Married Sex (6 page)

Chapter 12

“Da-vid.”

Victoria. On the phone, Monday morning at nine, she's ready to play whatever role is needed: law partner, office wife, moral compass.

“I'm starting to miss you, V.”

“Indian summer—it goes on and on.”

“I don't hear oars cutting smoothly through water.”

“I'm sitting in a lawn chair, looking at the boat.”

“Sloth … or injury?”

“Too much of last night, I'm afraid.”

“Color me shocked.”

“Me too.” She paused. “I've got a … suitor.” Her voice turned girlish. “You'd like him, David.”

“Should I have him checked out?”

“No need. I've known him forever.”

“Spill.”

“Johnny Metcalfe.”

“No bells ring,” I said.

“Before your time, I handled his divorce. He remarried. A long, happy marriage followed, ended by a brief, ugly illness. You know the short story about a wife dying and women who never knew her showing up at the funeral to comfort the husband? After Ginny died, it was like that. Johnny stopped dating when one woman after another told him she'd only sleep with him if he asked her to marry him. He went alone to a dinner on Saturday night, and there I was—interested neither in sleeping with him, at least initially, or marriage, ever.”

“That's lovely, V. I'm happy for you.”

“Early days, David. How was your weekend?”

“It was …” I have never lied to this woman; I couldn't start now. “Domestic.”

Which was, technically, true.

Chapter 13

Taped to my phone is a line from Norman Mailer:

You don't really know a woman until you meet her in court
.

I trust Mailer on this—he was married six times.

Do I “know” Blair? Not really. Not fully. Not, anyway, in the kind of soul merger I thought was possible when we were first married, living in a third-floor walk-up, and I'd rush home each night to ravish my bride.

In my experience, those who believe in the possibility of a soul marriage gush, overshare, and expect you to do the same. Another way to put it: They're unhinged. Like the woman in “Suzanne.” Whenever I hear that song, I think of all that's left unsaid. Yes, she takes you down to her place by the river, she feeds you tea and oranges, and it seems like you've always been her lover. Dreamy. Poetic. Possibly exalted. Overlooked: that “she's half crazy.” Which, really, is obvious. Talk, sex, talk, more sex, and then it's dawn—who can live like that, night after night?

Not me.

And not Blair.

Over the past two decades, I've come to know a great deal about her, but I can't say I've learned much more than I knew when we got married. Family, school, favorite books and movies, the first boyfriend, and later, the first love—I know all the facts that don't really matter.

What would I like to know about her?

Everything she's mentioned in passing and then turned away from, as if she wished she hadn't said anything—that “memorable” party when she was sixteen, the summer in Paris with her best friend after her freshman year, and what happened in a parked car in a downpour on Cape Cod just before she came to New York for business school.

From time to time, at random moments when she's least expecting it, I've asked Blair some impertinent questions.

“Ever get drunk and wake up in a room you've never seen before?”

“Ever ask God for help … and get it?”

“Ever do it in a bedroom on coats?”

“Ever steal anything bigger than a hair clip from a drugstore?”

“Could you shoot to kill?”

“Ever go to a gay bar—a bar for gay women?”

Every one of these questions produced silence.

A few years ago, on our anniversary, I said, “I don't think I'll ever get to know you better than I do now.”

“Are you okay with that?”

“Yes.”

“Smart.”

My answer was weak. And it was a lie. Of course I'd like to know more. You spend your life with someone, how can you not be curious?

I found a way to get information from Blair: in bed. I only get snippets. They're not volunteered. I wait until we're intensely involved and communicating in shorthand—“yes,” “more,” and “don't stop” mostly—and then I throw out a question.

“What was the shortest time between meeting a guy and going home with him?”

“A club.” Blair's eyes are closed. “The coat check. On the way in.”

“You didn't go in?”

“No.”

“When was this?”

“Three months before I met you.”

My idea of hot is Blair's idea of cold, so I asked no follow-­­up questions. Was I satisfied? Not really. The more you know, the more you want to know. Like how that night played out. In detail. What was she wearing? What happened in the cab? Was there kissing? Touching? Whose apartment did they go to? When they got there, did they get to the bed or just drop to the floor? How many times? Did they spend the night, make a plan, see each other again? Was he big?

Later—weeks and weeks later—we were having what we call a “single malt night.” Blair likes wine; I drink it only at meals. But once in a great while, because our total intent is to get drunk and then go at it in ways we pretend not to remember in the morning, we drink shot after shot of single malt.

Semi-blotto from the whiskey, I was concentrating on a two-inch area of Blair when I flashed on the night she never made it into the club. And I thought: Maybe I can get one question in. Instinct said: Don't return to that night; she'll feel set up, sorry she said anything.

So I asked a general question: “Does size count?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“What's more important: length or width?”

“Width.”

I stopped there. Wisely.

