“MOOOOOOOOOM!” I hear for the umpteenth time in the past, oh, five minutes. I hate when the school has early release days. It’s like the school district is trying to kill me personally. They obviously have no concept of what it is like for a stay-at-home-mom to be stuck in the house with five children for more than a few hours at a time.
Do I love my children? Sure.
Did I plan for five? Hell no.
Blame the wonders of birth control failing. Twice. It’s a damn good thing Jeremiah got snipped shortly after Sophie was born because if I were to accidentally get pregnant again, I would be checking myself into the loony bin for a long-term staycation.
Before I can answer the scream, Owen starts yelling.
“Mom! Tell Jacob to stop hitting me with his sword! It hurts!”
I sigh as I look up from my coffee cup, wishing Calgon would take me away. “Owen, we have discussed this before. You are eight years old. Jacob is four. You are bigger than him. By a lot. If he’s hitting you with his plastic sword, walk away.”
Owen looks back at me like I’ve just spouted off a quadratic equation. If he can’t defend himself from a four-year-old, good luck to him in middle school.
Fortunately, the twins take that moment to race past Owen and engage him in a game of indoor tag—a game that is sure to end with someone needing stitches—so he gets distracted from the original conversation. Just in time for Jeremiah to come through the door.
“Hey, babe,” he says, kissing me on the cheek and dropping his keys and wallet in his normal spot on the counter. “When’s dinner?”
“In ten,” I say nonchalantly, not looking him in the eye.
“Where are the kids?” he asks, looking around. Before I can answer, a high-pitched squeal comes from the other room. Sounds like Charlotte may have gotten hurt. Fortunately, that usually results in her crying for a few seconds, then hauling off and clocking whoever injured her in the first place, so I don’t bother to intervene.
Parenting at its finest.
But at least one of my kids won’t be on the bottom of the social ladder in middle school.
“Early release day,” I say, still holding my coffee mug in between my hands. “It’s been insane. At least Sophie didn’t drive me crazy today.” I look over and she’s still happily playing in her jumper thing, probably enjoying having the others out of the room for a minute.
“Ah. I take it today was rough.” I feel his calloused fingers start massaging my tense shoulders. He always gives great massages, and I’m not about to turn him down this time either. I’ll take what I can get.
“You have no idea,” I say as I put down my mug and drop my head to the table. He may as well have easy access to the rest of my back while he’s at it.
“Sooo, I need to ask you about something,” he starts slowly. Hesitantly. I shift my head to the side and cock an eyebrow but don’t sit up. These massages come few and far between. “I found the French maid outfit.”
I freeze. He was not supposed to see that. It was supposed to be a sexy surprise. But after he fell asleep while I was getting all primped for him, again, I gave up.
“Is that why you keep telling me to wait for you on the bed and then disappear for an hour in the bathroom?” He stops rubbing my back and sits down next to me, trying to look me in the eye. I’m not making it easy, though, by refusing to look at him. “Babe, talk to me.”
“What is there to say?” I finally pipe up. “You fall asleep on me. In fact, you’ve done it twice. It’s okay if you aren’t interested in having sex with me, because honestly, at this point, I’m not interested in having sex with me either.”
“Huh?” he asks, looking confused.
“You know what I mean,” I snap back at him. “I’ve had five babies in the last eight years. My body doesn’t look or feel right. And I don’t even want to know what the nether regions look like anymore. Seriously.” I know the picture I’m painting sounds hideous, but I can’t help the verbal diarrhea, and I continue. “Five watermelons can do a lot of damage. I know that. So it’s okay, babe. I get it.”
“Becks, I don’t think you do get it.” He shifts in his seat and I swear I see a blush creeping up his face. “I didn’t really want to have this conversation with you, but you need to know I think you are incredibly sexy. And the thought of you in that maid outfit… Phew. Well, I’ve been thinking about it all damn day.”
