Marriage of Inconvenience

by Penny Reid

  “Hmm . . .” Sandra paused again, and I thought she was about to say goodbye.

  So I said, “Tell Alex to ca—”

  “Has she orgasmed yet?”

  And I choked. “What?”

  “Please tell me you’ve been helping her with the orgasm thing.”

  “Fuck, Sandra!”

  “No. Not Sandra. Fuck Kat, Dan. She needs you more than me.” She sounded so calm.

  I choked again.

  And then I laughed.

  And then I choked.

  “I’m not talking to you about this.”

  “Don’t hang up!” she shouted, but then lowered her voice to say, “You should talk to me about this because I can help you. I can help you both. I can give you help-able facts that will be so helpful.”

  I sat forward on the edge of my seat, gripping my forehead with my fingers. “Seriously, I can’t talk to you about this. This is her deal. If she wants to discuss it with you, then she will. It’s not up to me.”

  “Then will you listen? And for the record, she has talked to me about it.”

  “Oh? Really?” I didn’t try to disguise my disbelief.

  “Yes. Really. How else would I know it’s an issue?”

  She had me there.

  “Dan. Please. Let me give you some perspective and advice. Please. You don’t have to say anything, you don’t even have to answer any questions. Just. Listen.”

  I glanced at the wall clock behind the desk and shook my head. “Fine. You have ten minutes.”

  “Yay! Thank you. Okay. Ahem.” I heard a chair scrape against the floor, like she was taking a seat to get comfortable. “Have you ever experienced any sexual performance or anxiety issues?”

  I stared at the wall clock.

  And then I blinked.

  And then I frowned.

  “I’m sorry, but what the fuck did you just ask me?”

  “Let me back up a bit.” She sounded like she was trying not to laugh. “We’ve all seen those commercials on TV, advertising medication to help with male sexual performance issues, right?”

  I nodded, my frown persisting. “Yeah. So?”

  What the fuck is this?

  “As a society, we talk about the fact that men sometimes have performance issues. In a way, these commercials normalize performance anxiety for men, they tell us, ‘Hey, it’s okay. You’re not alone. This is nothing to be ashamed of. Many men have the same problem, and we have a way to help you.’ But have you ever seen a similar commercial for women?”

  My eyes lowered to the carpet. “No,” I finally answered. “I guess I haven’t.”

  “So, you see what she’s dealing with here. For better or worse, normalizing an issue—like Viagra commercials do for men—has a halo effect for those impacted. It provides support, even in a subtle way. But for women who struggle, there are no commercials. There is no normalizing of the problem, and so, even from the start, many women do not seek treatment. They believe they have an issue that affects them in isolation. If a woman does not enjoy herself during sex, they believe that they are alone, or broken, or ‘just made that way.’”

  “That’s beat.”

  Sandra chuckled. “It is. But the good news is that there is treatment. I’m sure Kat has told you that her particular issue does not have a physical cause. It can’t be treated with medication or surgery.”

  “Except as a Band-Aid.” I scratched my jaw.

  “What?” I heard Sandra shift in her seat, like she was passing the phone from one ear to the other. “What did you say?”

  “Except alcohol, right? In Kat’s case. But that would be a Band-Aid, not really solving the problem, just covering it up.”

  “Exactly.” Sandra sounded like she was smiling again. “That’s exactly right. In fact, it wouldn’t just cover it up, it would make things worse in the long run. But, anyway, what I wanted to say is that sexual health is impossible if fear is present. That includes fear of disappointing another person, fear of not meeting society’s expectations, fear of missing out on a full life, fear of losing a person, fear of being alone, fear of being judged for one’s desires, likes, or dislikes. That means, from now on, absolutely none of Kat’s—or your—motivation in the bedroom can come from fear.”

  I was nodding vehemently before Sandra had finished speaking, and when she did finish, I said, “Preach it.” With feeling.

