Mark steered his car into the pavement driveway after a long day of work, his muscles tense and needing release. His fingers cramped from hours behind a keyboard, and his horrendous posture contributed to an ache in his back. How he longed for the touch of his wife, the gentle whisper of her voice as she caressed his pains away. The corporate radio station selected some Madonna bubblegum ditty from an 80’s mix, back when she made it popular to wear her undies outside her clothes.
Maybe tonight Mark would see the lingerie he’d purchased the gift certificate for last Christmas? Fearful of selecting the wrong size (and embarrassed to spend too long fondling thongs in a Frederick ’s), he bee-lined to the counter, exchanged his credit card for one of the gift variety, and left with his bank account lighter but no bags. What had the missus selected? Something frilly, fuzzy, leather, or bedazzled? (Mark suspected the late night Bedazzler infomercials weren’t primarily intended for pasties, but without meeting the inventor, he’d never have definitive confirmation.)
His key slid, notch by notch, into the slot, turning slowly, triggering jolts of bolts and providing entry into... a mess. Scattered toys littered the floors until the carpet was barely visible, even then only through holes in tennis rackets and stackable Playskool rings. Perhaps he’d try something new and pursue a baby diaper fantasy tonight?
The desire diminished as a genuine diaper aroma wafted into his nostrils. Scooter sat wide-legged on the sofa, both hands mining into his Huggies for precious resources. Mark feigned a smile at the baby, blew a loud kiss to his betrothed – wherever she may be – and carried Scooter to the changing table while the infant painted his arms, his shirt, anything within reach, in orange... must’ve had carrots for lunch? Sweet potatoes?
Body paint never appealed less.
One size five diaper, a dozen wipes, and three minutes of deep cleansing later, a door slammed and someone shrieked. Threats of spankings incited a passing thought of S&M, but that fancy passed faster than I could say “Put that screwdriver down!” (How on earth did his toddler get into his toolbox?)
Jughead appeared in the doorway with some blood on the back of his hand. Maybe his, maybe Kevin’s. Scooter sunk his teeth into his shoulder, distracting his concern from the blood on his five-year-old to the new concern of not shedding his own. For all the euphoria a little nibble on the collarbone or earlobe did Mark, this? Not so much.
It wasn’t yet dinnertime. Another three hours until night-night. Finally, Mark heard the sweet voice of his soulmate, a melody carried in from the kitchen: “You need to mow the lawn.”
Inuendo? She’d go clean shaved tonight? A glance out the window lead Mark’s suspicions elsewhere, but he was happy with the distraction. While he was outside, sweating from hard labor like a slave boy, feeling the power surge in his hands as he grinded the grass… Grind? Damn. He really needed to sharpen the blades.
Drenched in his scent, Mark reentered the kitchen ready for a hero’s welcome. Steak and wine, for a manly man. Mistake. And whine. He knew the chain of events had to begin somewhere, but with these rapid fire accusations of “he started it!” it was impossible for him to determine a culprit. Screw it! As the owner of this house, Mark dictated what went on around here. “Everyone – to your own room!”
Six little boy eyes swelled, as did their lips, pouting. Mark had none of it. “Go to your room! All of you!”
They saw by the fire in his eyes that he meant business. He prayed his wife didn’t miss the burning. When she asked, “What now?” he pointed one finger at their bedroom. “I mean everyone. To your room.”
She cocked her head, while he hoped she’d use those same words in a different sentence. He discerned what he could of her form beneath her baggy overalls, longing for a glimpse of flesh where her t-shirt disappears into the denim. He yearned to be her t-shirt: soft as cotton, draped gently over her breasts, held tightly against her shoulder under the straps, ironed on with a decal reading #1 MOM across her chest. Technically, he could have done without the yellowed pit stains or frayed collar, but in Mark’s state, he’d overlook impurities. Their scents would merge as one as they shed their clothes and wrapped our bodies around –
“Not a chance.”
Ah. So she did spy that burning in his eyes.
“What if I run you a bubble bath?”
“And do what with the boys? Leave them in their rooms? That’s considered child abuse, honey.”
She called him honey. Hope?
“I’ll take care of the boys and dinner. You rest up. Take a hot bath. Take a nap. I’ll bring in some food later so we can build our energy for the night ahead.”
“Can I have a rain check?”
Here Mark was, emotionally scattered, mentally frazzled, physically pent-up, frantically trying to remove thoughts of removing her Lee’s and throwing her in the tub, then pouncing on top of her as the showerhead rains on us, dissolving our remaining garbs down the drain until we’re as pure and clean as Adam and Eve doing things with and to each other as dirty as… well… me. He was pretty gross right now. And she wanted a rain check?
“Please?” Mark dropped to his knees. He was serious. His groin ached, reminding him he had to pee since he first started the lawn mower. “Pretty please?”
Make me beg, Mark thought. Find a belt and use it to restrain me! Tease me! Entice me! I’ll willingly put sugar, whipped cream and a cherry there, on top for either of us.
Glass shattered in the next room. While he was no audiophile, it sounded to him like the sound made when a baseball crashes into the lamp hanging from the ceiling fan. He nodded again at the tub, pleading with his eyes as his feet started toward Jughead’s room.
She unclipped one of the latches at her collarbone. “I’ve had a hard day.”
He forgot the formalities and subtleties. “And I’ve got a hard on! Let’s play the match game!”
“You better go check on Jughead. I don’t want him to hurt himself.”
They locked eyes for a moment and he felt that spark that drew him to her oh-so-many years ago. Electricity tingled down the base of his neck, followed by a cool shiver. He earned a wink, but the pounding from the eldest’s walls summoned his attention. One last attempt: “A quickie?”
She traced her lips gently with her tongue, then puckered up. One overalls strap hung down, providing access for his hand should he reach inside. He envisioned wrapping his serpentine arm under her tee, around her back, and unclasping her nursing bra in one motion. His other hand flicked the second clasp free and her cover dropped like a illusionist’s blanket, revealing her “magic.” He scooped her in his arms and tossed her like a rag doll onto their canopy bed, dropping his shorts in anticipation for the ensuing escapade.
Nope. Rewind.
She blew a kiss, turned into the bathroom, and started the tub spigot. Still two and a half hours to bedtime, which was within his time boundary. If the results from imagined teasing lasted more than four hours, Mark was supposed to consult a doctor.
He ignored the pounding noise to address the pulsing below his waist. Following the love of his life into the bathroom, he passed the vanity mirror as she tucked her hair into a shower cap. In his current condition, standing to pee would get messy. He adjusted accordingly, aimed himself downward, sat, and felt sweet relief as his bladder emptied. Not ecstasy, but not shabby.
The intimacy felt between spouses when they can urinate while sharing a bathroom was refreshing in a hey-we’ve-been-married-for-a-decade-kind-of-way.
He reveled as she revealed the flawless skin of her bare shoulders and back. He wanted to trace her curves and feel the gooseflesh quiver under his fingertips. She reached behind herself to unleash her heaving breasts, then paused. Teasing him? He stood to show that his task hadn’t stolen his hardness and she grinned. “That’s up there with the unsexiest things you’ve ever done. Are you going to make sure our son doesn’t need to go to the emergency room?”
Emergency rooms were also decidedly unsexy. Mark cinched his shorts, tying them a little too tight to restrict the bloodflow beneath his waist, and let the moment go.
