The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (4 page)

Still naked, I padded to my bedroom and rummaged through my
lingerie drawer. Buried under a mountain of Jockey cotton briefs and A cup
bras, were the garments I sought. I removed the black push-up bra, the G-string
panties, and the garter belt with fishnet stockings, laboriously untangling
them from one another. The outfit had been a gift from one of my college
friends at my bridal shower twelve years ago. I had thought it was a joke; it
probably was a joke. But for some reason, I had kept it, and desperate times
called for desperate measures. I struggled into the complicated ensemble and
took in my reflection in the full length mirror.

Not bad… not bad at all. Of course, it was a little
depressing to note that my post-baby breasts no longer filled the B-cup bra,
but other than that, I looked pretty damn good… definitely good enough to
seduce my own husband. Soon, Karen Sutherland wouldn’t be the only one in the
neighborhood having incredible, passionate sex! I was determined. “Get ready,
Paul Atwell,” I said out loud. “I’m about to rock your world.”

Rocking Paul’s world would have to wait. He was called to
Cincinnati on the Friday-night red-eye. It was about a LAN or a WAN or a server—something
had crashed. Paul called me with the news.

“The blabbidy blah’s crashed,” he said. “I’m going to have
to fly to Cincinnati with the elite support team to see if we can remedy the
situation. We’re in danger of losing this account.”

“Yeah, well you’re in danger of losing your wife,” I wanted
to retort, but didn’t. I was really pissed off, though. How on earth were Paul
and I going to develop a sex life to rival Karen’s and Javier’s, if he was
never home? In his defense, I hadn’t divulged my plan to surprise him in full,
porn-star regalia and ravage him like a nympho. Maybe then, he would have tried
to get out of the trip. But lately, even on the evenings we did spend together,
he seemed distracted, still absorbed with work. I wasn’t feeling very positive
about the current state of our relationship. Paul and I needed to talk. I still
planned to put in the extra effort to improve our marriage, but it was going to
take two of us.

Thankfully, I didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on it. On
Saturday morning, Trudy invited us all around to her house for homemade
cinnamon buns. When Trudy said “homemade cinnamon buns” she did not mean
pre-made, Pillsbury dough-in-a-tube that you sliced, put on a tray, and popped in
the oven. She meant homemade dough that you had to knead, and then let rise,
and then knead, and then let rise, and then knead, and then let rise… Trudy was
a throwback to another era.

Just before ten, I called up the stairs to the children.
“Kids! Time to go play at Emily and Cameron’s house! Don’t forget your coats.
It’s chilly this morning!” Spencer bounded down the stairs joyfully, followed
by his sister. “Okay, let’s—” I stopped mid-sentence. “What are you wearing?” I
addressed my daughter.

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’?” I was incredulous. “What do you
call that?”

“It’s a
baby T
. Like duh? All the cool stars wear
them.”

“You’re not wearing a T-shirt meant for an infant out in
public. Go change.”

“Why? What’s the big—”

“JUST CHANGE!” I was not in the mood for more of her
insolence.

“God! What a nazi,” she muttered, stomping back up the
stairs.

Finally, with a petulant Chloe wearing age-appropriate
clothing, we set off. Trudy lived a block and a half away. Spencer spent that
entire block and a half trying to convince me to piggy-back him because his
legs were
sooooo
tired. My son had a slight build and was a little small
for his age, but I was not up to lugging an extra forty-eight pounds on my
back. With much whining (Spencer), and pouting (Chloe), we finally reached
Trudy’s spacious, nouveau-Victorian home.

“Hello!” My friend opened the door before we’d rung the
bell. The smell of fresh bead wafted out behind her.

“Hi!” I pecked her cheek. “It smells great in here.”

Trudy leaned over and, adopting her former-preschool-teacher
voice, greeted my children. “Hello, kids. Chloe, you look more grown up every
time I see you. And aren’t you getting to be a big boy, Mr. Spencer Bo-Pencer!”

“Hi,” the kids mumbled. “Yeah.”

“Calvin! Emily! Chloe and Spencer are here!”

With much thudding and racket, Trudy’s children lumbered up
the stairs from their basement playroom.

“Hi guys!” I said, with forced enthusiasm. Trudy was always
so sweet to my kids that I would have hated for her to figure out that I wasn’t
all that fond of hers.

