“But mom,” she whined. “Cameron said butt-hole.”
“Cameron was just repeating what Spencer said,” Trudy expounded. “You know better than to say that yucky word. Go get one of your toys to put in the naughty-word box.”
Emily sniffled a little, but obediently headed to the play room. Trudy disappeared into the pantry, soon returning with a cardboard box—obviously, the naughty-word box. Within a few moments, Emily rejoined us carrying a battered Barbie doll.
“In the box,” Trudy said sternly. “Now…what word will you use instead of that naughty one?”
“Pass wind.”
“That’s right. Now, off you go. Your cinnamon bun is on the table.”
Spencer returned with his hands freshly washed. “Can I have a cookie now?”
“Sure Mr. Spencer-Bo-Pencer,” Trudy said cheerily. “Help yourself.”
Chapter 5
I decided to follow the advice of Jane’s successful, goal-reaching husband. It was time to make a list—a Life Makeover list. I could no longer deny the fact that my life was not exactly going as I had envisioned it. My son had apparently developed an obsession with bodily functions; my daughter seemed to have a case of early onset teen hostility; and my husband, who had been away for four days, had called home only once, briefly, to say good night to the kids. And that was not to mention the fact that I suddenly had six glorious hours of freedom each day, and no idea what to do with them.
With a mug of Serenity herbal tea (the uplifting blend), I took a pad of paper and a pen to the kitchen table. Taking a sip of the hot liquid, I inhaled the aroma of orange blossoms, essence of clematis, and something that smelled a little bit like mushrooms. Then I wrote:
Life Makeover
I underlined it several times with heavy pen strokes.
Okay… first off, the kids.
1. Do research on internet to learn if Spencer’s fascination with bodily functions is a sign that he is a deeply disturbed weirdo, or just going through a phase.
This was obviously a top priority. It was only a matter of time before this fixation had serious scholastic and social repercussions. Spencer was sure to call his teacher ‘barf hair’ or something, and get suspended, if not expelled. And at some point, he was bound to become know to all his peers as “that weird kid who can’t stop talking about diarrhea.”
2. Find out why Chloe suddenly hates me.
I had absolutely no idea how to go about this, or whether it was even possible, but I was determined to at least try. Now, on to my marriage…
3. Resexualize relationship with Paul.
—Wear sexy lingerie
—Initiate mind-blowing sex in room other than bedroom
—**Multiple positions**
—Increase number of blow jobs given (Two per month reasonable?)
I took another sip of tea and tapped my pen on the paper thoughtfully. Surely there was more I could do to rejuvenate our sex life? It was a little disturbing that I couldn’t think of anything else. Okay... time to focus on me. What did I want out of life? What would enrich my existence? What would make me feel more fulfilled as a person? I wrote down:
4. Bigger boobs
No, I did not think bigger boobs would enrich my existence or fulfil me as a person, but still, I wanted them. I was not going to go the breast implant route—too expensive and risky. But there were exercises I could do to build up my pectoral muscles at least giving the impression of bigger boobs. And really… why stop there?
5. Begin rigorous exercise program
—Aerobic exercise to feel great and have tons of energy
—Spot exercises: to tone and trim, ensuring I look very fit and gorgeous
Both of these would undoubtedly help with my resexualizing efforts—but this was really about me.
6. Find stimulating and creative hobby
—Feed mind! Nourish soul!
7. Clean and organize household
I scratched off the last one. Cleaning and organizing was a little mundane to be on a list entitled “Life Makeover”. I felt better already. Daniel was right. Just putting these goals down on paper made them more tangible, more achievable. I was determined and energized. I would tackle item 1, immediately.
Paul had a tiny office tucked behind the family room, just before the entrance to the attached garage. Sitting in the swivel chair at his press-board desk, I booted up the computer. I waited patiently as the machine initialized, feeling confident that, with a little insight, I’d be able to help my son overcome his problem. When I was finally on my search engine’s home page, I paused. The empty white box sat waiting for me to enter my search topic. Speculating for a few moments, I typed, young boys fixated on pee + poo + snot+ vomit.