“Then why are you not waiting for your surprise?” I ask, humoring him because I don’t believe a word he’s saying. As far as I can tell, these words came from a How to Calm Down Your Wife for Dummies manual. “I get that you’re tired, but so am I. I know, I know, you crawl into bed to fall asleep—but this is different. I asked you to wait for me, and instead, you hunkered down and tucked yourself in. I feel like you’re intentionally ignoring my advances. Repeatedly.”
He shifts in his seat again, looking even more uncomfortable. He finally clears his throat and then fesses up. “I’ve been having a hard time… you know… getting my rocks off.”
I cock my head at him. “What do you mean by that?”
He rubs his hands down his face, clearly uncomfortable discussing sex with his wife, which is stupid considering we had sex at least four times before. The proof is banging something into a wall upstairs.
“I can get it up just fine, but I can’t…” He waves his hand around in a do I have to spell it out for you? motion. “I can’t complete the action.”
“You can’t orgasm?” I ask with disbelief, my eyes wide.
“No,” he says quietly.
I snort, disbelieving. “But we’ve had sex in the last few weeks.”
“I know,” he says. “Trust me, I know.” He turns his face away to look out the patio door, barely able to look at me.
“But… but you finished all those times.” I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation and saying these words. To my husband. This is a conversation other people have; people on Dr. Phil.
Or your friends. Not you.
These are problems your friends come to you for advice about.
The silence stretches and Jeremiah grimaces. “No, actually, I didn’t.”
“You didn’t,” I deadpan.
“No.”
“But I heard you,” I rebut, not giving up. “You make certain noises. Your body moves a certain way… Jeremiah, I know your noises.”
The blush moves from his cheeks to his hairline. “I sort of, um…” He tugs at his shirt collar uncomfortably, like it’s choking him. “I’ve sort of been faking it.”
“You what?” I all but shriek, the sound high pitched and very unladylike. “How long have you been faking it?”
He looks up at the ceiling, considering his next few words. “Since before Sophie was born.”
I pause momentarily as I take in this new information. “Like a couple of weeks before she was born?”
“Closer to six months before she was born.”
My jaw drops open. “You mean to tell me, you’ve been fucking faking orgasms for the last year?”
He slowly nods.
“And you didn’t bother telling me?”
He nods again.
“Is this why you’ve been so disinterested in sex lately? Is this why you’ve just been going to sleep?”
Jeremiah shrugs sheepishly. “Babe, no man wants to tell his wife his man bits are broken.”
He did not just call them man bits.
“So… you thought it would be easier to make me feel like you weren’t interested in sex with me anymore? You have got to be kidding me right now.”
“Well, in hindsight, I guess that wasn’t a smart idea.”
“You think?” I retort sarcastically. “I’ve been worried for a few months, Jeremiah. Months! Worried that you had lost interest in me. I was willing to do anything to get us back to us again. I was even willing to bring in a sister wife just to make sure your needs were being met!”
“A sister wife?” His low chuckle fills the space in our kitchen. “Well, thanks for that? But we only need one ball and chain in this house. Plus, we’re running out of bedrooms.” He winks, and I nudge him with my shoulder, smiling shyly at him.
Yes, I feel shocked. A little disillusioned. But the disappointment and stress of his announcement—and my last few failed attempts at seduction—begin to slowly melt away when Jeremiah says, “Besides, I may have found a solution today. So be prepared. If it works, I’m planning to rock your world tonight.” He leans in close, nuzzling my neck.
I giggle like a twenty-year-old.
Before my husband can explain further, our misfit gang of wild heathen children comes barreling into the room, putting an end the most honest conversation my husband and I have had in months.
I take a sip of my coffee and watch as Jeremiah bends down, letting our twins climb on his back like the monkeys they are, wondering what this “solution” of his could possibly be, and give a small shiver of anticipation.
I’m still pissed that he didn’t tell me about his issues. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also intrigued.