  Sandra laughed again, but then cleared her throat, taking on an instructional tone. “When sexual acts result in feelings of stress or anxiety, the body releases stress hormones, specifically epinephrine and norepinephrine. The entire point of these hormones is to prepare a person to hide from or confront a threat. In this instance, the threat to a person’s security or welfare is the fear of displeasing her partner.” I heard Sandra gather a deep breath. “A few weeks ago, I advised Kat to do some research and think about what she liked, what aroused her, want turned her on, what she wants. She should share that list with you. I’ll send her an email and encourage her to do so.”

  “Sounds good.” I was impressed with how not like a horndog I sounded, given the fact that I was a total horndog for this woman.

  “But, I will also tell her—and I hope her therapist told her—that she needs to trust you when you offer to help. She has to stop feeling guilty or being worried that she’s taking advantage of you.”

  “She feels that way?” That had me sitting up. “She shouldn’t feel that way.”

  “Then you should tell her, too. Ask her to trust you. But, and this might be the most important part, if, at any time, what Kat is asking of you is a burden, you are to tell the truth. You must not be afraid. Kat cannot trust you, she won’t believe you, unless you are honest about your boundaries and desires. Just as she must not be afraid that she is a burden, you must not be afraid to ‘make things worse’ as it were, by being honest. Do you understand?”

  I scratched my jaw as I thought about her words. “Yeah. Makes sense. If I’m not honest and don’t tell it like it is, then she’ll doubt my honesty, and then we’re right back where we started.”

  “Exactly. That’s exactly right. Good.” Sandra sounded relieved.

  “I have a question.” I couldn’t believe I was going to ask Sandra this question, but I wanted to get a good ballpark figure. “How long does this usually take?”

  “Take?”

  “Yeah. How long until she feels relaxed? Good about things?”

  “Don’t worry about how long this will take. I’m sure Dr. Kasai told Kat that there would be setbacks—three steps forward, two steps back. That’s fine. That’s all perfectly normal. But to answer your question, sometimes it takes months, sometimes it takes weeks, sometimes it takes days.”

  “Days?”

  “When I work on this issue with my patients, I tell them they’re not allowed to orgasm. I tell them that they can kiss, make out, approach—but do not cross—third base. What you both must prioritize is enjoying the process. Role-play, for example, can be a great way to step outside of anxieties.”

  Role-play?

  Fuck a duck, my mind exploded with the possibilities.

  Please say naked sexy massages. Please say hot tub sex. Please say sexy spanking on the discipline couch. Please say boss/secretary inappropriate performance review time. Please, please, please tell me you want to dress up like a librarian and—

  I was going to hell. That was definitely going to happen.

  “Dan, listen. I don’t think I’m breaking the BFF code when I tell you that Kat thinks you’re gorgeous. And sexy. And an all-around wonderful person.”

  I smirked, and was about to say something self-deprecating, but then Sandra added, “She cares about you. Deeply.”

  More than anything suggested or stated so far, this statement got me hot. It made my heart take off like a rocket. Spanking, massages, hot tub sex, and orgasms were great, don’t get me wrong.

  But, fuck.

  I just wanted to hold Kat.

  I didn’t want her
to curl into a ball at night.

  I wanted her arms around me.

  Naked hugging, that’s what I wanted.

  I wanted to touch her.

  That’s it. That’s all.

  Suddenly, Sandra’s voice turned fierce, “And you better feel the same way about her or I will castrate you, Texas style.”

  “I do,” I confirmed softly, my heart in my fucking throat.

  “Good.” Sandra sounded appeased. “But she needs to know that her self-worth and sexuality isn’t based on your desire for her. She is a strong, capable, intelligent, talented, beautiful woman. She needs to learn how to bring that confidence in herself to the table—and to the bed—and demand enjoyment from herself and her partner, whoever that may be.”

  “Whoever that may be?” I growled, not liking the sound of that.

  Let me clarify, I didn’t have a problem with the first part of what she’d said—I agreed wholeheartedly with all of that—but the second part, the “whoever that may be” part, that was bullshit.

