by Nina Lane
Plus, that question (“Because you’re looking for something to do?”) is still running through my mind like a looped tape.
At breakfast, we stick to safe subjects like a news story about an art forgery that we’ve both been following, Dean’s upcoming semester, and my new job at the bookstore.
“Did Kelsey tell you about the banquet?” I ask after refilling our coffee.
“The one on Saturday?” Dean asks, as if he’s got a dozen banquets lined up. “Yeah. She said you don’t mind if I go. Of course, she didn’t ask if I mind if I go.”
He sounds a little affronted, which makes me smile. He doesn’t care for academic socializing, but he’s good at it and he’d do anything for Kelsey.
“At least now she’ll owe you one,” I remark.
Dean grunts into his coffee and flips a page of the newspaper. I focus on my own section of the paper, but the lines blur before my eyes.
The sudden distance between us is unsettling. Dean and I have always made each other feel good physically, and the fact that almost a week has passed without one of us making a move is… unusual.
I stretch my leg beneath the table and run my foot up to his inner thigh. He glances at me. I wiggle my toes against his crotch.
“Time before work?” I ask.
“Sorry.” He closes the paper. “Couple of meetings this morning.”
“Too bad.” I stare down at my coffee.
“Yeah.” He glances at the clock, then leans across the table to kiss my forehead. “I’ve gotta go to work. I’ll see you later.”
After he leaves, I sit at the table for a few more minutes. I wonder if he’s now worried that I’ll get all upset if he reaches for a condom when we have sex.
I go to put my cup in the sink. Okay, so I didn’t handle that whole “stopping birth control” conversation well at all. But I also don’t quite understand Dean’s evident relief over the negative pregnancy test. Wasn’t he the tiniest bit disappointed?
I head toward the bedroom, then stop in Dean’s office. I go in there to dust and straighten up every now and then, but mostly I leave it alone. Today, though, I look at the stuff on his desk—a stack of printed lectures, photos of Chartres Cathedral, a yellow legal pad covered with notes in his scrawled handwriting. There’s a framed picture of me next to the computer, and a photo of us together is on the bookshelf.
His computer is on, and I scroll through the contents of the hard-drive, then his Internet history. I’ve used his computer before, and neither of us has given it a second thought. Anyway, there’s nothing interesting—lectures, papers, PDF files, email, news websites.
I push away from the desk and go to get dressed. Outside, there’s a sense of late-summer melancholy in the air, as there always is when the tourists leave and take their vacation excitement with them. I drive to the university, a sprawling collection of brick buildings dotting an expanse of grass and trees.
The history department is nestled in a classical-style building at one end of campus. I park in the visitor’s lot and take the worn stone steps leading to the offices. I greet a few staff members and professors whom I’ve met before, then go down the hall to Dean’s office.
Several voices emerge from the open door, and I catch snippets of conversation about city-states, Beowulf, some Italian cathedral, and the tapestries of medieval Dominican nuns (really).
“I’ll get that outline to you by the end of the week, Professor West,” a young man says, his voice getting clearer as he moves toward the door.
“Thanks, Sam. And Jessica, send me the list of grad students who have submitted papers for the conference presentations.”
“We’ve gotten a ton of proposals already,” Jessica says. “It’s kind of cool that we’ll be able to pick the cream of the crop. We’ve only sent out two calls for papers so far, and we’ll have more in the spring.”
“King’s students get priority, right?” asks another girl. “For presentations? I want to submit a proposal. It’d be good for my résumé.”
“The most original work gets priority, Maggie,” Dean says. “And most of the proposals are based on theses and dissertations.”
“Well, mine would be too,” Maggie says.
There’s a momentary silence before Jessica says brightly, “I need to get to the library. Thanks for your time, Professor West.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Sam adds.
The door opens farther as the two depart, hefting their backpacks over their shoulders.
“Can’t believe Maggie thinks she can…” Jessica mutters to Sam, her voice becoming inaudible as they pass me and walk down the hall.
I wonder if I should let Dean know I’m here, but then he and the girl Maggie start talking again. Should I leave? The office door is wide open and anyone in the corridor can hear his conversations. Nevertheless, I move a little farther away to try and give them some privacy.
“You need to sharpen your methodology, Maggie, before you submit a proposal,” Dean says, his voice carrying into the hall. “I told you that I’d help you, but you have to narrow your focus first. Have you looked at the bibliography I gave you?”
“Some of it,” the girl replies. “It’s, like, twenty pages long.”
“If you’re interested in Trotula of Salerno, you need to start with medieval women’s history and the history of medicine. After you look at the research, write down some questions you want to tackle and we’ll talk about them.”
She lets out a sigh. “Okay.”
“Okay. Now what about your coursework?”
“Well, because I’m also supposed to take the LSAT next semester, I can’t take Latin because it conflicts with a prep course.”
“What about an independent study?”
There’s more talk about requirements and credits before they leave the office.
