Commitment

by Golland, K. M.

  I laughed, quietly. “Murderous bitches we are.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Okay. How so? How do we kill Poundtown?”

  “Because we expect too much from it, we don’t put enough into it, we get flustered by the whole idea of it, then we end up sitting it at the bottom on our to-do list … after things like dishes and washing.” True story.

  “Well … yeah, because those things need to be done.”

  “And sex isn’t something a husband and wife should do and enjoy?”

  “Of course it is, but—”

  “No buts,” she said, interrupting me. “Most women prioritise it below chores. Why is that? It just doesn’t make sense. A chore is something you don’t want to do but do because you have to. Most women treat sex like a chore, and that’s a huge problem. Sex should not be a chore. Sex is pleasurable.”

  “Fine. But what if it’s not? What if the sex in your marriage is boring in-out, ooh-ahh, blah blah sex? What then?”

  “Then you’re not fucking doing it right.”

  I scoffed.

  “I’m serious, Tash. If it’s that bad you both need to pull your heads in and fix it.”

  “How?” I asked, exasperated. “Tell him to stop being boring?”

  “No. Tell yourself to stop blaming him. It takes two to tango, and the tango starts with you.”

  Taken aback, I was about to cross my arms in defence when she continued.

  “Firstly, get the idea that sex is a chore out of your head. IT’S NOT! Prioritise it before the vacuuming for once. Say fuck-it to the ironing and fuck-this to your vagina.”

  I couldn’t help it and doubled over with laughter.

  “Sh.” Alexis placed her finger against her lips and doubled over, too, both of us giggling uncontrollably. “I’m seriously serious,” she gasped, regaining her breath and composing herself. “Most women blame their men when they are the ones blocking the pleasure of sex. You’ve got to remove that mental block. Really feel him when he touches you. Really feel him when you touch him. Focus on you and him and nothing else.”

  “That’s a bit hard when two young boys are trying to break down your bedroom door.”

  “Stop making excuses. They’re not always doing that. And that’s another thing most women do,” she said with frustration, “They make excuses. Again, it doesn’t make sense. Why excuse yourself from an orgasm?”

  “Because faking one is a lot of work. You’ve got to time it right. If you go too soon you then have to conjure up another one. If you go too late he’ll know you’re full of it.”

  She glared at me.

  “What?”

  “Don’t fake orgasms,” she deadpanned. “They deserve more respect than that.”

  “They are not the elderly, Alexis.”

  She shook her head and shivered. “And don’t speak of the elderly and orgasms in the same sentence. What’s wrong with you?”

  I smiled. “Nothing, I just don’t think it’s all the woman’s fault.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Well, you haven’t blamed men yet.”

  “No, I haven’t. And that’s because you can’t blame them until no fault lies with you. If you address and fix what you place in the way of great sex, then and only then can you expect him to do the same.” Damn it! She has a point.

  I couldn’t deny that we had a tendency to block our own pleasure with most things in life. Not just sex. And we did that because we constantly put ourselves last, only ever seeking reward after tackling the pile of shit we had to tackle day in and day out. And what was even more ridiculous was that, most of the time, after our shit pile was tackled, there was no time left for our reward. So yeah, we were screwing ourselves over.

  We were to blame … kinda.

  “Holy shit! You’re right.”

  She shrugged and smiled. “I know. I have great sex. I also have real orgasms. And yeah, I have kids, a job, stretchmarks … the works. Oh, and that’s another thing … stretchmarks and body issues.”

  I groaned. “What about them?”

  “Have you ever refused the pleasure of sex because of the way you looked, because you didn’t feel sexy enough?”

  “Of course. Like all the time.”

  “And why don’t you feel sexy?”

  “I don’t know … because my hair’s a mess, I look like crap, I haven’t shaved, my bits are loose and wobbly, blah blah blah.”

  “And whose fault is all of that?”

  I groaned again. “Mine.”

  “Exactly. To look sexy you’ve got to feel sexy, and to feel sexy you’ve got to look it.”

