Out of the Wilderness

I don’t know what made me so brave; maybe something got knocked into place when that fat kid punched me in the face the other day.

I sat down last night with Monsieur and just laid it out straight. He’s a good man, the best boyfriend I’ve ever had in my life, he’s a great dad, a good teacher, and I have little or nothing to complain about. Except.

I’m not getting enough sex. Oh, boo-hoo, how bad can that be, you ask. Well, it can get kind of bad. It makes me feel unattractive and I find myself looking at other couples wistfully as they kiss in the produce section. I know they just got it good the night before, and possibly again that morning. I’m envious. I don’t like it. I am worth it. I’m worth having.

I’m still keeping myself up. I ride my bike down to the highway and back every other morning. I do my crunches faithfully, twice a day, twenty reps each time. I do my Kegels four times a day, twenty reps each time. I bathe every day, I wash my hair every other night, I brush it faithfully. I check in the mirror. I look all right.

I pointed all this out to Monsieur, and I kept my temper down. I didn’t cry, like I thought I would. I didn’t accuse him of anything. I told him how much I loved him and how much I appreciate him.

It’s just, well, seeing him come out of the shower every night and the water dripping down his chest and legs, seeing him drying his body off – c’mon, I’m human. If you deprive me of that body, I’m going to resent it.

He had, at one time, agreed to be more attentive to that need and not to let me get so deprived, but he has not been doing the duty lately. So, I told him. I tried to use terms like, “I want,” “I need,” “I must have,” “I don’t want,” and so forth. I didn’t accuse him of anything. I tried my best to keep myself calm and my voice level.

The main thing I stuck to, my main point, was that I don’t want to ask for it all the time, every time, and risk rejection. I want him to just take me. Once a week, minimum. If he were to do that, I might feel more comfortable about asking for it other times. I don’t know if I’m a product of social conditioning or what, but I like it when the man is The Man and I am The Woman. I don’t like being thought of as a sex object all the time, but for twenty minutes or so, once a week, or twice a week even, would be a nice change of pace, and I’ll let him know if I get tired of it.

I think he took it very well.

After about a half an hour of give and take, he seemed to have an idea. He went into his room, opened his dresser drawer, and came back with a small gold coin, which he put in my hand.

a small gold coin, which he put in my hand.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Actually, it’s a Sacajawea dollar,” he said. “But, I want you to hang on to that. When you want me to ‘just take you,’ as you say, you give it to me. After I take you, I will give it back, for you to use the next time.”

I looked at it in my palm, then I looked at him. “You can’t just … ” I trailed off.

He sighed. “Apparently not. I think, like I said, I have this foolish, subconscious belief that I am taking advantage of you. Also I am trying to get myself over the idea that you are the same teenager that you were when I met you. And also, well … ” he began, then he looked away.

“You still feel like you’re cheating on Maggie?” I asked.

He looked at me. His eyes are so brown. And last night, at that moment, they were so liquid and so deep, they looked like melted bittersweet chocolate drops.

“I am not very good at getting over some things, some ideas,” he said. “I, like you, am a product of years of conditioning, too.”

We talked for an hour or more. It was good. I hung on to Sacajawea, and put her in my pocket. Perhaps she’ll help to lead me out of this wilderness, and maybe she’ll do a little translating between my language and his.