  Sandra laughed again. “Don’t worry, Dan the Security Man. I would never suggest or encourage Kat to look elsewhere for satisfaction. I’m just pointing out that her satisfaction and enjoyment must be something she prioritizes, and it must be something her partner prioritizes.”

  “Yeah, okay. I get you.”

  Still, though. I didn’t like the thought of Kat looking elsewhere.

  Well, dipshit, if you don’t want her seeking satisfaction elsewhere, then you better deliver.

  At that thought, I nodded and shrugged. Once again, I didn’t see a problem.

  “Dan, you know I love you both. I hope I’ve helped.”

  “You have helped. Thanks for . . .” I looked at the clock. We’d been talking for longer than ten minutes. “Thanks for explaining things. It makes more sense now. I wish I’d been on the call with her therapist when they talked about this.”

  Sandra made a soft sound, like she felt a little sad. “Oh Dan, trust will come in time.”

  I blinked at that.

  And then I flinched.

  And I didn’t know what to say because for the first time it hit me. I finally understood.

  Kat was hiding.

  She was willing to let me help as long as she didn’t have to be too exposed, too vulnerable.

  She didn’t trust me.

  That was a problem.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Uniform Trade Secrets Act (UTSA), published by the Uniform Law Commission (ULC) in 1979 and amended in 1985, was a uniform act of the United States disseminated in an effort to provide legal framework to better protect trade secrets for U.S. companies operating in multiple states.

  —Wex Legal Dictionary

  **Kat**

  Marital relations were prohibited during shiva. Even I, who’d lapsed almost entirely in the practice of my faith for more than ten years, knew that.

  As I sat at the kitchen table Tuesday night after Skyping with my knitting group, presently waiting for Eleanor to come home, I decided that Dan must also have known. I assumed the mourning period was why he’d been coming to bed after he thought I’d fallen asleep, and left in the morning before he thought I was awake.

  He’d been trying to give me space. To mourn. To respect traditions I didn’t really know how to navigate. Certain I was making all kinds of mistakes, I did my best to follow the rules faithfully. Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to feel the level of distraught I should have.

  During shiva, the mourner must refrain from doing those things which have even the possibility of evoking joy, such as unnecessarily playing with children, or even engaging in heated discussions with visitors.

  My lack of melancholy was why I’d ended the video call with my knitting group early. They’d conferenced me in—both Ashley in Tennessee and me in Boston—and I’d been having a good time. But then I felt badly about having a good time. So after finalizing the details for the group’s upcoming visit to Boston, we’d ended the call.

  Hearing the front door open then close, I jumped to my feet. First, I stopped by the fridge to pull out the dinner for Dan’s mom. I then placed it in the microwave and set it to reheat. Checking once more that everything was in order, I left the kitchen to meet her.

  She looked tired, but seemed to perk up as soon as she saw me. “Kat. You didn’t need to wait up.”

  Eleanor opened her arms; I stepped forward to accept a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Did you eat? There’s dinner.”

  “You’re not supposed to make dinner.” Eleanor made a face, but mostly smiled. She’d said the same thing the last three times I’d waited up and had dinner ready for her. She was right, I wasn’t supposed to be cooking or cleaning, but being waited on and doing nothing made me feel useless. Also, so far, she seemed to enjoy both the food and the company.

  Also, technically, I hadn’t made it.

  “It’s the delivery that Uncle Eugene arranged. I promise, I wasn’t cooking.”

  “Okay, good. Sit with me and tell me about your day.” She left her stuff on the console table by the front door and we walked to the kitchen together. “Did you finish your shawl?”

  “Almost. I just need to weave in the ends. I’ll show it to you.” I’d left my knitting bag on the kitchen table so I could show her the finished piece as soon as she got home. She didn’t knit, but appeared to admire my works in progress. “How was work?”

