Kayla Perrin - Getting sexy

I swallow my bite of Caesar salad, then put down my fork. “Annelise,” I say cautiously.

She looks up from her salad. “Yeah?”

I think of how best to phrase what I want to ask, but there’s only one way to say it. I’ve got to say it straight. “Does Charles ever want…really kinky sex?”

Annelise’s eyes widen in surprise. “Why do you ask that?”

“I just…” I lean forward and whisper, as though there’s a fly on the wall that could hear us. “Adam is into all kinds of weird stuff lately. I’m hoping it’s a phase. But I’m also wondering…is it me? Am I uncomfortable with it because I’m a prude or something? I know times have changed drastically even in ten years, so maybe it is me. Then again…” I blow out a breath. “I know it’s a personal question, but has Charles ever been into…weird stuff? And if so, did he get over it? I guess I want to hear that it won’t last forever.”

Annelise clears her throat. “Wow. That was—”

“A mouthful, I know. And probably too much information. But I need to know if I’m obsessing over this, or if perhaps I need to be more sexually liberated.”

Annelise’s fork clinks against her plate as she lowers it. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I have no experience in that department.”

“Damn,” I mutter. “So Adam is a freak—that’s what you think?”

“You haven’t said enough for me to form an opinion. Just how ‘kinky’ are we talking?”

I can’t meet her inquiring gaze. “Anal sex,” I admit shamefully. “Having sex in public places. Not that anyone would see us,” I quickly point out, “but there’s the threat of getting caught. That threat really turns him on. Then on Friday night…” I let out a heavy sigh. “He bought me a strap-on. As a present for me. ”

Annelise’s eyes bulge. “What?”

“I know. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

“But I don’t get—”

“He said he wants me to do him. ” Now I meet Annelise’s blue-eyed gaze. “Can you believe it?”

Annelise shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Not really.”

I groan my dissatisfaction. “I knew it. I knew this was over the top.” I push my salad away, no longer hungry. “And please, don’t mention this to Lishelle. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”

“Honey, I only wish I had your problem.”

Now my eyes widen. “What?”

“Maybe a strap-on is a little freaky, but at least Adam wants to have sex with you. Experience it all with you. I’d love it if I had that in my life.”

“Okay, I’m a little lost. No, a lot lost.”

Annelise sighs softly. “I haven’t said anything before because…well, because it’s been too painful. But Charles hasn’t slept with me in over fourteen months.”

I’m so stunned, I can’t even speak.

“Yeah, it’s true. My husband doesn’t even want to touch me. It’s a real boost to my self-esteem, let me tell you.”

“Oh my God.” I reach across the table to cover An-nelise’s hand. “Honey.”

“It’s driving me nuts. I’m at my wit’s end. I’m trying so hard, but he’s always so tired, so stressed. And when I touch him, it’s like he’s a block of stone.”

“I had no clue.”

“I didn’t want to say anything, but since we’re talking about sex. I welcome any suggestions you might have.”

“You could always borrow my strap-on.”

That gets a smile from Annelise. We both laugh.

Then I ask, “What have you tried?”

“Candles, nice dinners, wine. All that. Stuff to relax him and get him in the mood. But nothing’s been working. So, last week, I went to a…a sex shop. I picked up this slutty French maid’s outfit. It was raunchy, let me tell you.”

“That didn’t work?” I ask in surprise. I don’t know a man alive who doesn’t get turned on by the French maid fantasy.

Annelise shakes her head in disappointment. “He completely ignored me. Turned on a soccer game, and I don’t think he even likes soccer.”

“Wow. This calls for drastic measures.”

“I know, but what?”

Going to a swingers’ club… But I don’t dare suggest that because I can’t admit to anyone that I went there with Adam, albeit unwillingly.

“I don’t know,” I say after a moment. “Let me think about it. In the meantime, I hope his stress level lessens. He is working on that big case.”

“I know, I know. Believe me, I know. And I feel for all those people who got sick from Kitler’s Cookies. I support all the hard work he’s doing. But isn’t sex supposed to be a great stress reliever?”

“I thought so. For Adam it definitely is.”

Annelise sighs softly, and she looks so disheartened that I can’t help but feel bad for her.

“Well,” I begin, “if this is work related, then it won’t go on forever. I know that’s not much comfort now, but tomorrow’s another day. Don’t give up hope.”

“I’m hanging in there,” she says. But she sounds as if she could burst into tears any moment.

Here I was, thinking I had it bad because Adam’s sexual appetite is endless. But maybe I don’t have it bad at all.

Sure, he wants to try everything, but like Annelise said, at least he’s trying it with me. He obviously trusts me with his fantasies, and that says a lot.

Yeah, I guess I’ve been a bit of a prude. Nothing is shameless between committed partners—between two people who love each other with their whole hearts and souls.

All that talk about sex with Claudia over dinner has me totally hot and bothered and completely frustrated. So the first thing I do when I head back home and find that Charles is still at work is lock myself in the bedroom and masturbate.

I imagine that I’m with the Charles from the early days of our relationship. The Charles who was always passionate for me, even when I woke up next to him with morning breath. The Charles who would slip his hand down my pants on a ride at an amusement park, or undo my blouse and fondle my breasts in a movie theatre. The Charles who would know with just a look that I was ready to make love.

“Charles, Charles, Charles,” I mutter as I touch myself, imagining it’s his fingers on me, his tongue tracing circles around my nipple.

I cry out as I climax, happily riding the sensuous wave—but only for a moment. Because immediately afterward I feel cold and empty. So cold and empty I could cry.

I have a husband, damn it. Why do I have to pleasure myself, when I have a man who’s young and should be wild about me?

“Forget Charles,” I tell myself and climb off the bed. I head to the bathroom and start the shower. Maybe cool water will help put out the fire inside me.

Ten minutes later, I step out of the shower and towel off. I try to forget about sex, but even as I apply scented lotion to my legs, I can’t help but think of the way Charles used to do this for me, his hands moving over my body with aching slowness.

Surely Oprah will help get my mind off sex. For an hour I can feel better about myself by observing others’ miserable lives. I quickly dress in a T-shirt and shorts, then head to the living room to queue up the VCR. I tape Oprah daily.

I rewind the tape for several seconds, then stop and hit play. When the show comes on, Oprah is looking thoughtfully at a teary-eyed woman.

“So what do you think happened?” Oprah asks the dark-haired woman. “Why did the passion in your marriage die?”

The woman looks downright confused. “I don’t know.”

“You have to know,” Oprah insists. “When you think about your marriage, your life—and I’m sure you have—you have to have at least an idea of what went wrong.”