Getting Even. Kayla Perrin
nods, but she looks a little disappointed. “How soon will they be ready?”
It has been a busy week at the studio. “Oh, probably around nine or ten days.”
“That long?” She looks from me to Mark in alarm. She is clearly eager to announce her engagement.
“I do offer two rush options. Three days or five.”
“Three,” Robin tells me without hesitation. “We’d like to get the announcement out right away.”
Ah, young love. I try to remember a time my husband and I were so in love. When each hour apart from each other seemed like an excruciating eternity.
The memory is fuzzy, but it’s there. Ten years ago, when we were both in college, before Charles went to law school. There was an easiness between us then. We laughed a lot, joked a lot.
Had a lot of sex.
Forget Charles, I tell myself. I do not want to think about him right now, not when I’m feeling such a high.
So I throw myself back into work, giving Robin and Mark an array of times when they can come back and view the proofs. They decide, pay me a deposit and I see them to the door. Arm in arm, the two descend the studio’s steps. I watch them climb into a BMW, and even give a little wave. It’s the personal touches that keep people coming back.
Once they drive away, I sigh softly and step back into the studio. Despite my desire to cling to my high, now that I am alone, my mood plummets.
It’s so easy to forget about my troubles when I’m in that perfect zone. But I remember them now. Seeing love in its purest form always makes me ponder my own love life. I think of the contrasts: Mark and Robin so happy, so affectionate. Charles and I so miserable, so distant.
I’ve been married to Charles for five years now, and most of it has been happy. But lately, over the last fourteen months, there has been a drastic change in our relationship. You see, Charles went from being loving and affectionate to cold and remote. He hasn’t touched me in over a year.
Oh we kiss, we hug. With about as much passion as a brother and sister. If I try to get closer to him, take our interaction beyond the platonic, Charles pulls away.
He tells me it’s stress, which I do understand. My husband is a civil-litigation attorney and has a lot on his plate. I’m not at all insensitive to that. But fourteen months? I thought sex was supposed to be a great stress reliever.
I get so frustrated that at times I simply want to give up. But then I think, how can I give up? This is the man I love more than anything. I’ll be married to him forever. And forever is a long time to go without getting any sex.
When I pressure him, he immediately shuts down, so I have tried to do subtle things to get his interest. Like give him a back rub, or reach for his hand as we sit on the couch together. But even that doesn’t work. Because just when I think he’s sufficiently relaxed and I might hit a home run, he’ll give me a chaste kiss and tell me he’s going to bed.
This happened last night.
The night before that, Charles went to bed after I did. He didn’t curl up next to me. He never does. It’s like there’s a line down the middle of our bed and he doesn’t want to cross it.
I cried this morning as I asked him if he still wants to be married to me. He assured me that he does—then kissed me on the forehead before heading out the door.
Truly, I am at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do. But I can’t throw in the towel. I have to find a way to help us reconnect as a couple.
Today, I am more determined than ever to get some love from my husband. I was thinking about ways to make that happen as I drove to the studio, and came up with the conclusion that I have to do something different. Something drastically different.
I’m thinking scented candles and wine and a completely relaxing environment. You’re probably thinking no big deal. And you’re right. But I’m going to up the ante by wearing something scandalous. The kind of outfit my husband won’t be able to resist me in.
We used to do this sort of thing in the early days of our marriage, but somewhere along the way I guess we got stale. Boring.
Great sex is on my mind as I lock up the studio. It’s a small space, one room and an office area in a strip mall-type building. It’s all I can afford in order to make a marginal profit doing the job I love. But the landscape out back is lush and beautiful and free—I use it often when taking photos.
This month has been a good one for me, with more weddings than I expected. Thankfully, I have a few extra dollars to spend. And I am going to spend them on spicing up my marriage.
There is one person who can probably help me in my quest. My sister. As I get behind the wheel of my Jetta, I’m already dialing her number on my cell phone. My sister and I don’t talk very often. We don’t exactly see eye to eye. But this is an emergency. I need her expertise.
I’ve always been the good girl. Samera’s always been the whore.
I love her in spite of it, and I can hardly blame her for her choices. My mother is a religious nut—if I haven’t said so before. Sent my sister right into the sex trade, while for a long time I thought that even feeling sexual desire would send me straight to hell.
For the past six years, Samera has worked as a stripper. She prefers “exotic dancer” but I like to call a spade a spade.
Samera’s phone rings and I wait. “Hello,” she says cheerfully when she answers after three rings.
“Hey, Sam. It’s me.”
She pauses for a moment, then says, “Annie. Wow, this is a surprise.”
“I know. Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I’ve been busy with work.”
“I hear you. I’ve been busy, too. Are you finally making decent money?”
What she really wants to know is if I’m making enough money to be self-sufficient. Samera hates the idea that if Charles and I were to split, I wouldn’t be able to support myself.
“Things are looking up,” I tell her. I don’t add, “Just barely.”
“Because if things aren’t going well, you know I can always get you work at the club.”
I chuckle sarcastically, like I always do. This is a running joke between us—though I don’t particularly find it funny. It’s Samera’s way of saying she thinks I’m a prude. Of course, she doesn’t think she’s loose. She says she’s sexually liberated.
“How about we settle on lunch instead?” I suggest. “Sometime soon. It’s been way too long.”
“You’re on, sis.”
It remains to be seen if this will happen. “Listen,” I say. “The reason I’m calling. I need to ask a favor.”
“Sure.”
“This is going to sound weird, but where can I find an adult store?”
“An adult store? You mean like JCPenney?”
She knows exactly what I mean. “No, a store that sells…stuff. You know.”
“You mean a sex shop?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Samera laughs. “I swear, Annie, I can see you turning red. I don’t know why you get so embarrassed. This is the new millennium. Women are allowed to say sex without fear of being persecuted.”
“I don’t need a lecture. Just directions.”
“What do you want exactly? Videos? Toys?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of sexy lingerie. I want to spice things up with Charles.” As I say this, I envision a laughing devil with a pitchfork. Believe me, it’s hard to undo eighteen years of