Tu Amor,” I am transported to another place where my lover will make passionate love to me. Silently, I pray that Andrew will allow the album to play in its entirety.

My moment of sensuality is lost when my fiancé, wearing an old, brown thick robe enters the bedroom and turns off the background music. His smile is brief, and an apology for turning off my music is not uttered. Instead, he quietly walks over to the bed where I now lay, displaying my new lingerie. I’ve practiced this pose for years. My brown hair is down and away from my face. My legs, crisscrossed at the ankles. My arms splayed over my head as my back slightly arches. It’s the kind of pose you’d see in a lingerie catalogue. Nothing original but I’m desperate.

Although he remarks appreciatively with a, “You look nice,” I can’t help but be upset that I don’t hear a hint of lust. Three simple words leave me simply deflated. He doesn’t comment on the crystals shining like disco balls through my sheer underwear. I contain my disappointment and try to ignore his lame compliment, preventing myself from screaming, “I waxed completely bare for you and have crystals in the shape of a heart on my pussy.” While I continue to stare at his light brown eyes, I take off my underwear, revealing what a straight man would call the golden treasure. He glances down in surprise and says, “Interesting.”

I don’t have it in me to respond to ‘interesting.’ Instead, I just get under the covers.

Before joining me, my lover saunters over to the only window in the room. Pulling down the brown roman shades, he closes the curtains and reaches for the light on the nightstand only to be thwarted by a sliver of illumination coming through the window. Realizing that he forgot to completely close the curtains, he heads back to the window, slightly adjusting the curtains with more force, ensuring light doesn’t pass through. He turns off the lamp beside the bed. Andrew prefers to make love in the dark. After all these years, I can’t remember the last time I saw him naked.

Once he is beside me, he sits on the edge of the bed. Quickly taking off his robe, he gets under the comforter with me. Remaining silent, as he is always quiet when we make love.

Courage comes over me, and I turn to face him even though we can’t see one another. It is pitch black. I gently stroke his handsome face, one that I have committed to memory. Leaning closer, I whisper, “Umm, sweetheart, I want to see you. Please turn the light on.” He stills. I pause and think of the right words to say. With hesitation, I beg, “I … I … I want to suck you. Please let me give you a blowjob tonight. I want you to watch me suck you.”

Surprised, Andrew tenses.

Oh, fuck.

Within seconds, he is sitting up. Before I can do anything, he quickly rises out of bed as if I had just torched his ass. Because it’s completely dark, I can’t see him, but the surprise in his voice is inevitable. He paces back and forth, and I feel like an idiot. This is not good at all. “Lina, I don’t want that. I don’t want to see your mouth on my dick. That’s not us.” Yeah, Andrew hates the word “cock.” He hates the word “pussy.” God forbid he should ever use the word “cunt.” It’s completely dark, and he’s not going to be able to see anything. I refrain from telling him that.

“I wanted to try something new,” I say, knowing how this night will end. What man wouldn’t want his blowjob? “We’ve never done it before, and I thought it could spice up our night. I would love to share that experience with you. If only once.” Nine years of sex and I would really love to feel your cock in my mouth. I would love to feel your tongue inside me. I wouldn’t mind trying a butt plug as well. All right, I’m getting way ahead of myself. Baby steps, Lina, baby steps.

His pacing stops, and he is now beside me. Turning to face me, I can hear his disgust. “Lina … Lina ... that’s … that’s not what I want. I’ve never wanted that. I will never want that. It’s not what we want. You can’t seriously want to put my dick in your mouth. What has gotten into you? Oh God, did Patti tell you this is what I would want?” No, Andrew, this is what I want. I’ve changed. I want to try new things. Without waiting for a response, he finally kisses me lightly on the lips. I don’t have it in me to answer him. All I want to do is finish this session with Andrew, shower, and then get some work done.

Under the covers, I touch the crystals on my neglected mound. What a waste. I leave my bra on. My breasts will be neglected, and the only thing that touches them is the silk undergarment.

Ashamed, dread comes upon me. I remain lifeless.

Andrew kisses me lightly on the forehead and lips like I’m porcelain. I’m anything but physically fragile. My body begs to be roughened. To be explored. To be adulated. After a few minutes of light kisses, I can feel his erection touch my thigh. His cock is surprisingly … cold. Go figure. Maneuvering himself, he is completely on top of my listless and unexcited body. Missionary position. The only position that Andrew and I do. No doggy style, no cowgirl on top, no spooning from behind. God, how many times I’ve imagined Andrew taking me from behind, pulling my hair, being nasty and dirty with me, calling me his bitch, his slut, and fucking me senseless. Instead, the sex is passionless and quiet. I was stupid for not fingering myself while he was in the bathroom.

Andrew has a great cock. It’s larger and thicker than the average penis. I know this because of porn. It’s such a shame he doesn’t use it more often. Placing the tip of his thick crown at my entrance, it takes a while for him to enter completely. Because I’m not anywhere near excited, it’s a bit painful. Shit, I am dry. No, seriously, I am DRY. Okay, I need my imagination to work overtime or she is going to be in pain for the next few days. And it’s not the kind of pain I’ve wished for−the kind where I can’t walk for days because of mind-blowing sex. I need to excite myself. I’ve watched porn where women are always touching themselves while having sex. I wish I could do that right now, but my lover prefers that I keep my hands above my head while he makes love to me. I need to start thinking of anything except the activity that I’m currently engaged in. Usually I’ll remember a passage from one of my erotic romance books or replay scenes featuring Bruce Venture in my head. Ah, that Mr. Venture … he sure knows how to lick and fuck a woman.

