The Motherhood Walk of Fame. Shari Low
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we met I was wild, exciting, unpredictable and horny.
17 Now I confuse porn with a naturist documentary.
18 When we met he was sexy, fun, interesting and horny.
19 Now he confuses a wank with a mosquito.
It was quite obvious, really. Somewhere in the midst of all the stress, infertility, pregnancy, babies, financial constraints and daily monotony we’d lost that spark. Hell, we’d lost the whole bloody blowtorch.
That night when he came home for dinner, I was a woman transformed. I had clean hair. I was wearing make-up. I’d alerted Friends of the Earth that a forest was being eradicated before shaving my bikini line. I was wearing tight, sexy jeans and a low-cut sexy top (black, silk, borrowed from Carol, and definitely not dryable on a radiator). The lights were dimmed. The candles were lit. I’d prepared a meal without the aid of a microwave and the kids were next door at Kate’s house.
‘What’s all this?’ he said with a grin when he finally got in just after eight. I’d forgotten how handsome he was at the end of a long day. His dark brown hair was ruffled, his face all rugged and stubbly. His green eyes, squinting slightly through tiredness, had the effect of making him look sultry. His tie was loose. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. I could have climbed on top of him right there in the hallway just like the old days.
Why had it been so long since I noticed all of this?
Perhaps because normally the minute he walked in the door I thrust a malodorous baby and a nappy in his direction, then raced back in to other child who was in his bed, screaming the place down because his mother had dared to leave the room in the middle of a story about three little pigs under house arrest.
I did my very best pout–the one that I hoped made me look like Angelina Jolie, but was probably a bit nearer a puffer fish who’s just been smacked in the mouth.
‘You, my big stud, are going to be pampered, preened and fussed over. I’ve made you a gorgeous meal. There’s wine, there’s food and there’s romance. And in return, all you have to do is shag me senseless. What do you think?’
Was it my imagination or did he hesitate slightly?
He tossed his jacket, pressed me up against the kitchen wall and kissed me like he’d just remembered how it was done. Oooooh, I liked that. With one hand he pulled up my top and whisked it right over my head (definite ripping sound–mental note to remember to give it back to Carol with a grovelling apology and a box of After Eights). I tore off his tie, then his shirt, and pressed my tits up against him as my tongue searched for his tonsils and my legs came up around his waist. Suddenly, he pushed them back down and took a step back, a playful look on his face. His eyes ran from the top of my body to my feet. Then, and believe me, I’m getting a hot flush just thinking about this, he dropped to his knees, opened my jeans and tore them down, to reveal–yes, drum roll and trumpets please–new, sexy lace knickers that actually matched my bra. Then he leaned over and ran his tongue very slowly up the inside of my thigh. My fingers were in his hair as I gasped, trying desperately not to come and spoil what I was sure were going to be the most deliciously filthy and downright buttock-clenchingly horny moments of my life.
He ran his tongue over my other thigh. Then at the top, he paused and moved my slut thong over to one side. And then slowly, sexily, gently, he blew. Thank God I’d done the bikini line or the resulting whiplash could have taken out an eye.
It was all too much for me. I yanked him up by the follicles, deftly unbuckled his belt, undid his button, wrenched down his zip then pushed down his boxers, releasing the most magnificent erection I’d seen since before that first little blue line appeared on a stick all those years before.
And when faced with that kind of apparatus, what else is a girl to do but climb on, hold on and scream until the neighbours call the police.
We’ve done it, I thought smugly, as we snuggled down, very sore, very sleepy and very happy. We’d rediscovered each other. We’d reconnected our hearts and re-engaged our libidos. Oh yes, baby, we’d relit our sexual fires.
But little did I know that Mark’s obviously lived in damp conditions because the bloody thing kept going out again. While my sex drive was once again motoring along like a Formula One car with no brakes, Mark’s was spluttering to life once every week or two, going out for a quick spin then crawling back into the pit lanes for a refuel and a rest. Over the following weeks, months and years, and much to my general discontent (although to the pleasure of Ashif, who ran the grocer’s at the end of the street where I bought batteries for a certain adult toy on a far too frequent basis) our sex life was reduced to the occasional mildly satisfying romp. Whenever I broached the subject with Mark, it was always the same–he was tired, he was under pressure, he worked long hours, he loved me, it would get better, now cuddle in, go to sleep, and cross my heart I’ll make it up to you at the weekend.
Occasionally he did. But more often than not life, kids, bills, work and sleep took over. Still, it could be worse. We still laughed. We had the family we always wanted. We genuinely loved each other. And Ashif was now able to send the wife and kids to Center Parcs for a fortnight. In the grand scheme of things, surely a less than perfect sex life was a small price to pay for all the other great things in our lives.
Definitely. Absolutely. It was.
‘CARLY!’ I snapped my head up, spilling my coffee on my tracky bottoms. It didn’t matter. They were washable at 40 degrees and dryable on a radiator. Well, if he wasn’t going to sustain the effort then neither was I.
Carol was laughing. ‘What are you thinking about–you were on another planet there.’
Which was ironic, since Kate was now doing something that required bending her spine into an unnatural position and sticking her arse in the air. I decided I was far too refined to make a joke about Uranus.
‘Sex,’ I replied truthfully.
Of course, what goes on between Mark and me, in the privacy of our own home and within the sanctity of our marriage is sacrosanct, and I would never, ever divulge the intimacies of our lives with anyone.
‘Mark still not putting out?’ asked Kate.
Busted.
‘He’d need a satellite navigation system to find my clitoris these days,’ I admitted.
‘So that’s why you’re looking so pissed off today then,’ Carol interjected.
But no, I was sure she was wrong. After all, my sex life had been crap for years–why would it suddenly upset me now?
‘Nah, I don’t think so. I’m just having a down day. No idea why.’
‘PMT?’ Kate asked.
‘No, that was last week–remember the whole dry-cleaners weeping over a ketchup stain/threatening a traffic warden expedition,’ I said ruefully.
‘Work?’ asked Carol, with a wary look on her face. Carol had the same reaction as most men when faced with an emotional woman–she donned a crash helmet and checked out the nearest exits. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. It’s just that when God was giving out empathy and sympathy she was down in the ‘superficial aesthetics’ department picking out the best face, the best body and getting a manicure, pedicure and permanent teeth whitening.
‘Work’s work,’ I replied with a shrug.
‘See what I mean?’ grinned Kate, talking to Carol but gesticulating to me. ‘I just told her that with her acutely incisive powers of descriptive narrative she should really be a writer.’
There’s nothing worse than a pal with a gift for irony. Except a pal with a gift for irony who now had her legs spread like an acrobatic porn star.
‘Will you stop with that bloody yoga?’ I demanded petulantly. Carol had just put a chocolate éclair in front of me and Kate’s bendy stuff was putting me right off. She looked at me, took on board my distress, considered our lifelong bond, evoked the emotion of all we’d been through together,