“Liv.” Dean looks faintly surprised to see me. The young woman stops just outside the door. She’s a pretty girl with blond hair pulled back by a headband, wearing shorts and a tank top that do justice to her toned figure.
“Maggie, this is my wife Olivia,” Dean says.
“Oh.” The girl blinks at me, then glances back at Dean, as if she’s surprised by the fact that he’s married.
“Liv, this is Maggie Hamilton, one of our grad students,” Dean continues.
Maggie and I shake hands and exchange pleasantries. “What’s your thesis research?” I ask out of politeness rather than genuine interest.
“Well, Professor West suggested something about the perception of women through the writings of Trotula of Salerno.” She shoots him another glance. “Because I’m interested in medieval views of women’s sexuality.”
“Interesting,” I remark.
“Maggie, check with the registrar about those classes and get back to me,” Dean says. “You’ll have to have your thesis proposal approved before next semester, then you can submit a paper for the conference.”
“Okay. Nice meeting you, Mrs. West.” She heads off down the hall.
Dean looks at me. “What’re you doing here?”
“Thought I’d see if you wanted to grab lunch.”
“It’s ten-thirty.”
“Or brunch.”
He frowns, then gestures me into his office and closes the door behind us. “What’s going on?”
I sigh and flop into the chair in front of his desk. I’ve never brought our personal stuff into his workplace. But now I plunge ahead, like a rock rolling downhill.
“I looked at the stuff on your computer this morning,” I admit.
“What for?”
I shrug and chew on my thumbnail, nettled by the sense that there is something I don’t know about him when I thought I knew everything.
“You don’t even look at porn, do you?” I ask.
&nbs
p; “Why would I look at porn?”
That makes me laugh. “You don’t know?”
“I’ve got you. I don’t need porn.” He scratches his head, looking baffled. “Where are we going with this? Do you want me to look at porn?”
“No.”
“Do you want to look at porn? Because there’s plenty of it, from what I gather.”
I study him for a moment. I don’t care about porn, but I’m curious about what one of us might do if the other one isn’t around sexually, whether because of physical or emotional separation.
Sex has always been a big part of our relationship, both for the usual reasons—pleasure, to connect, because we’re in love—and for intensely personal reasons that belong to us alone.
“Would it bother you if I did look at porn?” I ask.
“No. If you want to, go ahead.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Liv.” Dean gestures to his desk, which is piled with papers. “I’ve got a shitload of work to do. Whatever you’re here about, can we discuss it at home?”
“You haven’t been home much this past week,” I remind him. “And we tried to discuss it, but we never reached any conclusions.”
He folds his arms. “The baby you’re thinking about.”
“And you’re not.”
“Liv, you haven’t even reached a conclusion about what you want. What is there to reach a conclusion about together?”
“How would you have felt if that test was positive?” My heart thumps. He’s watching me, his arms still crossed, his expression wary.
“I don’t know,” he says. “But that’s a pointless speculation.”
“You didn’t even… wonder?”
He shakes his head. My unease deepens.
“Dean, when I told you I didn’t want children, you agreed with me. You said it was fine.”
“It was.”
“But what did you want?”
“I wanted what you wanted. I understood.”
“But even when we were dating…” A simmer of tension rises in my chest. “When we fell in love, you didn’t… didn’t ever think of us having children?”
“Why would I when you closed that door?”
“You never wanted to open it? Never pictured yourself as a father or me as…”
My voice fades. We look at each other for a long moment. Something is off. I don’t know what it is. Dean has always moved forward in life, always made things happen. So why hasn’t he ever imagined our marriage as… as more?
“Liv.” He slides his warm hand beneath my chin and lifts my face to look at him. “Not having children doesn’t make us any less married. Any less in love. It doesn’t make us any less a family.”
“It doesn’t make us more either, does it?”
He drops his hand to his side and steps back. “I didn’t think either of us needed more.”
“Not more than each other,” I say. “More with each other.”
“I have more with you than I ever thought I would,” he replies, his voice tense. “But if our marriage is suddenly not enough for you, then a baby sure as hell isn’t going to solve anything.”
“Why do you keep implying I’m missing something?” My spine prickles with irritation. “That I mentioned a baby because I need something to do, or because our marriage isn’t enough? Why can’t it be because we’re strong and happy together?”
“It can, but not now, Liv. Regardless of what you decide, I told you it’s a bad time.”
“Do you think there will ever be a good time?” I ask.
Dean sighs and drags a hand down his face. “I don’t want to have this conversation here,” he says.
“You don’t want to have this conversation at all.”
It’s a sharp retort that should bring me some satisfaction, but instead I just feel hollow. Because I know I’m right.
We’re avoiding each other. There’s tension. It’s lousy. Part of me wishes I hadn’t even opened this particular door. Why would I want to change anything about our marriage?
There was a time when I never thought I’d have the life I do now. Never thought I’d be safe or have a home. I certainly never thought I’d fall in love.
