I am thinking about sex. I share a study with my husband, and he is sitting opposite me wearing a black beany hat, that is pointing up. He looks like an ageing gnome. It’s not a sexy look and its not why I am thinking about sex. Last night we watched The History of Violence. In one scene Maria Bello, dresses up as a cheerleader, to excite her husband and performs a slinky mini striptease. What strikes me is how turned on they are by each other. It’s not as if they are newly married, they have a teenage son. I wonder if she hired the outfit? And whether I should too? Am I mad? I wouldn’t even put on a cheerleading outfit as a joke. I can’t even wear a g-string. I am more comfortable wearing the filthy white apron I put on to clean up the cat sick. I conclude that I am a sexual failure and that my husband will most certainly go out and find a woman who is comfortable with a whip and a bit of leather.
But I have to remind myself that this is a Hollywood film, not real life. Most of my girlfriends in long term relationships say they have sex about once a year, except one eccentric woman who claims that her partner likes it morning and evening. I decide to do a quick mini poll and email a friend to ask how her sex life is and she replies, sex? What’s that? I’m not sure if her email makes me feel better or worse.
After the film ended I stayed up far too late reading Rapture by Carol Ann Duffy, a book made up of separate poems about a love affair. The book covers infatuation, longing, passion, commitment, rancour, separation and grief. I read the falling in love part, at midnight. I turned the light off and thought about the opening words to the first poem: The thought of you stayed too late in my head, so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, woke with your name, like tears soft, salt, on my lips…. I realized with a darkening wave of gloom, that I will probably never experience that heady, tortuous floaty, gripping, falling in love sensation ever again.
So I’m still sitting at my desk but now I’m complaining that I’m cold. My husband ignores me. I check facebook to see if the ex boyfriend I dreamt about has joined up yet. He hasn’t. I sigh. My husband is still wearing the hat. I comment on the cold house. He tells me not to moan. It really is cold. I check the boiler and find that it is broken. I am a little smug. I tell him about the boiler and he swears a bit and takes off the damn hat and looks at me for the first time today. “I like your nurse outfit.” He says. Nurse outfit? I look down at the short white filthy apron. “Yes great isn’t it,” I say.