I clicked Go.
Ewww! I was immediately assaulted with a litany of pornographic websites that managed to turn my stomach within the span of their brief, ten-word descriptions.
I tried again.
Compulsive butt-hole touching in young boys
Oh God! This was even worse! I felt somewhat nauseous—not to mention paranoid that a kiddie-porn task force was going to kick my door in and arrest me at any moment. The office phone at my elbow rang loudly in the empty house. Oh shit! Oh shit! The cops must have been monitoring my computer!
“Hello?” My voice was thin and reedy.
“Hi. It’s Karen.”
“Oh, hi!” I was relieved. “How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks. Look… I have a couple of things I need to talk to you about. Is this a good time?”
My relief was short lived. From her preface, I could deduce that she was either mad at me for some reason, or she was about to divulge more details of her earth-shaking sex life. I wasn’t really in the mood for either conversation. “… Sure.”
“You didn’t tell Jane about me and Javier, did you?”
“No!” I shrieked. “God, no! I told you I wouldn’t say anything.”
“Okay… It’s just that… well…”
Her accusation annoyed me. I hadn’t asked for the role of Karen’s lone confessor, and I didn’t appreciate her mistrust. “Why did you confide in me then, if you don’t think I can’t keep a secret for more than a few days?”
“Sorry! I believe you! I believe you. It was just so weird at Trudy’s house the other day.”
“Weird how?” I was still simmering.
“All that sex talk. We don’t usually talk about our sex lives around Trudy. It makes her uncomfortable. And poor Carly… She was really upset afterward.”
“I wasn’t too thrilled either. It was my sex life we were discussing.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It just made me wonder if Jane knew something. She just kept going on and on about sex, sex, sex. She was relentless.”
“Well… You know Jane.”
“You’re right, I do. I’m probably just paranoid. Sorry I doubted you.”
“That’s okay.”
“So… how is the resexualizing going?”
“Paul gets home tonight.” I didn’t offer any more details.
“Well… good luck with it. I’m sure you’ll be, umm, great.”
“Thanks.” There was an awkward pause that I knew I was meant to fill. “How are things with…” God, what did I say? Your men? Your lovers? Or did I use their names—Doug and Javier? Finally I chose “…you?”
“Good,” she said weakly. “Well, not really. I’m so confused, Paige. I’m really torn.”
“So, you’re still seeing Javier?”
“Of course. I can’t just walk away from what I feel for him. But then Doug… God, I feel so guilty. He’s been really sweet lately and talking a lot about having a baby. It just makes it harder.”
“Well… no one said adultery was easy.”
“Apparently not.” There was a slight pause before she spoke again. “I need a favor.”
“… Okay,” I said, hesitantly.
“I don’t mean to draw you into this, but… I need you to cover for me
tonight.”
“Karen,” I said firmly. “I’m not comfortable lying to Doug.”
“You don’t have to lie to him! You won’t even have to talk to him. All I’m asking is that you don’t call for me between eight and eleven tonight. That’s not so much to ask, is it?
“Well…” I still didn’t feel good about it.
“And if you could just stay inside. You know, so he doesn’t see you.”
“So, you’re telling him that you’re out with me when you’ll really be with Javier?”
“Yes, just this once.”
“I don’t like it, Karen.”
“I know, but it’s crucial I talk to Javier. There are some important… issues we need to discuss. I can’t go on like this. It’s not fair to anyone. I need to have a serious conversation with him about what the future holds. I’m not even going to have sex with him tonight.”
Sure, like she’d be able to resist his smoldering eyes.
I heaved a heavy sigh. “I guess it’s okay—just this once.”
“Thank you, Paige,” she said, almost gleefully. She sounded awfully excited for someone who was just going to talk.
“But if Doug calls here, I’m not covering for you. I’ll just say I don’t know where you are, which, technically, will be true.”
