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Though I haven’t the faintest clue why I think of cupboards and tables and Marks and Spencer’s. I suppose it’s just a symptom of this disease I’ve got, this obsession, this problem that no other woman in the world has. Other women complain in Marie Claire about how often their husbands make them do it. They have top tips on how to make it more palatable and less annoying.
But I don’t want more palatable and less annoying. I just want it any way I can get it: I just need to suck my husband’s cock.
Why does he have to be so weird about it? He’s sat across the table from me right now, carefully edging the jam into every corner of his slice of toast. He hates it when he gets a bit that’s preserve free, and I can understand why. Who wants a loaf of bread without the butter? Without the best bit, the tastiest bit, the bit that he just won’t fucking give me?
Damn him. Damn his eyes. Damn his gorgeous, big blue eyes. And his lower lip, oh his lower lip that I would dance on, if I were the size of a flea and actually capable of dancing. He’s lovely, my husband. He’s as sexy as sin, and he can fuck for England.
It’s just this one thing that he falls down on. This one, tiny, unimportant thing. Though of course the trouble is—it’s tiny and unimportant the way a grain of sand is tiny and unimportant, and the longer it sits against my skin the more it itches and bothers me and just won’t go away.
I don’t know what to do. When I ask him if he’d like me to, he laughs it off and changes the subject, and the next thing I know we’re discussing the climate in Brazil. And the old slinky slide down his body doesn’t work, either. He’s six foot seventy million and built like a block heaved from Stonehenge. All he has to do is hook his hands into my armpits, and I’m suddenly flying through the air.
He could invent a new Olympic sport: wife-hurling. He’d get top marks for always landing me right on the mattress, and for his masterful maneuvering of me into a number of rather illicit positions.
My favorite is the backward pile driver.
But once he’s done backwardly pile-driving me, I’m just left with this nagging question: Why is he okay with wild sexual positions that probably don’t actually exist, and not with this? Why is it this?
I try probing him with subtle questions, late at night when he’s half-drunk from some work party and can’t seem to get his elbow out of his shirt. He’s distracted then, you see. The Crystal Maze of the material hemming him in has all of his attention. I can creep up on him on the sly.
When you were kid, did you ever put your finger in something and nearly have it lopped off? I ask, for obvious reasons. Maybe some rather large codfish scared him one time, and now he’s reluctant to put his body parts in anything that might amputate them. I’ve noticed that he’s got this weird thing with his nails. He doesn’t like them being touched, and in my head the two things are psychologically linked.
His manicurist was a maniac, maybe. She stuck his fingers inside a massive fish then tried to trim his cock with a pair of nail scissors.
Though mostly what I take from this theory is the sure and certain knowledge that I am going insane. This mystery is driving me insane. It’s the only thing I don’t know about him, the only thing he doesn’t give me. And so, like Bluebeard’s wife before me, I’m desperate to open the cupboard door.
I just need a plan. One that’s better than the plans I’ve tried before—which, to be fair, have not been very impressive. But this one I’m thinking of now…I think it is impressive. Or at least, I think it’s good enough to get him in some way.
But I have to time it right. I have to be as sly as a fox, as careful and sensuous and slow as running syrup—and I’ll be perfectly honest. I’m none of those things. I don’t know how to seduce. I’m not sure how to be cool. Usually when we have sex, it’s me who goes completely crazy.
But I know enough about him now to at least try to make him that insane. I start with lasagna for dinner, because he loves lasagna. And maybe, yes, maybe I persuade him to have a second glass of wine. A second glass won’t make him drunk, but it will loosen him up a little. By the time we get to dessert his limbs are all lax and he’s smiling in that easy way. He’s saying things he wouldn’t usually, like I can see your nipples straining through that dress. Do you have anything on under there, Becca?
I don’t.
And then once we’ve cleared the table and danced around each other for a bit—you know the sort of dance I mean, where the air kind of crackles between you and every step hints at what’s to come—I kiss him in the way he likes the most.
On tiptoe, stretching and straining for his mouth—near climbing him, like the massive mountain he is. And the moment our lips are close enough to brush, that’s what I do. I just brush them together. I kiss him with my wine-rich breath…with just the suggestion of my skin, and the slick warmth of my mouth. Like there’s a force field between us, an invisible force field.
In fact, that’s exactly what he calls it. It was a game we played when we first met, and I wasn’t sure if he liked me that way and he wasn’t sure if he should just go for it, and one night he said: There’s something between us. You can’t see it with the naked eye. It’s electric and deadly, and the second we actually connect it will go off. It will kill us both.
Now, now. Touch me without triggering it.
So I did. I do. I kiss him without kissing him, and once it’s had the desired effect—once I can feel him pressing hard and insistent against my belly—I disentangle myself and dart away. I lead him to the bedroom with a trail of my clothes.
Or rather, a trail of my single item of clothing.
Because that’s all I’ve got on. There’s just that single puddle of red silk for him to find, before he gets to me—bare and brazen on the bed. It’s not a cupboard or a table or the middle of Marks and Spencer’s, but judging by his expression, it will do.
Oh, it will do all right.
Typically, I don’t like to be so naked. When I get out of the shower he’ll sometimes try to tug the towel away from me, just to catch a glimpse of the things I’m too shy to show. He buys me underwear that’s hardly there in the hopes that I’ll wear it, and spends much of his time trying to tell me how gorgeous my body is.
So I’m going to brave my fears and give him what he wants, in return for the things I crave. It’s only fair, after all. Give and take, back and forth—those ideas were practically in our wedding vows. Why not make the most of them here?
“Is it my birthday?” he asks, teasingly. I think he’s expecting some punch line, here, some joke that I’m going to spring on him. We’re all about having fun and playing games, after all. It’s just that I’m craving a different sort of game altogether, right now.
“Yeah, it’s your birthday,” I tell him. “Come and get your present.”
But it’s the wrong move. I can see he’s wary, now, as he slinks toward the bed. Half of him is trapped by the usual problems, the other half is stuffed full of lasagna and wine and couldn’t care less. It’s like watching a tiger creeping towards its prey, if the prey in question had claws, and the tiger was a little tipsy.