  “But this all takes time, Alexis. I barely have enough time to sleep.”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “And there you go. You’re doing it again. You’re making excuses and putting yourself last.”

  “No, I’m not. Why should I doll myself up just to look nice for sex, to look nice for my husband? He should like me the way I am.”

  “You’re completely missing the point. Firstly, you said that at times you avoid sex or don’t enjoy it because you don’t feel sexy.”

  I nodded.

  “Then the effort and time, or ‘getting dolled up’ as you put it, is for you, not him. Sure, he’ll benefit. And he should. And you should want him to. But at the end of the day, allocating time to yourself and making an effort to feel and look better, regardless of who or what has been sacrificed in order to create that time, is worth it … without a doubt.”

  I picked at my fingernails. “I suppose.”

  “No, not ‘I suppose’. It’s yes, ‘I agree’. And secondly, your idea of your own sex appeal can be quite different to Dean’s. He might like your messy hair and loose wobbly bits. Then again he might not. And if he doesn’t, bad luck. But what I can tell you is that when you’re having sex, he couldn’t give a shit about what’s messy, loose or wobbly. That whole feeling sexy part is on you. It’s personal. If putting on makeup and lingerie makes you feel sexy, then do it. If shaving your legs, pits, and pussy gives you courage to be bolder, do it. If none of that empowers you in any way, find what does.”

  “And what happens if I change my way of thinking, start putting myself first, feeling better, looking better, and the sex remains the same, what then?”

  “You’ll feel and look better. You’ll also know that you’ve done all you can to fix things and that the rest lies in his hands. A healthier sex life starts with you. Stop the self-sabotage and prioritise pleasure.”

  The ding of my phone sounded again.

  We both looked at it.

  Alexis stood up and stretched. “Answer his messages. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  I nodded, sucked in a breath and tapped on his name.

  Dale: Please don’t hate me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tash

  My head fell to my hand, my heart dying just a little more. I didn’t hate him. I couldn’t. Even despite his continuous pursuit and the holding of me hostage in the elevator, I could never hate him. I was just as much to blame for what had happened between us. Just as guilty. The only difference was that I wanted it to stop. I’d made it clear that he needed to back off and, for the first time since our friendship progressed into murky waters, I felt the power had finally shifted in my favour. I was in control and, despite not wanting to hurt him, I was going to capitalise on it.

  I was going to ‘fight fire with fire’.

  Tash: What you did yesterday was NOT OKAY.

  You took my ability to escape away,

  even if only for a short time.

  I get that you’re sorry. I am too.

  And I get that you want to talk it through,

  But here’s the thing … there’s nothing to talk through.

  You and I can never be.

  We shouldn’t have been what we were.

  It’s done. Finished. No more.

  If you want to be my friend,

  respect that and be my friend.

&n
bsp; And if you want me to forgive you,

  wipe the security footage of us in the pool.

  You’ve done it before to protect Danny and Kristine.

  Yes, she told me.

  And I admire that did what you thought was right in their case,

  that you allowed them to sort themselves out.

  So do the same for us.

  Please!

  I pressed send, sat my phone in my lap and then shook my hands, releasing the nervous tension seizing my fingers. Except I felt there was more to say, that we needed further closure, so I quickly picked my phone up again and typed another message.

  Tash: And when you’ve done that,

  don’t contact me.

  Give me some time and space.

  I want to be your friend, Dale,

  I just can’t right now.

  Breathing a sigh of relief — or perhaps, release — I stood up, switched my phone off, and tip-toed over to Brayden’s cot, smiling as I watched him sleep peacefully, and taking a moment to appreciate life and the unforeseen direction it took at times. You see Brayden, although sweet and innocent, was the product of love perceived as ‘not so sweet and innocent’. But how anyone could look at the adorable little angel before me and deem his existence as anything but perfect was beyond me. He was born of love, and love is love no matter how it came to be. To love is to soar through emotion so raw and chaotic that when you finally set down your feet they no longer belong to you. Love captures, blinds, binds and holds you hostage. It drives you, uncontrollably, and that drive cannot be fought. It’s what Dean and I had, have, and would always have. And as I stared at Brayden’s little clenched fist jerk and then relax, jerk and then relax, his mind safe in a realm free from consequence or judgement, I realised that love wasn’t the only experience to knock us from our axis; lust was.