Emily addressed me. “Cameron thinks you’re really a man
because your hair looks like Prince Charming’s and you have no boobies.”

Did I say I wasn’t fond of them? I meant I hated them.

“Why don’t you kids go down to the playroom?” Trudy interjected.
“I’ll have a special snack for you in a little while.”

Trudy led the way through her pristine grand entryway, past
the formal living room, burgeoning with family photos in silver frames and
enormous flower arrangements, and into her French country-style kitchen.

Carly and Karen were seated at the oval kitchen table,
steaming mugs of coffee before them. They greeted me in unison.

“How are you?” I hugged them each briefly then took my seat
at one end. It was the first time I had seen Karen since she’d admitted her
affair. I felt a little awkward: Was I staring at her too long? Was I not
looking at her enough? Was my discomfort evident to Trudy and Carly?

Trudy poured me a cup of coffee. “We’ll just wait for Jane
and the girls, and then we can have some warm cinnamon buns.”

Carly laughed. “Like Jane would eat a cinnamon bun!” Carly
was what you’d call
Rubenesque
—or else, chubby, depending on how kind
you were. She’d obviously found a lot of solace in food when her husband left
her. Who could blame her? I’d been known to spend a few lonely nights curled up
with a pint of Haagen Dasz, myself.

“Jane does watch her figure,” Trudy acquiesced.

“I’ll say,” I added.

Karen changed the subject. “These flowers are gorgeous,
Trudy.” She leaned forward and inhaled the fragrance of the burgeoning bouquet
of pink lilies, gerber daisies, freesia and miniature roses serving as the
table’s center piece.

“Aren’t they lovely? Carly brought them,” Trudy explained.

“You’re always so thoughtful,” Karen said.

Carly shrugged and waved away the compliment. “Well… it’s
just so sweet of Trudy to invite us all over here today. How often do we get
homemade cinnamon buns?”

“So…” I cleared my throat nervously. “How has everyone
been?” Part of me hoped that Karen would be unable to refrain from crying out
“Fantastic! I’m having the best sex of my life with a hot Spanish barista!” I
would have felt much more comfortable if her secret was out in the open.

But before Karen could speak, the doorbell rang. Trudy
bustled to greet Jane and her entourage, and escorted them into the kitchen.
“Hello, everyone!” Jane breezed in, in a cloud of Bobbi Brown Baby. She was
trailed by her two daughters, in matching pink twin sets and white jeans, and
the statuesque Becca. She air-kissed each of us before taking a seat to my
right. “You all know Becca, don’t you?”

Since Jane went virtually nowhere without her, we all did.
“Would you like some coffee, Becca?” Trudy asked.

“No thanks. I’ll take the girls downstairs and play some
games with the kids. You ladies enjoy yourselves.”

God. I wanted to jump up, tackle her, and fireman-carry her
home to live with me.

“So…” Jane said, when a cup of black coffee was placed
before her, and an enormous, warm, gooey cinnamon bun sat before the rest of
us. “What’s new with everyone?”

“Not a lot,” Karen lied.

“Emily has a piano recital next week, and Cameron’s been
making incredible progress at Young People’s Theatre. It’s really helping him
overcome his shyness,” Trudy said.

“Good,” Jane responded, as we all nodded our affirmation.

Carly cleared her throat. “I think…” she began hesitantly.
“I think I might have met someone.”

“Great. That’s wonderful. Fantastic,” we chorused,
supportive smiles pasted on our faces. Unfortunately, we had heard this line
from Carly a million times. Very seldom did any of these “meetings” turn into a
serious relationship; quite often, they didn’t even culminate in a date. But
somehow, Carly remained hopeful. It wasn’t like she was unattractive: she had
beautiful gray eyes and a glossy, dark bob. Yes, she was thirty-five years old
and a little on the heavy side, but she was a great cook and the most giving
person I knew. Really, Carly was an excellent catch. Unfortunately, most of the
single men in her demographic seemed more interested in skinny, vapid, Paris
Hilton clones.

“Where did you meet this someone?” Trudy asked.

Carly blushed prettily. “At a client’s office.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in one of your clients.”
Karen said.

“He’s not a client. I met him in their lobby. He fills the
vending machine. I wanted to buy a Diet Coke and he was refilling the machine,
so he handed me a Diet Coke. I went to pay him for it, and he said, ‘It’s on
me’. We just kind of had this moment, y’ know? Like, a connection.”

