Evan and I are getting ready to consummate our marriage. We’ve fucked, had sex, made love, all of the above, on numerous occasions. But apparently because earlier today we did ceremonious things and got new jewelry and kissed in front of dead Jesus and a bunch of people, sex tonight is special. I try to quell the cynicism I’m feeling about this “consummation” as I fasten the final front hook of my black corset. Lingerie is stupid. Well, economically. What is the real benefit of spending ludicrous amounts of money on apparel that is made to be removed? Evan calls to me from the bedroom—“Babe? Wife?” I hear the smile in his voice. “What are you doing in there?”
He knows what I’m doing. I am in the middle of a post-foreplay costume change. Act 1 contained the Catholic schoolgirl willing to do anything to get an “A” from Mr. Michaels. But in Act 2, I get to be in control. I find the handcuffs and blindfold in a messy drawer in the bathroom. This bathroom, the bedroom, the entire townhouse, there is no newness here. Evan and I have lived together for quite some time—which apparently makes us 60% more likely to divorce. But, because tomorrow we’ll be throwing away all of our old shit and replacing it with items from the registry, it should feel all shiny and fresh. Should feel.
I come back out, doing my best to be enthused. Evan is very enthused. Excited. Aroused. Through the sheer black canopy on our four-poster bed—now our marriage bed—I can see the tent Evan’s made in the crisp white sheets. Well, teepee. No, skyscraper. Sometimes I forget how excited he can get. His eyes widen a little as I walk toward the bed, and his left hand disappears, joining his very own monument, created in my commemoration. “Stop it”, I say. He stops. “Don’t move. At all,” I continue. And he is perfectly still. I smile. Horniness is an excellent way to rid yourself of cynicism. Even though lingerie is still stupid and this bed doesn’t feel new.
The set of horizontal bars that expands across the headboard of the bed, the bars I’ve bitten and kicked and held onto for dear life on all the nights before tonight, I attach the opposite cuff of each set of handcuffs to these bars as I straddle Evan. Then I lock in each of his wrists. He smiles, asking “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” Shut up, I say, and he says nothing. My mouth breaks into a grin as I rock backwards, hitting the skyscraper and eliciting a groan from Evan. “Oh my god, babe,” he says, and I ask, Why are you talking? I blindfold him. My husband. Weird.
This consummation is not experimental, like for previously abstinent couples, with their “TrueLoveWaits” rings, and 2nd base maximums, and general sexual frustration. Years of it. I already know what to do. Right hand runs fingernails across the back of the neck. Left hand handles the skyscraper. Can’t let that collapse. Mouth drags teeth across the sweet spot: left side of neck, directly below the earlobe. The husband’s hips buck. “Fuck,” he says. God damn it Evan, I say. Shut the hell up. Violet Blue—sexytime author extraordinaire—told me in some chapter in some book about some kind of sex that gauging the level of your partner’s arousal simply through attention to body movement and breathing can be a very sexy experience. But the husband can’t shut his fucking face long enough for me to do this.
Body changes positions, kneeling between the husband’s legs now. Mouth trails kisses and bites and sliding tongue from neck to chest to stomach, stopping right above Evan’s Empire State Building, a jutting symbol of love. Or lust. Or a healthy combination of the two. The hubby, all mine for the next 50-odd years, he says “Honey? Why’d you stop, babe?” Body slips out of the bed to cut on the TV. To press play on the DVD player. “I know you’ve always wanted to try incorporating videos into everything,” I say. The volume needs to be turned up. Finger presses button second from the left once, twice, four times. Body returns to the bed, sitting next to the one I will have in sickness and in health.
There we go.
“Babe, you wanna take this off of me? I can’t see the action.” He smiles, and I could just take a rock and bash his big stupid skull in. Shut. The fuck. Up, I say. Or I’ll kill you. “Honey, you’re getting a little lost in the role, don’t you think?” He laughs. And then he hears it. We hear it. “Fuck. Oh my god, babe.” Evan’s voice. “Oooh, daaaddy. You’re so good, Evan.” The girl’s voice. The husband is frozen. I take off his blindfold. Baby, who the fuck is that? I ask. I say this very calmly, because it’s scarier this way. My ‘better half’ is silent.
And we, the couple joined in holy matrimony—the husband joined to the headboard—we watch my surveillance. The content is Cheaters-worthy. I could sit with Joey Greco in a white 12-passenger van and cry my eyes out and scream about what a bastard Evan is. This is after I get off of the phone with him and he says that he has to work late, but instead, he’s over his co-worker’s house fucking her brains out. The perfect episode would culminate with me finding them making out at some dive bar, where I proceed to show the footage to him and then futilely attempt to beat her senseless. But for now, my home-made hidden camera show will have to do. The editing job is quite excellent, I might add. Finger presses the fast forward button. Eyes watch the blonde-weaved bimbo and hubby test out a variety of suggestions from Sex Deck: Playful Positions to Spice Up Your Love Life. All in super-speed.
The 3-Pointed Star.
Fade to black.
Sit and Spin.
Fade to black.
Rock ‘n’ Roll.
Fade to black.
There are hours upon hours more of these, these Cheaters-ready documentaries. These discoveries perfect for watching from the infamous Maury couch, after which, I run backstage in tears, overwhelmed by betrayal. I just don’t have the strength to put in disk after disk, to watch this bitch, this whore, this harlot, with the one that I chose for until I die. To see her fuck him in the remaining 43 positions from the book, and a million more. To look at her bite and kick and hold on for dear life to the bars on our headboard. My headboard. The finger presses stop. Left hand wipes away streams of silently cried tears. Tears that can be more attributed to anger than sadness.
I should have known that this would come to pass eventually. No one is perfect, no matter how much you make them that way in your mind. But I had spent the past 3 years creating a façade of perfection, becoming blinder on a daily basis.
I despise Burberry Brit perfume.
I do not wear cherry red lipsticks.
And I am rather secure in the fact that investment banking doesn’t require 2am emergency meetings.
But I ignored these things. Made up outrageous explanations to rid myself of my fears. In my fantasy world, every single suspect action, argument, occurrence, could be explained away. But there was no way to explain this. No way at all.