  Dale and I were lust.

  And lust was an emotion with an expiry date.

  * * *

  After visiting Lexi and texting Dale, I felt a weight on my shoulders had lifted but not entirely diminish. Guilt still swam through my veins, taunting me with its endless flow, a flow that I knew would not disappear until I confessed to Dean everything that had happened. But the time to do that wasn’t now. I had to focus on our marriage — make us my number one priority — and after that, after I’d temporarily camouflaged my guilt with tenacity to right the axis I’d been knocked from, then and only then could I confess.

  It was a little selfish of me, and perhaps even delaying the inevitable, but I honestly believed we would stand a better chance of moving forward without sinking or restraint if he found out about Dale when we were both in a better place. I mean, what would be the point in setting us up to fail when we could definitely have a fighting chance?

  I really wanted that chance. I wanted to make us right again, like we used to be. I wanted nothing more than to put in place some of the things Lexi and I talked about.

  I had a mistake to correct.

  A wrong to right.

  I had a marriage to fix.

  Lexi’s chat had definitely broadened my perspective. Given me food for thought. Everything she’d said made sense in a sexist/non-sexist kind of way. I was no Stepford Wife — not then, not now, not ever — but I understood what she’d been trying to say.

  My house wasn’t about to miraculously become spic and span. It had dust, cobwebs, and fingerprint smudges on the walls. Because children.

  Dinner wouldn’t be planned days ahead and cooked with love while wearing a floral print apron and humming to the tweet of bluebirds. Our family meals were a concoction of whatever ingredients weren’t past their use by date. Because working parents.

  And although I hoped to improve my presentation, the result would be far from immaculate with pristine makeup, styled hair, and a Barbie doll figure. That just wasn’t me. I was Tash: hygienic, presentable, curvy, and soon to be comfortably sexier. Because devout devourer of donuts.

  But I got the whole look sexier/feel sexier shiz, and one of the reasons I got it was because the night of the Gala, when I’d dressed up and made an effort, I’d felt amazing; the best I’d felt in a long time. And I hadn’t done it for Dean or Dale. I’d done it for me. I’d empowered myself. I’d woken confidence and sex appeal I hadn’t realised I still possessed, sex appeal I’d once enjoyed wielding over my husband. Shit! I really have been blocking my own sexual pleasure, and I’ve been blaming it all on Dean.

  Deep down I knew it was true. Before having the boys, I’d taken more pride in my appearance and had genuinely felt better about how I looked, which had transferred to my confidence in the bedroom and life in general. Back then, manicures and pedicures were a monthly ritual, my bikini line was visible, and I’d had a hair-free upper lip. Nowadays, my fingernails were my favourite chew-toy, the bottoms of my feet would feed those skin-eating fish in Thailand for a century or more, and every month seemed to be Movember. Oh, and sans my recent anniversary clam-debearding, there was a good chance my bikini line could’ve made the endangered forest list. So yeah, it was time I owned the fact I had stopped giving a shit about how I looked and felt because of motherhood. Motherhood was a blessing. It was a gift not a burden, and it shouldn’t be used as an excuse to mask my loss of self-esteem.

  Staring at my naked self in the mirror before stepping into the shower, I took a moment to appreciate … me. Look at you. You’re a sexy mamma. You’ve got curves that could make a racetrack cry, a nicer rack than Shiraz or Chardonnay, lips that would make a fish squirt, and attitude with a capital YOU GOT THIS!

  “I do got this,” I said, straightening my back and poking out my amazing rack.

  Pivoting a hundred and eighty degrees, I admired my donut-loving arse and swirled my hand at everything on display before me. “I’ve got all of this!”