“Okay, wait. Let me get this straight,” Janine says, trying to catch her breath long enough to finish a sentence. The treadmill is apparently harder for her than she thought it would be, and she adjusts the speed to make it go slower.
Serves her right for making me wear these ridiculous skin-tight workout clothes.
“So, if I’m understanding this correctly, it’s not that the hubby isn’t interested, it’s that he can’t get it up.”
Was she always this big of a pain? “No, Janine, that is not what I said. Were you listening?” I roll my eyes. “The issue is that he can’t finish. And can you please listen when I say it the first time; it’s embarrassing enough as it is without having to repeat it.”
Normally, I’d feel terrible sharing my husband’s personal information like this, but I feel so much relief that the issue isn’t his attraction to me. I couldn’t help but tell Janine.
I mean, who is she gonna tell? The old guys who work in her office? I snort at the thought.
On second thought, she looks a little shifty today. Shit, maybe I didn’t think this through. There’s no telling who she’d tell.
“Okay, so tell me about his plan to seduce you last night. What happened?” I eye her decreasing the speed of her treadmill again. She catches me looking and scoffs. “What? I can’t hear you over the hum of the engine.” For a skinny woman with no kids, she is woefully out of shape.
I’ll have to point this out to her later, but for now, it can wait.
“Well, see, that’s the part I didn’t realize was happening before it was too late,” I say, increasing my speed. I’m really getting into this exercise thing.
“What the hell does that mean?” she puffs.
“Apparently, Jeremiah has the worst timing because he chose to seduce me the night we were expecting a storm. Did you hear the thunder that rolled through last night?” Janine nods, and her eyes get soft with understanding. “Anyway, Jacob is deathly terrified of thunder.” She knows where this story is headed before I continue, and she watches me sympathetically. I don’t know why I keep babbling on about it, but… “We always let him sleep with us during storms. It’s not that often and it’s a heck of a lot better than being woken up by him all night long.”
“Okay,” Janine huffs, pressing the down button again. Seriously, now she’s walking at a light stroll. What kind of workout is that? “So you had to put off the hanky-panky for another night. Poor Becky. I actually feel horrible! I’m so sorry.”
“Well, that’s not even the best part.” I bite my lip and wrinkle my nose, knowing full well what I’m about to say could throw her off the treadmill. “The thing is… he had sort of taken a little blue pill before bed and didn’t tell me.”
Janine pulls the emergency key on the treadmill and it halts to a stop. Just as I predicted. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Hold up. Wait a minute.” Janine braces both hands on either side of the machine and hangs her head. Her shoulders shake a little before she glances up at me, hair hanging in her eyes. “So he took this pill before Jacob climbed into the bed?”
I nod.
“And you didn’t know?”
I shake my head.
“So he… what… had a hard-on all night long and nothing he could do about it?”
I nod again. “Jacob climbed into bed while Jeremiah was in the bathroom. When he came out, well, young Jacob was already in dreamland and I was following close behind.”
“No!” Janine doubles over laughing, holding the treadmill with one hand and clutching her stomach with the other. “Why didn’t he tell you before he took the pill?”
A tear spills out the corner of one eye, and the wretch doesn’t even wipe it away.
I ignore her and continue. “I have no idea why he didn’t tell me,” I say, reaching over to hit the button on her machine. “Turn on your damn treadmill. You’re the one that dragged me here; the least you can do is work out, too.”
“I am working out,” she argues, swatting my hands away. The motion causes her ponytail to swing back and forth, which is more of a workout than it’s gotten the entire time we’ve been here. “I’m working my abs while laughing at your insanely ridiculous sex life.”
“Shut up,” I grumble. “If I had known he had those pills, I would have reminded him about the storms in the forecast. I felt horrible this morning when he told me.”
Janine finally starts her treadmill. It hums and groans back to life on a whir. I look over, rolling my eyes when she sets it on the lowest speed possible.
