The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom Page 3

“No, I wouldn’t say trouble.” I could feel my cheeks getting hot. “Sometimes, I just miss the excitement of our early days, you know? Like when we were first together—the sex was so passionate and, so uh… mind-blowing.”

  “You’ve de-sexualized him,” Jane stated frankly.

  “I’ve what?”

  “De-sexualized.” She enunciated clearly. “It’s very common with married couples—especially when there are children. You now look at Paul as the family’s provider, the father, the one who does the yard work…”

  “I wish. It’s like pulling teeth to get him to mow the lawn.”

  “And he looks at you as the caregiver, the cook, the housekeeper…”

  “And the one who does most of the yard work,” I muttered.

  “It totally happened to Daniel and his first wife. That’s a large part of the reason he fell in love with me.”

  Great. Now Paul was probably going to dump me for some hot, young secretary. Jane read my dismayed expression. “You need to start looking at Paul as a sexual being again. You need to resexualize your relationship.”

  “Okay… how?”

  “Go back to a time before the kids and all the responsibilities. Be more spontaneous, more adventurous, like when you were first together.”

  “Umm…?”

  “Wear edible panties! Got to his office and give him a blow job! Attack him when he comes home from work and make love to him in the grand entryway!”

  “The kids would love that.”

  “You get the idea,” Jane said. “Our marriage counselor says it’s the secret to longevity in a marriage.”

  “You go to marriage counseling?”

  “Preemptive measures,” she answered breezily, holding her fingers to her pulse. “Daniel and I are committed to making this marriage work. He can’t afford to go through another divorce.”

  When I got home, I showered and washed my hair, reflecting on my friend’s advice. Jane was right. I probably had desexualized Paul, and he had likely desexualized me. I had been naïve to think that we would still be having earth-moving sex without making any extra effort. A good marriage took hard work, and Paul and I had been resting on our laurels for too long.

  I toweled off, and then stood before the bathroom mirror, naked. The woman who stared back at me still looked pretty good for a thirty-eight-year-old mother of two. In fact, she could probably have passed for—I don’t know—a thirty-six-year old mother of one? Other than the two popped balloons hanging off my front, I didn’t look half bad. In fact, I was almost… kinda… hot and sexy. Paul was lucky to have me! And I was lucky to have him. Yes, he’d gained a few pounds over the years and the hair on his head was receding nearly as fast as the hair on his back was advancing, but he still had broad shoulders, strong, manly hands, and those warm, brown eyes that shone when he smiled. Two such attractive people should have no trouble kick-starting their love life! If Jane could have an incredible sex life with her fifty-eight-year-old husband, I certainly could with mine.

  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.”

  Chapter 4

  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 f
amily 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 I
VF. 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”.

  “Spencer said that sometimes he touches his butt-hole.”

  “Spencer!” I growled. He turned to me, his hand poised above the blue floral cookie tin Trudy was proffering. “What did I say about that kind of language?”

  “What? It’s not a body function. It’s a body part. And sometimes I touch it, okay? Jeez.”

  “Ewwwwwwwww!” the kids chorused. I think Jane may have joined in, just a little.

  Trudy pulled the tin away. “Maybe you should go wash your hands, Spencer?”

  “You are so disgusting!” Chloe shrieked.

  “Go wash your hands Spencer,” I echoed, my face turning crimson.

  “What’s the big deal?” He huffed, as he headed to the washroom. “It’s a part of my body.”

  “Ewwww! It’s where poo and farts come out!!” Emily tittered.

  “Emily!” Trudy whirled on her. “We DO NOT use that kind of language in this house!”