Thirteen years. That’s how long Dean and I have been married. Thirteen years of ups, downs, forwards, backwards, whirlywhirls and somersaults. Whatever the obstacle we’d faced during that time, we’d nailed it. And not just nailed it; we’d MacGyvered the arse out of it.
Our matrimonial knot was tied in front of friends and family in a large Catholic church before God on a scorchin’ hot December afternoon. Skin was tacky. Napes were damp. And underneath my dress I’d had a makeshift steam oven between my legs that, had I baked a cake in, would’ve put Betty Crocker to shame. But despite the awful heatwave we’d experienced that day, I’d still rocked my white halter-neck, taffeta wedding dress like nobody’s business. Yep, Natasha Jones — that’s me — had been the most beautiful human-meringue to have ever lived.
The perfect bride at the perfect wedding to the perfect man.
Smiling as I drove my car into the driveway of our house, I thought back to that day and to just how far Dean and I had come. Like most couples, we’d started out by working our arses off to save for a deposit on a home, soon after becoming proud owners of a gigantic mortgage. We’d parented a cat and then a dog — our safe and happy furry test subjects successfully proving that we could try parenting a real baby human. Enter said baby human number one: William, who was born two years after we married, followed by baby human number two: Thomas, three years later.
My boys.
I loved them.
But they near destroyed my vagina.
How the tunnel of Tash still operated after pushing out those beasts was beyond me, and yet it somehow did. In fact, it was scheduled to operate later tonight. That’s right … bring on anniversary sexytimes. Bring on a candlelit dinner, a full body massage, a hot steamy bubble bath, schnappies and a fuckalicious fuckfest with my man. Bring on the rarity that is a childfree evening. Bliss.
Grinning devilishly, I got out of my car and skipped to my front door, waving at my neighbour before pausing and pulling out my phone to check my hair and makeup on the selfiecam. I’d performed a rearview mirror beauty touch-up at the traffic lights and had even sprayed some deodorant on my armpits for added effect. And just because it was our anniversary, I’d de-fuzzed myself the night before.
All of myself.
Yes … Tashy’s clam was no longer bearded.
Since giving birth, my window of horniness had shrunk from a floor to ceiling panel to a porthole on a tugboat … a toy tugboat. I’d gone from yee-haw to yee-naw and, quite frankly, I normally couldn’t be bothered. Sex was boring. A chore. And I hated chores. It also involved getting naked — something else I hated.
Don’t get me wrong, my husband was hot, and I loved him. In the years we’d been together, he’d barely changed, physically, whereas I had. My boobs had become droobs. My arse resembled a tail. I had flabdominals and bat-wing arms, and the bags under my eyes could hold a week’s worth of shopping. Everything I possessed was loose and tired, but that was motherhood.
Despite loving and being attracted to Dean, and despite my teeny tugboat porthole of horniness, I just wasn’t all that interested in meaningless do-it-for-the-hell-of-it sex anymore. There was nothing remotely exciting about it. Nothing spontaneous. And at the end of a long exhausting day, the last thing I wanted was a whole five minutes of belly flab flabbing while having to act out an orgasm worthy of an Academy Award.
Except for tonight!
Tonight was different.
I’d planned on digging out my sexy nightie, one that hid the bits I wanted kept hidden. I’d also picked up some wine and donuts, and we had “Love Actually” on DVD. It was perfect. Romantic. And did I mention there were no kids?
Pulling a duckface at my phone and running my tongue across the top row of my teeth, I nodded in approval before turning the key to my front door, stepping inside our entrance hall and nearly having a fucking heart attack.
“SURPRISE!”
“Shiiiiit! What the ff … fig tree is going on?” I screamed, clutching my chest and staring wide-eyed at my sons, both William and Thomas in battle stance and pointing sword-shaped balloons at me. Yes, balloons, as in air-filled latex objects from hell.
“Prepare to die, mother,” William declared, stepping forward.
The balloon neared.
I backed up.
“Yes, prepare to die a horrible death, evil wench.”
“Thomas!” I scowled at my youngest spawn. “Don’t call me that.” What the hell is going on? Where are my candles, rose petals and smooth sounds of Lionel Ritchie filtering from the stereo? Where is Dean?
Thomas put his hand to his mouth and whispered, “Just go with it, Mum. I’m acting.”
“But … but …” I shook my head in bewilderment. “But why?”
He stepped forward again, this time pointing the sword-balloon directly at my chest. “Do not speak, or I shall slit your throat.”
The balloon made a hellish-like screeching noise as it molested my skin, causing my heart rate to elevate and an ear-piercing squeal to leave my mouth. I hated balloons. Despised them.
I was a proud Globophobic.
“Get that thing away from me!” I screamed, swatting it and then making a dash for my bedroom.
As I ran past the kitchen, two insane children hot on my tail, Dean sprung out from behind a wall, causing my bladder to lose some of its contents. Jesus Christ, for the love of Depend!
I wasn’t sure whether to clutch my chest or vagina, therefore focussed on my husband who was dressed in a white shirt and grey tights, his outstretched arm wielding one of the boys’ non-balloon toy swords.
“Halt, you heathens,” he announced dramatically, chest puffed, his arm guiding me to stand behind him. “How dare thee cause m’lady such distress?”
The boys both stopped suddenly and stared dumbfounded at their father, taking in his attire and unusual choice of words.
“What’s a heeven?” Thomas whispered to William.
“I don’t know. I think it’s Robin Hood speak for bad guy.”
Thomas scrunched his nose and nodded. “Oh. Dad’s weird.”
“You are no match for us, girly man,” William declared, aiming his balloon at Dean.
Girly man? I couldn’t help it and giggled. The whole scenario was crazy.
Dean widened his stance and held his arms out, defensively. “Hey! There’s nothing girly ‘bout what I’m packing.”
My gaze dropped to ‘what he was packing’, which was beautifully accentuated in tight cotton Lycra. Pronounced. Snug. Confronting. The sight had me clamping my teeth around my lip and, as unusual as it was, I wanted that package. I wanted it in between my legs, rubbed across my face … I just plain wanted it.
Staring at his bulge, it occurred to me that it would remain out of reach, because children murder sexytimes. This always happens.
My heart sank.
There was never any time for Tash and Dean, Dean and Tash. It was always us and the boys, or work, or … life. No sexytimes. No tunnel of Tash exploration.
That was marriage.
Raising my eyes to meet my husband’s endearing sweet face, I put on a smile for what he’d orchestrated. Sure, it wasn’t what I’d had in mind, wasn’t what I’d hoped for. But this was Dean. He was my goofy man, my entertaining, caring, safe and secure man.
He was my normal.