Seriously. This whole stupid gym thing was her idea.
We walk for a few minutes before she says, “You know what you guys need? To stop trying so damn hard and get back to the basics.”
“What basics?” I say, glancing over at her, one eyebrow raised. The eyebrows she forces me to get waxed once a month at the little nail salon by her house. “Please explain. I’m hanging on your every word, so this better be good.”
“Porn.”
She says it nonchalantly, and none too quietly, like she didn’t just cause the half-dozen people around us to stop, look, and listen.
“Why? Why in the world would we do that?” I ask incredulously, still in disbelief. I frown at the man in front of us, who is grinning back at us through our reflections in the mirror.
Ugh. Thanks a lot, Janine.
My best friend gives me a patronizing, pouty lower lip. “Uh, duh. To get yourselves all hot and bothered, of course.” I swear, she’s talking to me like I’m a five-year-old. I want to smack her right off the treadmill. She steam rolls ahead with her explanation. “And to get horny. And loosened up. And to get some ideas—you know, the natural way. The way God intended.”
I glance around to make sure everyone has stopped listening, and hiss, “God intended for me to get horny by watching other people have sex?”
“Alright, no need to get all pissy.” She sighs, ignoring my question. “Besides, I’m not just talking about any porn star. I have a particular one in mind. Lucky for you, I’ve done my research.”
Oh, brother.
She prattles on, increasing her walking speed. It’s about time, too. I’ve walked two point five miles to her one point eight, and we’ve been on the machines for the same amount of time.
“Ever heard of Don Dean?”
I snort. “You’re bothering to ask me that?” Sometimes I wonder if she knows me at all. “Never mind. Let’s talk about how in the hell you even know the name of a porn star.”
“How do you not know the name Don Dean?” she asks, like porn is a regular occurrence in my house. “He’s only the king of modern-day porn. He’s like Jeremy James. Only less hairy and not from the seventies.” She gives a shudder, as if the seventies are about to come back and bite us in the ass.
“I’m a little worried you can just drop the names of a bunch of x-rated movie stars in the middle of random conversations. Should I be concerned about bringing my kids to your house? Are they going to find your stash of Playgirl magazines under your mattress, too?”
“Ha-ha,” she says, rolling her eyes at me. “Maybe.” My mouth falls open, horrified, and she winks at me. “I’m kidding! Sheesh, no one reads those magazines anymore. Not when it’s all online.”
If I weren’t speed walking on a treadmill, I would face-palm myself.
“Seriously,” Janine continues. “Just look Don Dean up. What do you have to lose?”
“My dignity?”
“Becky,” she says with a sigh. “Do you ever want to get laid again?”
The guy in front of us whips around, eyes wide. Janine snaps her fingers in his direction. “Hey! Creeper! Eyes to the front, pal.”
“Yes,” I say quietly, knowing I may have just lost this round.
“Then look up the damn porn. If you go to his website, you can watch the samples. Keep in mind, the amateur videos are the best.” She slams the stop button on her treadmill, grabs the towel hanging off the side, and reaches over to stop my machine as well. “And follow me because we’re going to be late for our class.”
“Class?” I ask, getting my bearings. Trying to walk straight seconds after jumping off a moving treadmill is not an easy task. I try to keep up with her, but she takes off like a shot; rather quickly for someone who just spent an hour crawling at a snail’s pace because she was so ‘winded.’ “What class are we doing?”
She evades the question. “I upgraded our membership so we could take classes. And surprise! This particular class is just for you and Jeremiah,” she says, turning to wink at me. Or maybe she has something in her eye. Either way, she’s making me nervous.
“Janine,” I growl in warning. “What class did you sign us up for?”
She ignores me, hightailing it across the room and stopping by a set of stainless steel doors. “Here it is!” she says. “Come on.”
As she makes her way into the room I see the sign on the wall.
Aerobic Pole Dancing and Strip Tease.
I’m going to kill her.