  Dean and I had put the kids to bed after both of them fell asleep in the car on the way home from Bryce and Lexi’s, and Dean had since shut himself in the study to finish off some work he was supposed to have finished the day before. It had been a long day for the both of us but with my renewed sense of ‘No excuses. You’ve got this. Have fun, pleasurable sex’, my plan was to shower, shave, and sexy it up.

  A rush of adrenalin fired through me like an electric shock, and I quickly ducked into our bedroom, riffled through my bottom dresser drawer, and found my nightie. It was my ‘non-mummy’ nightie, my sexy nightie … my one and only nightie that had lace on it. I also grabbed a bottle of perfume and headed back into the bathroom.

  Several minutes later, and after I’d performed a mute rendition of “Bootylicious” by Destiny’s Child in the shower, my legs, underarms and tunnel of Tash were as bald as a bald eagle. Hang on a second … are bald eagles even bald? I shook my head as I towel-dried my bits. No, I don’t think they are. I stopped towel drying. Then why the fuck are they called bald eagles if they’re not bald?

  It was stupid, just like a seahorse and a guinea pig. Clearly they weren’t what they said they were either. And don’t get me started on the flying fox. It’s a bat for fuck’s sake. Regardless, I was bald: shiny, smooth, hair-no-more bald.

  Hanging my towel on its hook, I picked up my nightie and gave it the once over. “Why hello there, pretty material with the sexy lace.” I remembered it well: black cotton, spaghetti-straps, and a lace band under the breast. Except my memories didn’t have it covered in dust. “Ew. Yuk!” I screwed up my nose and gave it a quick shake before popping it over my head.

  It was snug, snugger than the last time I wore it.

  I sneezed.

  “Shit!”

  I sneezed again.

  “Damn it!”

  Dust was swirling under my nose and in front of my face, so thick and strong I could even smell it. Hmm … nothing a bit of bottled flower juice won’t fix.

  Continuing to swish the dust away while bum-dancing my bootyliciousness over to the basin, I grabbed my perfume and sprayed it on my neck, under my arms and … do I spray the tunnel? I deliberated fo
r a split second, decided ‘hell yes’ and lifted my nightie, plie’d like a ballerina, and pushed the perfume nozzle twice in quick succession. “There,” I sighed, smiling proudly and … Oh my fucking-burn-like-the-fiery-pits-of-Hell God!

  “Ow ow ow ow,” I wailed, soundlessly, riverdancing and flapping my arms about like an actual bald eagle. “Jeeeeesus!” Tears sprung to my eyes and blurred my vision, but I kept flapping about, hoping the breeze I was creating and the constant movement of my body would result in the burn to subside as soon as fucking possible, except it didn’t. All I’d managed to do was knock the perfume bottle onto the floor with a loud bang. FuckFuckFUCK!

  Bending over to pick it up, I heard the door handle turn back and forth.

  “What was that? You alright in there, love?”

  I froze, in squat position, hand on the perfume bottle with my bald eagle burning. “Yeah, everything is fine. Just dropped … a thing.”

  “A what?”

  “Nothing. Everything is fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Really?” he asked, his voice laced with surprise. “Okay, take your time.”

  Perhaps he hadn’t finished his work, which was fine by me. I could soothe my tunnel longer, brush my teeth and read some of my book in bed while I waited for him. Perfect!

  Standing back up, I lifted my nightie and held it out of the way with my teeth so that I could fan my hands over the disco inferno between my legs. The cool air felt like a refrigerated kiss and, not before long, I’d simmered the burn. Never again. Eau de Tunnel is Eau de no-no.

  Quickly brushing my teeth and hair, I took one last look in the mirror before opening the bathroom door just as Dean was pulling back the covers on the bed.

  I paused.

  He paused.

  He smiled.

  I blushed.

  “Hi.” I waved, awkwardly.

  He returned the gesture. “Hi.”

  The five steps it normally took to reach my side of the bed from the bathroom door were accomplished in less than three, and I was under the covers with them pulled to my chin before he could sneeze.