“Bought you a Diet Coke—very promising.”

“Definitely a good sign.”

“He sounds really nice.”

“It probably sounds silly, but it was just so… powerful,”
Carly said, her cheeks glowing with remembrance. “Our eyes met… time stood
still… Really, it felt like we’d known each other forever.”

“Oh no, not silly at all.”

“I remember having ‘moments’ like that.”

“How exciting.”

Anyway,” Carly continued. “I have a meeting there next
Wednesday, too, so… well… hopefully, he fills the Coke machine weekly.”

God, it was so sad. I didn’t know if I wanted to hug her or
slap her.

Jane turned to me. “Did you tell them about your plan?”

“Uh… plan?” I could feel my heart begin to palpitate with
panic and small beads of sweat break out on my upper lip. “I don’t really have
a—umm… plan.”

“Paige is going to resexualize her marriage,” Jane
announced.

“Resexualize?” Karen asked.

Trudy laughed nervously. “What’s that?”

“Just what it sounds like,” Jane continued. “After so many
years with one man, you need to take some extra measures to keep your sex life
hot. You know, like role-playing, sex toys, doing it in daring places… Daniel
and I discovered the concept shortly after our fourth anniversary. And since
then… well… never a dull moment!”

“And you’re going to try this… uh, concept, are you Paige?”
Trudy’s voice was strained.

“Well… really, it’s more about renewing our emotional
connection,” I said weakly. “I thought I might give it a try…when Paul gets
back from his business trip.”

“Oh! Where did he go?” Trudy asked. It was an obvious
attempt to steer the conversation out of the bedroom, but Jane would not be put
off that easily.

“You have to do it,” she said, looking at me. “What are the
other options? Boring sex for the rest of your life? An affair?”

Impulsively, my eyes darted to Karen, who was dissecting her
cinnamon bun with rapt attention. Carly broke the nanosecond of uncomfortable
silence. “Well, that’s great, Paige. Good for you. Sex is a really important
part of a relationship.”

“Well… umm… I guess...” I shrugged.

Carly stood up. “I think I’ll go see how Becca’s making out
with all your little monkeys,” she said brightly. “It’s just so nice to be able
to spend some time with them.”

When she had gone downstairs, Karen said sadly, “It’s still
hard for her.”

“What?” I asked, through a delicious mouthful. Carly was
always eager to help out with the children. I hadn’t noticed anything odd in
her departure.

Trudy elaborated. “The kind of pain and betrayal she
suffered when Brian left… You do not get over that easily.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Jane asked. “She didn’t leave because
we were talking about sex, did she?”

“No, I think she just wanted to spend some time with the
kids,” I said, swallowing the remnants of cinnamon bun.

Trudy disagreed. “Sex is still somewhat of an uncomfortable
topic for Carly.”

“It’s been two years!” Jane cried. “It’s not like everyone
else has stopped doing it, just because she has!”

“A little compassion would be nice,” Karen said, pointedly.
“Carly was devastated when Brian left.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. But since she’s not here… How’s the
baby-making going?”

Karen’s composure was flawless. “We’re cautiously
optimistic. I’ve been seeing an acupuncturist, so… hopefully…”

Trudy commented. “A woman I know through Emily’s music
lessons has been undergoing IVF. The procedure’s been meeting with more and
more success these days.”

“Maybe…,” Karen said. “I’m not sure I’m ready to take that
step yet.”

A lumbering noise on the basement stairs signaled that the
children had decided it was snack time. Trudy jumped up, as if relieved. “Who
wants a fresh homemade cinnamon bun?” All the children jumped up and down with
anticipation, except my two. Chloe was too cool to jump. Spencer had a
question.

“Umm… do they have raisins in them?”

“They do, sweetie,” Trudy replied.

“I’m allergic to raisins.”

“You’re not allergic, Spencer,” I said.

“I am!” he insisted. “If I eat one, I’ll get bumps on me and
my tongue will explode.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Well, we don’t want to take that chance, now, do we?” Trudy
placated. “Would you prefer a homemade chocolate chip cookie?”

“Yes, please!”

“Auntie Paige?” Cameron was standing beside me.

“Yes, dear?” I forced a smile of fondness. Trudy’s children
addressed us all as ‘auntie’ which made me feel even more guilty for despising
them. At least he hadn’t called me “uncle”.