But all of that happened because I met Dean. He’s the one who turned my whole world right side up, who transformed all my warped ideas about relationships. Who proved that white knights really do exist. Who discovered alongside me that we are so much better together than alone. So why is the mere idea of a baby causing a rift between us?
I have no answer to that question. And I’m not sure I want one.
Tonight Dean is going to the banquet with Kelsey. She shows up looking classically sexy in a black sheath dress and a long strand of pearls. She wears almost no makeup except for bright red lipstick, which—combined with her disdainful expression—makes her look like Greta Garbo or Marlene Dietrich. With blue-streaked hair.
“What’re you going to do?” she asks me while we wait for Dean to finish getting ready. “Pop popcorn and watch movies? Drink wine? Can I stay with you instead?”
I kind of wish she would—even though I wouldn’t tell her everything that’s been going on, I’d like her no-nonsense company.
Dean emerges from the bedroom, still knotting his tie. He looks incredible, masculine and handsome with his hair combed away from his forehead and his navy suit pressed to perfection.
“Wow,” Kelsey remarks in admiration, glancing from him to me. “Maybe he should stay just so you can have the fun of taking that suit off him.”
Dean and I both laugh, but the sound is forced and rusty. Kelsey gets it immediately because she frowns and looks at both of us again. I suspect my husband will be subjected to the third degree en route to the banquet.
I give him the obligatory kiss, hug Kelsey and tell her to behave. They head off. I’m somewhat relieved to be alone because at least now I don’t have to pretend.
I take Kelsey’s advice and eat some popcorn while watching an action movie, then part of a romantic comedy. But I’m soon bored, so I turn off the TV and page through a magazine. Then I wander over to check my email at my laptop by the window.
After surfing a few book-related websites, I’m bored again and restless and wishing Dean were here and everything was like it was before the idea of a baby made it all so messy.
I type a few words into a search engine. A massive list of results appears—live porn, amateur videos, free porn, fetish movies, hardcore videos, bondage, girls with glasses… girls with glasses?
Out of curiosity, I click that link. Sure enough, a screen of clips appears of half-naked girls with glasses. At least they’re honest about their advertising.
They’re in various stages of apparent arousal and intercourse. I don’t know whether to be intrigued or not. I’ve seen porn videos, of course, but not such a proliferation or such a niche market.
I click on a clip. There’s a guy between the spread legs of a girl wearing glasses. He’s rubbing his erection, teasing the head around the folds of her sex, slipping partway into her opening before pulling back again.
I’ve always liked it when Dean does that to me.
I switch to another clip. An older man is actively pumping into another girl, but his belly is fat and jiggling, which grosses me out. A third clip has a woman looking astonishingly uninterested while giving a blow job. I close the window. I find another clip of a decent-looking man and a girl wearing horn-rimmed glasses.
She’s on her hands and knees, and he’s gripping her ass as he thrusts into her from behind. The camera angle isn’t ridiculously close, but it’s close enough that I can see his cock moving in and out of her. It’s smooth and slick.
His fingers dig into her flesh. He’s pumping hard enough that her whole body is rocking with the mot
ion, her large breasts swaying beneath her, her mouth open on a moan.
I squeeze my thighs together a little. I’m wearing yoga pants, and they’re getting warm. Not to mention that I’m frustrated over not having had sex with Dean in a while.
The man in the video shifts his position, planting his foot on the bed to enhance the depth of his thrusts.
Dean does that too. It works.
My breathing increases. The girl is moaning in a long, steady stream. She’s also sweating. Her hair is long, longer than mine, and sticking to her back in damp strands. The man slaps her bottom a few times, causing her to shriek and her skin to redden. She has a great ass, round and smooth and tight.
I feel perverted, but I’m getting achy in a good way. A way that I can’t deny. I make sure the curtains are drawn before I pull my pants off and kick them beneath the desk. I’m too embarrassed to actually touch myself while staring at a hardcore video clip, but I don’t stop watching.
The sounds of the man’s hips slapping against the woman emerge from the speaker. She grabs the headboard and starts to push against him. It’s graphic and raw. They’re moaning and panting. Then he lets out a grunt and pulls his cock from her, rubbing the shaft between her ass cheeks as he spurts over her back.
I love it when Dean does that to me.
My heart is pulsing fast. I press my thighs together again and feel the burgeoning throb. I shut the laptop and move to the sofa, pulling my underpants down my legs and tossing them aside.
I’m wearing a T-shirt, but I’m in a hurry now and I reach beneath it to shove my bra up so I can play with my breasts. I rub them hard, tweak the nipples, and feel sensation uncoiling through my belly. I spread my legs and thrust a hand between them, unsurprised but still embarrassed by how wet I am.
At least my perversion is a secret one.
I close my eyes and imagine Dean and I in the same position—him thrusting into me from behind while I grip the headboard and rock back against him.
It takes almost no time at all. I know exactly how to touch myself and where. And with images of Dean clutching my hips, pumping in and out of me before he comes all over my bottom…