That was one of our best nights ever.

The week before we were to get together with Jean, I had trouble concentrating. I didn't want Blair to know I was counting the hours, so I maintained my usual weekday schedule: work, gym, a business dinner, a bit of reading, snatches of conversation,
The Daily Show
. Surprisingly, no sex. Kissing, hugs, sleep. It felt like I was on a training regimen—storing energy, building strength.

That could only last so long. On Thursday night, bored by an interview with a dinosaur of a politician, we switched to a black-and-white movie, smoked, and tumbled into bed.

I began a monologue that I had, with variations, delivered on nights like this for at least a decade.

“Blair,” I whispered.

Her response was slow, distant. “Yes.”

“We're in the dressing room at Bergdorf's …”

“Yes?”

“This dress … I like it. … Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, and here's the salesgirl.”

Blair, breathy as Marilyn Monroe, volleyed: “Salesgirl?”

“With another dress … she wants to help you.”

All the while, I was stroking Blair's thighs.

“What does she look like?”

“Short hair … big breasts … I think she's Russian.”

Setting it down here, that scene is ludicrous. But when it's dark and late and you're toasted, it's easy and pleasant to role-play. And Blair seemed to be doing just that, arching her back as I moved my hands to her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples.

“She wants …”

An abrupt end to the fantasy—Blair opened her eyes and laughed. Raucous laughter. Derisive laughter.

“Sorry, that's just so … ridiculous.”

“You used to like that fantasy,” I said.

“Only the first hundred times.”

“You never said no.”

My hand stopped making lazy patterns on Blair's thigh. She sat up and caressed my face.

“I hurt your feelings,” she said.

“You took me by surprise.”

“Oh, honey.” She kissed me. “You just can't wait for Saturday, can you?”

I felt transparent as a four-year-old.

“No. How about you?”

“Some anticipation. But not like you. You've been thinking … disgusting thoughts, haven't you?”

I nodded.

“And you thought you could hide them?” Blair pulled me close. “My poor darling beast, come and do horrible things to me.”

Chapter 14

“You want to get divorced—why?”

It's the first thing I ask new clients. Not out of curiosity, or to help me build their cases, but because … maybe they shouldn't.

Most matrimonial lawyers, like most other professionals, choose their trade for the fees. Clients enter, on a conveyor belt, married; they leave, sheared of a few illusions, divorced. The trick is to make that happen in the greatest number of billable hours but with the fewest possible strokes.

Some matrimonial lawyers still have ideals. They'll get you unhitched, but first they'll test you to see if there's still life in your marriage. Like first-stage marriage counselors.

I'm in that group. I listen to my clients' stories, and when I hear descriptions of marriages that are retrievable, I encourage these women to try couples therapy. They wonder why. The husband doesn't listen, he has disgusting habits, he pays no attention to the kids, how can anyone stay married to a man like this?

Yes, I say, he's a slob, a jerk. But please notice there's something you don't complain about, and that's sex.

If you're still having sex, you can save the marriage.

If the sex has gone, it's over.

A woman laments that her husband has become her “best friend,” and the euphemism tells me all I need to know. “Friend” is what's left when the sex goes. So that's a dead marriage.

A woman says she's learned to schedule her husband's desire for sex: “one night on, two nights off.” She doesn't need to say more. For her, sex is an obligation that can't be ignored but can be managed. And that's a dead marriage.

A woman complains that her husband has a lover, but she doesn't complain about the lover to him, or get interested in his interests, or buy hot lingerie. For her, it's a relief that he strays. Another dead marriage.

And then there's roommate marriage. Victoria calls this condition “low batt,” meaning low sexual battery, no erotic sparks. The husband's nights are about the flat screen; weekends mean the golf course. His wife? A client told me, speaking for many, “No man has ever given me as much pleasure as I get slapping my Amex card down on a counter at Bloomingdale's.”

Some women complain about their oversexed husbands. I never comment. Whatever their issue is, it's an issue for a therapist. But I have to suppress a renegade impulse to share how many men have told me that the last time their wives went down on them was the night before their wedding—and to follow that up with a question: How long has it been since you had your husband in your mouth?

And another query, just as rude: Given that life is short and youth is fleeting, why have you stayed in a sexless marriage for so long that you've forgotten you're entitled to pleasure? Because you have kids and your husband is a good father? That's a lesson you want to pass on to those children? Really?

I want to shout at my clients: “Sex
isn't
how you say thanks to the guy who pays your rent. It
isn't
what you give up when you become a parent. It
isn't
what you ration, and it
isn't
what you live without because you don't want your kids to grow up in a broken home.”

Sex is, at the very least, the reward we get for surviving the day; at the very most, it's the life force. It's intimate touch, souls connecting through flesh. It's magic. Without a sex drive that seeks and finds fulfillment, you might as well be like a brain creature in an old sci-fi movie—a head unencumbered by a body.