“That’s fine. He won’t call.”
“I sure hope not.”
“He won’t.”
I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for my small role in Karen’s subterfuge. It wasn’t that Doug and I were close. Our relationship had always been pleasant, but rather superficial. But I hated lying. It made me feel like a bad person. Although… I wasn’t actually lying, per se. I was just staying indoors and not calling Karen, which, in fact, was what I had planned to do anyway. I decided to stop beating myself up over it.
Instead of focusing (again) on my friend’s dangerous liaison, I would concentrate all my attention on my own plans for the evening. Because tonight, at 9:00 P.M., my unsuspecting husband would be landing at the Denver International Airport. When he arrived home, approximately forty-five minutes later, he would be greeted at the door by his sexy, lingerie-clad wife, who was fully prepared to ravage him like a horny teenager—quite possibly right there in the grand entryway.
When the kids went to bed at eight, I began my preparations. I had bought a do-it-yourself bikini waxing kit, and for the first time, gave myself a home bikini wax. The result was a rather lopsided, chicken skin look, but hopefully Paul would, at least, appreciate my efforts. I then took a hot, lavender scented bath, where I shaved off all other superfluous body hair. At 8:45, I toweled myself off, put my hair up in a loose, devil-may-care style, and applied a full face of makeup. By 9:15, I was seated in the family room, a thick terry robe covering my garter belt, fishnet stockings and rather too large push up bra. Inexplicably, I felt nervous… or maybe just excited. This was a momentous occasion after all: the first day of the rest of our marriage. To relax, I poured myself a glass of syrah, and flicked on a rerun of CSI.
I watched the entire program. And then, I watched a VH1 Behind the Music episode on Mariah Carey. When the late news came on, I realized something was wrong. Paul was over an hour late. His plane must have been delayed. Or he’d had car trouble on the way home. Or his plane had been shot down by terrorists—although, that would likely have made the news. But a car crash wouldn’t! He could be lying, right now, in the twisted wreckage! My children could be orphans! It was a momentary panic. I still felt fairly confident that my husband was simply running late. But there was one thing I was absolutely positive about: I could not wear this lingerie for another second.
Upstairs, I gratefully peeled out of the constrictive gear. An ensemble like this was obviously not meant to be worn for more than a few minutes, before it was ripped from your body in a fit of passion. Extended wear could cause irreparable damage; I was lucky to have survived the experience with everything still intact. That’s when I heard the sound of Paul’s key in the front door. Damn! I tried to struggle back into the outfit, but it was too complicated. It wouldn’t be very sexy if he came up here and found me awkwardly tangled in black elastic and lace. Throwing on the robe, I scurried downstairs to greet my husband.
“Hi!” I said, excited to see him.
“Hey, babe.” We kissed. “Sorry I’m late. The plane was delayed.”
I stepped back to look at him. His exhaustion was apparent. He wore a rumpled suit, a five-o’clock shadow, and bags under his bloodshot eyes. “You look like crap.”
“I feel like crap.”
“Poor baby. Did your thingamajig go well?”
“Well enough to salvage the account—I hope. But there are still some problems with the blah blah blabbidy blah…”
I made a sympathetic noise. “Come sit down. Would you like a massage? I could give you a massage?”
“That would be awesome.” He gave me an affectionate squeeze as we headed to the family room.
I poured my husband a glass of wine and wedged myself in behind him on the couch. Paul flicked on the news as I began to knead the tension from his shoulders.
“Ahhh… that feels great,” he moaned.
If you think that feels great, just you wait, I felt like saying, but decided not to ruin the surprise. “I missed you,” I whispered sexily, into his ear, as my hands continued to roam his shoulders and back. He really was still, quite strong and muscular.
“I missed you, too. And the kids. How are they?”
“Fine.” Now was not the time to alert my husband to our children’s possible psychological problems.
