The Proper Order of Operations
Calm down, not the math kind, but a vignette on how desire unfolds.
I’m intrigued in how couples “find the time” and what leads to moments of indulgence. I’m also a big advocate for not stuffing moms into matronly boxes as if our lives are over at 40, and we should only focus on our kids.
I started thinking about what would become this piece when I was getting fucked recently. Yes, true. I was questioning: “How did we get here? What led to this? How do we seamlessly change roles in the midst of many obligations?”
And that became a vignette in how desire unfolds…
Your alarm goes off at 4:45a. This does not mean anything because:
1. You are not going to get up now or ever at this time.
2. I've been up for at least an hour.
I turn to spoon you, rubbing your belly, the one you are trying to get rid of at the gym. I tickle chest hair with my fingertips. I place my hand in your pants between your morning erection and hip bone.
My alarm goes off at 4:50a. This does not mean anything because:
1. Our oldest is really the alarm, asking when you're going to get up to go to the gym with him.
2. I will only get up after you get up.
You turn to spoon me, your hand usually going under my shirt. My legs slip in between your legs. That's what we always do; you don't like feeling your knees touch.
Your second alarm goes off at 5:00a. This does not mean anything because:
1. We can hear our oldest banging cabinets, prepping a shake, and pouring cereal.
2. I'm always cold and you're always hot, so we are reciprocating in comfort.
"You feel good."
"No, you feel good."
You eventually get out of bed.
Bathroom, clothes on, door shut, car starts, motor fades away.
I get up, stretch, twist my body. Sometimes extra abs, sometimes weights.
You always come home when I am in the shower.
You sit on our bed, put down your phone, and sit upright as you take a sip from your coffee because I've come into the room.
We talk about doctor visits, our workouts, "kid stuff," upcoming plans for today, this week, this year, and "what ifs" for our lives.
"I love your body," you say as I start my routine of slathering oils, lotions, sunscreen.
I dress as you get our younger two up, forever prompting what comes next even though they know how to get ready for school.
You bring in my coffee, breakfast, and my packed lunch since I leave 50 minutes earlier than you and because you love me.
I give all the "I love yous" as I walk out the door.
... Work (insignificant) ...
I get home about 20 minutes before you. I chat with the kids. I prep for dinner if I'm not caught up in the riveting accounts of life in:
Elementary school: "I hate my class."
Middle school: "Look what I made in home ec!"
High school: "I got a stupid B for that assignment because I turned it in one minute late. I might as well give up. I’m never going to get into college and I’m never getting a job and I’ll end up hitchhiking across America.”
My responses to:
The elementary school kid: “We’re almost done with the school year. I know, they’re loud. Are you using your headphones?” (She rolls her eyes.)
The middle school kid: “Wow, pretty impressive. Maybe you can make me a new pot holder?” (He walks off since he just wants affirmation, not a project.)
The high school kid: “Okay, sounds nice. Send me a postcard.” (I will not indulge in the antics of a student-athlete with a 3.85 GPA.)
I hear you come home. My face lights up. We always embrace in the kitchen before we put on our cozy clothes. (Of course, we have our disagreements and fights, but this is not one of those days.)
At the dinner table, we talk about what happened since we parted ways in the morning. I don't feel like talking about my day. It is not me. (The person who looks like me operates with an on-off switch and completes tasks until I go home.) Recounting my work events makes me want to fall asleep, so my turn is brief. I like to ask about everyone else's day with follow-up, in-depth questions that cause my kids to scoff. You remind them that I care, and that’s why I’m asking. One of us washes dishes because the dishwasher is broken, and the Google machine tells us that Fourth of July will be the best time to purchase a new one. I snuggle up to you or our youngest, the only child who still snuggles with me, and I try not to doze off before Final Jeopardy.
The kids go to sleep like falling dominoes, never at the same time. The oldest, the youngest, the middle.
In our bedroom, we are making an effort to go to sleep with no clothes on because that initiates closeness and maybe intimacy. Sometimes we cocoon ourselves together as weary caterpillars. Sometimes we turn away from each other (our preferred sleeping positions) and say good night. Sometimes we have sex, and this time, after rubbing and squeezing my ass, you want to fuck me from behind.
Lying on my tummy, I get giddy when your hands tighten around my hips. As you thrust into me, I'm carefully adjusting my grunts, ticking them down in volume because there is always a chance the middle child is awake. It is obvious that I have a sensitive G-spot, but I want it all, so my hand maneuvers its way under me, allowing my fingers to pinch and rub my clit.
I scrunch up my face and bite my lower lip. I wish you could see it.
My mind is going haywire. I want to swallow my moans, low howls I want to feel reverberate in my pelvis. You quicken as I imagine my slick vulva being pesteled. My warm, sweet wetness pooled into a mortar.
My hands squeeze your hands on my hips as you release.
I loudly whisper: "Give me, give me, give me, baby."
We lay prostrate. You say you need to work out more at the gym. You turn on the fan. I tell you I will bring water after I go to the bathroom.
I sit on the toilet and welcome the bidet's cool, strong flow when I set it on the "female" option. ("Would this feel like a laser beam to your balls?" I'm sure I've asked you this before, right?)
I come back, forgetting about the water, but you already have a glass.
"What time is it?" I ask. I can’t decide if I want to caress the curves of my body or curl up into a ball.
I look over to you, run my fingers along your arm. Your legs are open. Frigid air hitting your groin.
"You don’t want to know."