An image appears.

Tonight, for the first time in my life, I am thinking of another man who is not a porn star while my fiancé makes love to me.

Mmm …

The beautiful and clear image of the gorgeous man at the café comes through. I close my eyes tightly, thinking only of that handsome stranger. I begin to lick my lips and envision what his long, lean body would feel like on top of mine. I bite down on the smile that begins to form.

What would he do with my vajazzled girl? Would he spend time learning my body? Would he appreciate the lingerie I still have on? Would he tear my bra off my body? Would he explore every inch of me with his mouth? Would he fuck me senseless for hours? Would he talk dirty to me … calling me his ‘filthy slut’?

I. Am. Fucking. Repressed.

Stretched on our bed, my fiancé groans and starts moving back and forth as I lay there, picturing another man fucking me. A stranger at that. As with every lovemaking session, I fake it quietly. Gently grinding, but not too much, so as to not disturb Andrew’s mechanical thrusts. However, tonight, the image of the stranger returns, stronger than ever, and has me wet with desire … moaning … panting.

Slut. Pussy. Pulling my hair. Sucking his cock. Cum on my breasts.

The dirtier I envision sex would be with the stranger, the more liquid pools between my thighs. I am actually soaking wet. I’ve never been this excited before. Unable to remain quiet, I break the silence with a whisper, “Ooh, yes, yes … please … make me come … please.” My arms fall to my side. I grip the sheets because every thrust Andrew gives me is the stranger’s cock inside me, pounding into me, deep, hard and relentless. Turning my head, I meet Andrew’s neck. The smell of his baby powder assaults me, and my fantasy ends.

No! No! No!

This needs to be over with. Immediately, I blurt out, “That’s it. I’m going to come,” although I have never ever had an orgasm with Andrew before. Never.

Taken aback, my lover’s gentle thrusts stop. Breaking his usual silence, “Lina, please, I beg you. Please be quiet. I can’t concentrate.”

Yes, he can’t concentrate.

I love him, I think to myself. I know I love him. But how long can continue like this? I want to do different things. I close my eyes again, begging dear God for the image of the stranger to return. Soon, this will be over. It takes a minute or two for his piercing light eyes to focus. He stares at me and the entire image of the dark-haired man at the café reappears. Oh God, mmm, yes, he looks delectable. I bet he has washboard abs and an Adonis line that will lead me to a big, thick, juicy cock. I inhale and wonder what he would smell like. I bet he doesn’t smell like baby powder.

Fuck me deep.

Fuck me hard.

Fuck me senseless.

Surprisingly, Andrew doesn’t notice that my hands are kneading my breasts under the bra. The vision of the stranger coming on them leaves me breathless. Underneath this passionless man is a dirty woman who craves raunchy sex.

“Lina, I’m close. Did you come?” Andrew asks. He stills for a few seconds before continuing to make gentle, sweet love to me.

Opening my eyes, I look into my fiancé’s soft eyes and like I always do, I lie. I bite my bottom lip before nodding.

My ten-minute man tenses, shaking his head as he releases his orgasm. Slowly lowering his head, I feel him sigh with relief. With his forehead against mine, he murmurs, “Thank you for the silence. It’s hard for me to concentrate if I hear anything. You were great.” Yup, I was great. Our only form of contact after gentle penetration (yeah, that’s what it was) besides our foreheads touching is a simple kiss and an, “I love you.”

I love you, Andrew. I just don’t love having sex with you.

Without turning the lights on, he gets off me, stands up, slipping his old and so unsexy robe on and goes straight to the master bathroom. I should throw that robe out and get him a new one. It’s been years since we’ve made love for hours and cuddled together, basking in the afterglow of sex. YEARS. This has been the routine since Andrew set up our lovemaking schedule. I don’t join him in the shower, opting to wait until he gets out. I stare at the painted popcorn ceiling and wonder if this is how it will always be. Of course, it will stay this way. Andrew will never want it any other way. His rigidity will never allow it.

I hear the creaking of the bathroom door as it opens. Andrew turns on the ceiling light and heads to the dresser to retrieve matching light brown pajamas. I need to throw those out as well. I long to hide my disenchantment and vulnerability. Without another glance, I wrap the blanket around my body and quickly rise out of bed, rushing to the master bathroom.

I open the shower door and turn on the water. While waiting for the water to warm up, I close the bathroom door behind me, unable to hold back the tears. My new lingerie unnoticed, my new perfume undetected. My vajazzled pussy barely touched. I remain in the shower for at least fifteen minutes allowing the hot water to run down my body. I scrub every inch believing that the past few minutes of my life will fade from my memory. I feel guilty for fantasizing about another man while Andrew made love to me. After my shower, I walk over to the double sink and stand in front of the antique mirror. I am unrecognizable in my own eyes. Dripping wet, I can’t help wonder if this is how it’s supposed to be.