The Motherhood Walk of Fame. Shari Low
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I thought, he’s just so considerate. So undemanding.
I thought it was all perfectly normal, to be honest.
And at least I did get the mandatory birthday and Christmas shag.
Nine months later, Benny came into the world. Two babies in sixteen months. And despite the probability that my privates could now be a prototype for a new Channel Tunnel, we were ecstatic–years of infertility and now we’d somehow managed to buy one, get one free.
It was great for our hearts and souls, bad for our sleep patterns and nuptials.
Another zombie-like year later, this time with two babies in tow, I realised that my idea of an orgasm was now a thin and crispy pepperoni and anything with Liam Neeson in it. I’ve always had a thing for him.
However, it wasn’t the end of the world. I loved Mark. He loved me. He was amazing with the boys. He kissed me like he meant it. He told me he loved me a dozen times a day. We’d cuddle up on the couch every night and enjoy those blissful six and a half seconds before one of us fell asleep. We both revelled in every little new thing that our kids did.
‘Guess what, honey, Mac said “mummy” today.’
‘Mac ate a whole banana.’
‘Benny managed to projectile vomit all the way to the other side of the coffee table.’
We were happy, contented and together. We still laughed at the same things, understood each other and led a pretty peaceful existence–apart from one time when I suffered a particularly nasty reaction to the dangerous combination of sleep deprivation, a hormonal blip and a few glasses of vino and tried to pummel him with a packet of Pampers for forgetting our anniversary.
But I was happy. Ecstatic. We had so much going for us: my husband was my favourite person over two feet tall, we had two gorgeous boys, a nice house (apart from the mucky corners) and great friends.
The positives definitely outweighed the negatives. I could live with the fact that my writing career wasn’t exactly setting the world alight, Mark was working horrendously long hours, and despite his flash salary the exorbitant cost of London living meant we only had £3.63 in our savings account.
I can remember the exact moment it struck me that I should be concerned about my sex life. Or lack of it. It was late in the evening and I was sitting on the couch. Mark was lying sleeping with his head on my lap. I desperately needed to pee but couldn’t work out how to manoeuvre myself from underneath his head without waking him.
The closing credits of Taggart had just rolled and I’d even refrained from belting out the ‘No Mean City’ theme tune at the top of my voice. I was aimlessly flicking through the Sky channels, trying to find something to watch, when I came across a documentary on the merits of naturism. At least I thought that’s what it was. Until the naked woman having a picnic in a field started sucking her own nipples and was then joined by a big hunky farmer in a state of excitement. Well, what the sheep in that field must have thought!
It was shocking. Scandalous. Outrageous. Although I did make a mental note to sign up for a subscription to Country Life. But most of all, it was very, very…horny. I even forgot the urge to pee as I got tingles in an area that had been a distinctly tingle-free zone for longer than I cared to remember. Almost without clear direction from my brain, my hands went wandering–one under my bra (grey, overstretched, another mental note: must go lingerie shopping) and one down to the button on Mark’s jeans. I fumbled for a few minutes, before finally popping it open. God, I was losing my touch. In my younger days I could undress a bloke with one hand, in the dark, while simultaneously biting his ear, talking dirty and parking the car.
Anyway…fumble, fumble, fumble, much squeezing of own nipples, breathing getting heavy (mine), zip coming down (his), penis located, gentle extrication from boxer shorts, gentle rubbing, then a little faster, a little faster still, then definite reciprocal hardening, then…SWAT!
He swatted my hand away like I was a mosquito attempting to land on his Ambre Solaire.
Okaaaay, I thought. He’s obviously still sleeping. He’s confused. He thinks he’s on a sun-lounger in Fuengirola and under attack by a predator. Of the winged variety.
So let’s try that again.
I psyched myself back into a lustful mood. The fireplace was now wearing my jumper and my bra was dangling from a lamp. My jeans were open, one hand was going south and the other was going back into Mark’s boxers for a repeat ambush.
I ran my finger around the tip of his cock, slowly, softly, as he hardened again. Meanwhile my clitoris was throwing a ‘Welcome Back’ party as the DNA codes in my fingers consulted their long-term memory as to what to do.
I gasped as the tingling reached my toes. My nipples hardened and I was starting to sound like Paula Radcliffe after 26 miles.
Oooooh yes. That’s it. Oh yes, I remember. Why oh why had I ever stopped doing this–was I crazy? Oh yes, just there. There. There. That’s it. Oh, he’s so hard now. If I could have manoeuvred on top of him I would have done, but fuck it, I was doing just fine where I was. Yes. Yes. There. Oh my…SWAT!
And this time it was accompanied by one open eye.
‘Honey, what are you doing?’ he murmured sleepily.
Now, call me picky, but there was a time when I wouldn’t have had to draw him a diagram.
I adopted my sultriest look, threw one tit over my shoulder (flexible tits are one of the benefits/drawbacks of two years of breastfeeding) and leaned down to kiss him.
‘I’m playing with your cock while whipping myself into an orgasmic frenzy,’ I whispered playfully.
Okay, so this is when, if it were a movie, he would open his eyes, smile, run his finger gently down my face and whisper that he loved me–before proceeding to bend me over the back of the couch and roger me until I screamed in orgasmic delight. Then I’d flop into his arms, satisfied and exhausted, content in the knowledge that I’d be walking like a cowboy for the next week.
Sadly, it wasn’t a movie. It was a three-minute commercial for the merits of chastity and abstention.
Groggily, he removed my hand from his nethers, turning his head to kiss my belly. ‘I love you, you mad woman,’ he whispered.
I could have burst with happiness. Right up until he rolled over onto his other side so that I could only see the back of his head and murmured, ‘Babe, I’m too tired. But you go on ahead. Knock yourself out.’
Who said romance was dead?
I peeked at the TV screen to see that Farmer Giles and the milkmaid slut were indeed still on course to shag until the cows came home. I flicked off the telly, as deflated as a certain part of my husband’s anatomy. I’d been rejected. Knocked back. Dizzied. Dinged. And I didn’t like it one little bit.
Over the next few days I couldn’t get it out of my head. I drew up a list of reasons for the collapse of our sex life:
1 Mark works far too hard in a very high-pressured job.
2 We have two young children.
3 He’s always tired.
4 I’m always tired.
5 We never go out as a couple and so have disconnected from each other.
6 I make no effort whatsoever with my appearance any more.
7 He’s stopped seeing me as a sexy woman.
8 I only wear fabrics that are washable at 40 degrees and dryable on a radiator.
9 The kids are always in our bed.
10 I couldn’t find my make-up bag if my life depended on it.
11 We never get a chance to really talk.
12 Don’t think he’d want to anyway.
13 I never flatter him.
14 He