  Eleanor sat at the place I’d set for her and told me about her day while I retrieved her food and grabbed new ice for her water. I settled in across from her, hiding away most of my mess in my knitting bag and picking up the shawl I’d just finished. Using my darning needle, I wove the ends of the yarn along the sides.

  As I listened to her, it was clear she was especially tired. I stood, crossed to the counter, and turned on the electric kettle as she neared the end of her meal; I knew she liked tea before bedtime.

  I pulled down teacups, located the chamomile tea bags, and placed the bags in her old blue willow teapot. She’d told me earlier in the week that it was her grandmother’s. The antique had a small chip at the spout and the handle for the lid had been glued on repeatedly, but Eleanor believed it was important to use heirlooms, even fine china, as much as possible.

  “A thing has no value except through use and the accumulation of memories from its use,” she’d said. “What good would it do to leave such a thing in the china cabinet collecting dust? What value would it have? I remember my grandmother and my mother every time I use this teapot, and I use it with my children, so they’ll remember me.”

  At present, she was silent, sipping the last of her water and watching me as I moved around the kitchen. I sent her a small smile, which she returned with genuine warmth, but then her features turned thoughtful.

  “How—” she started, stopped, sighed, and then started again. “Let me first say, I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed having you and Dan this past week, despite the sad circumstances that brought you here.”

  “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough for opening your home to me.”

  She waved away my gratitude. “This is your home now, too. I know you’re going through a tough time.” She stopped again, openly examining me. “Tell me, how are you doing? With the loss of your father?”

  “I didn’t know my father very well,” I hedged, an acute spike of shame flaring within me.

  Still examining me, she leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Forgive me, but I’m not so good at dancing around things, being polite for the sake of politeness, especially when things need saying. So, Kathleen,” she waited until I met her eyes before continuing, “I’m just guessing here, but it seems like you’re experiencing some guilt about not feeling grief—or, a lot of grief—that he’s gone.”

  I gathered a deep breath and passed her a teacup, exhaling an excess of pent up self-recrimination. “Yes. I should be devastated. I should be inconsolable. Right?”

  “Not necessarily. Your father has been sic
k for a long time, slipping away little by little. Sometimes you mourn a person before they die, so that when they pass, you’ve already made your peace with it. I see that kind of thing all the time with families in the ICU.”

  “But it’s not that. I mean, it is that. He has been sick, he hasn’t recognized me in years, but it’s also . . .” I shook my head, feeling frustrated.

  “Can I ask, and tell me to back off here if I’m overstepping. I never seem to know when I’m overstepping. But from the outside, from our conversations this last week, and the way you’ve avoided talking about your childhood, it seems like maybe your dad wasn’t very nice to you. Is that right?”

  I met her gaze, saying nothing.

  It didn’t feel right to pass judgment on the dead, or speak ill of my father. He was my father, and I wanted to honor him. I wanted to think he’d done the best he could given difficult circumstances.

  On the other hand, I also wanted to believe, even if I were faced with similar circumstances, that I would make different, better choices. That no matter how busy I was, I’d never treat my children with indifference.

  She gave me an understanding smile. “Now I’m going to give you unsolicited advice, which—if you’re anything like my kids—you’ll ignore. And that’s fine. But I like giving it anyway.”

  “Okay.” I returned her smile, seriously doubting her kids ignored her advice.

  “You can’t make yourself feel something for a person if it’s not there. Trust me, I have firsthand experience with this.” She gave a little laugh, it sounded self-deprecating.

  “You felt that way? About someone?”

  “Uh, no. Not quite.” She glanced at her plate, a sudden sadness claiming her features. She buried the feelings quickly, sighing. “What I’m saying is, whether they’re alive and well, or dead, or dying, trying to force a connection with someone is like trying to light rain on fire. And feeling badly about your lack of emotion, filling that void with guilt, is a waste of time and destructive, not only to you, but to those who care about you. So, if you can’t bring yourself to mourn his passing, maybe, instead, mourn the relationship you wished you’d had with your father, so you can let him go.”