She doesn’t know how it came to this. Perhaps it was just that today was too much, with the dog, the cell phone, and the stupid meeting with the ridiculous Mr. Booth. Perhaps it took that much annoyance to make everything else come to clarity. But somewhere between the trip to the vet hospital and Booth ranting about bird flu she realized that she just didn’t like the sex. The meeting went on around her but she was no longer listening. Instead she was trying to determine how she had come to understand the extent of the problem so fully, so suddenly. It wasn’t like she had a lot to compare. She hadn’t had sex with many men and the baselines were old. She’d been having sex with him for just over twenty two years, before that there had been others but those memories were the dim recollections of desperate young sex. Stolen moments mostly without the possibility of a longer relaxed encounter. On the contrary they had had many long moments. Opportunities to stretch it out, time to plan, time to relax and had that brought visions of God, spasms of ecstasy, screams of delight? Well, no. The flat answer was no, in fact, it hadn’t brought so much as a smile much of the time. Rather, just an exhausted sort of deflation. She dreamt of it too. Dreamt of the same deafening vacuum. The anticipation followed by the disappointment.
And today she knew that she couldn’t stand it, not one more night of it. She was 48 years old and she was going to have good sex while she still had some life left.
Sometimes she had played a game, sat in meetings and looked at the men in the room, watching their lips move while they talked, imagining those same lips on her. Wondering what those lips would feel like. Always assuming that everyone did that sometimes. And maybe there were those that did, but she didn’t want to be one of those any more.