What's most infuriating is how persistent the belief is that great sex is rare, or difficult, or available only to those with secret knowledge. Bullshit. Great lovers may or may not have Olympian bodies and great technique. What they must have—all they must have—is interest. Just that. The willingness to pleasure another. A commitment to the beloved's joy.

So I make no apologies for anything I do—for anything Blair and I do—to keep sex hot year after year. I can't put it on a résumé
,
but on my list of achievements, somewhere below father to Ann and far above winning fair settlements for my clients, would be two decades of marriage with our sex lives in no danger of cooling.

That's why getting together with Jean Coin didn't make me worry that Blair and I were risking our marriage, or really, risking anything. Jean was an adventure. A new twist on an old recipe. Harmless fun. And nobody's business but ours.

Chapter 15

You would think we weren't speaking, the way Blair and I avoided each other on Saturday.

I woke early, made coffee, brought some to my barely awake wife, and fled to the gym. From there, I went to the office, where I confronted a stack of work that could have easily waited until Monday. I ordered soup and read the
Financial Times
' Weekend section. I did not watch a single porn video, and at the moment I thought I might, I left the office and walked across the park.

Home. There were clothes in neat piles on the bed—candidates for what Blair would wear to Jean's—but no Blair.

I showered. Shaved. Twice. Considered going out and buying some Axe, the better to be irresistible. Thought better of it. Went into Ann's room to watch college football. The cheerleaders were more compelling than the game. Napped.

When I woke, there was music—jaunty Mozart flute concertos—and Blair was sitting on the couch, her hair wet from the shower, reading and sipping wine.

For a few seconds, I stood in the hall, watching and thinking: Forget the striped cotton sweater
,
the short denim skirt
,
and the weightless suede jacket—the most beautiful woman really is a woman reading a book.

Which was quickly followed by: Is it possible that the last time I thought this was just three weeks ago?

Then I stepped into my marriage.

“Hey.”

Blair looked up from the book. Smiled. I leaned over, and we kissed, a real kiss, with a lot of feeling behind it.

The book surprised me. “A cookbook?”

“Better than fiction—every recipe has a happy ending.”

“Want me to cook something before we go?” I asked.

“Vanity dictates a flat stomach.”

“I understand. But I see tequila in your future. Or champagne. You'll want a base. Yogurt, at the very least.”

“How about … stir-fry?”

“Good. I'll make it.”

“Thanks,” Blair said. “One favor.”

“Yes?”

“No garlic.”

In the cab, we rode in silence, far apart, staring blankly ahead, thoughtful.

“We must look like the couple in that
American Gothic
painting,” I said, as we started the long drive downtown. “All we need is the pitchfork.”

“Please. We are hip New Yorkers.”

“Not that hip,” I said. “We could still bail. Go home, pull a movie.”

Blair shook her head.

“Why not?” I asked.

“You've got a script, don't you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Positions. Sequences. Who does what.”

“So?”

“So let's do this.”

“Do
you
have a script?” I asked.

“No. But I don't want to spend the rest of my life hearing about the fun we missed.”

“You really see fun ahead?”

“What I know of your fantasies—and by now I think I've heard them all—they're vanilla. So I don't see
harm
. And I think Jean is …”

Blair searched for the right word. “Harmless?” I suggested.

“Cool,” she said.

Well, that was a surprise. But not one that registered. I was thinking ahead, to the dance of bodies. And to an agreement I'd failed to make explicit. I waited until the cab reached Tribeca to mention it.

“When I need to come, I want to be in you.”

“Okay.”

“Don't … wander off.”

We got out on Greenwich, a few blocks from Jean's loft. On this warm Saturday night, the young were everywhere—filling the sidewalk café in front of Locanda Verde, smoking outside De Niro's hotel. They were groomed. Expensively underdressed. They wore scents that broadcast self-confidence. And discretionary money. Hard to look at these kids and not feel jealous. Also: old.

We turned onto Laight Street, a movie set of old warehouses converted to condos and new condos designed to look like they were once warehouses. I'd imagined Jean living in a loft like the ones I knew when I was in law school and one of my girlfriends lived down here—wood floors that were a minefield of splinters, exposed water pipes, clawfoot bathtub and noisy plumbing. But there was no modestly improved industrial space left in Tribeca.

I was forced to readjust; Jean had money.

And not just some—more than we have.

From an open window, party sounds emerged. And music: “Almost Saturday Night,” written, sung, and produced by John Fogerty, who labored over his breakthrough songs, he said, because he didn't want to go back to working at the car wash. And here he was, party music for the privileged.

It had been years since we danced. I grabbed Blair and held her close. Then she broke away, and for a few seconds, she found the beat and went with it. I'd almost forgotten how hot Blair was when she moved.

I pressed Jean's bell.