“Good… good…”
I rubbed his shoulders for a few more minutes, sporadically kissing his neck and nibbling his ear. Though I was not an expert masseur, his tension had definitely eased, and I felt he was primed for the big event to come. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered in his ear. “I have a little surprise for you.”
It took about ten minutes to struggle back into the sexy lingerie, but finally I was ready. With a deep breath for courage, I headed down the stairs. “Surprise…” I called softly as I entered the living room. Paul snored loudly in response.
“Paulllll,” I said gently. “I have a surprise for you. Wake up, honey.”
Loud, unattractive snucking noise.
“Paul.” My voice had returned to regular volume. “Hey, Paul.” I shook his knee.
More, horrible, snoring sounds.
I felt frustrated. My plan seemed doomed to failure. I was also in incredible pain and desperately need him to wake up and rip this lingerie off me. “Paul!” I said loudly, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. “Paul! Wake up! Wake up!”
He sat forward with a jolt. “We’ll provide a backup server while the elite team works on the problem!” His speech was slurred and his eyes still glazed with sleep.
For a long moment, I looked at my husband, the object of my seduction. In his dishevelled and confused state, he really wasn’t what you’d call sexually attractive. When I finally spoke, my voice had become distinctly maternal, despite my hooker getup. “It’s okay honey. You’re home now. Come on up to bed.”
Chapter 6
The next morning, Paul stayed and had breakfast with us. He usually left for the office at six-thirty, but decided he wanted to spend some time with the children. He was fun and jovial, roughhousing with Spencer and teasing Chloe. If he remembered my resexualizing attempt of the night before, he wasn’t letting on. He probably felt sorry for me—humiliating myself in that slutty outfit when he obviously wasn’t in the mood. Or maybe, he was so exhausted that he didn’t even notice what I was wearing. Still, the sight of your wife in a garter belt and fishnet stockings should have some sort of stimulating effect, should it not?
I drove to Rosedale with a cartoon cloud of gloom hovering above my head. Carly was just backing out of her driveway as we passed, looking groomed and professional, ready to face the world. I waved, briefly, while mentally admonishing myself for my own
slovenly appearance. We rounded the corner and headed down the hill towards the school, where I spotted Karen, out for a morning jog. She waved exuberantly, her cheeks pink with exertion, and, probably, remembrance of her great ‘talk’ with Javier last night. I was surprised by a sudden pang of envy. It should be me with the rosy cheeks and sly smile this morning. It wasn’t fair. Karen had two men who wanted her. She had hot, passionate sex with Javier, and perfunctory, baby-making sex with Doug. I had none of it! I couldn’t get my husband to have any kind of sex with me—exciting or run-of-the-mill. God, when I tried to seduce him, he didn’t even notice!
“Mom?” It was Spencer calling from the backseat.
I was thankful for the distraction from my silent fury. “Yes, angel?” I looked at my son in the rearview mirror, and the frost encasing my heart melted at the sight him. His quizzical blue eyes… his freckled nose… He was growing up so fast. Already six years old and off at school. … My little man… My precious little man. I was the lucky one, not Karen.
Spencer continued. “What would happen if you had a fountain in your yard, and instead of water coming out, it had pee coming out?”
“There’s no such thing as a pee fountain,” I said irritably. This had a somewhat dampening effect on my lovey-dovey mood.
“What about a throw-up fountain?”
“No.”
“Diarrhea?”
“Shut up you gross pig!” Chloe screamed.
“Spencer that’s enough! Chloe, don’t tell your brother to shut up.”
“But he’s disgusting!” she hurled.
I pulled into our usual spot adjacent the playing field. Slamming the vehicle into park, I swiveled to face my son in his booster seat. “I’ve had enough of that kind of language, young man. I hope you don’t talk about things like that when you’re at school.”
“No.” He blinked at me innocently.
“Because those things are not appropriate to talk about ever, but especially not in school.”
He stared and blinked.
“Do you understand me?” I said firmly. “There will be no more talking about those things.”
The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom Page 4