Your move.
“What?” he replied from the basement.
“Your move.” I repeated, but louder and with a sarcastic undertone. I was playing out the cliché marriage yell from across the house. If repeating statements with an incrementally raised voice isn’t the definition of married life, I don’t know what is.
We were playing chess and his attention deficit disorder had got the better of him. The game was over as far as I was concerned, but he insisted on maintaining partial attention while I remained seated. I appeared to be studying the board, but my mind had taken flight. Staring at blank walls and developing a solution for world peace is my forte; I grew up with an entire family of ADD sufferers.
As I stared at the checkered board game in front of me I realized this was the perfect metaphor for our current sex life: non-existent. It had been one year since we last fucked. And while I may be immediately to blame for this sad state of affairs, upon closer examination, we were both equally responsible for this chess game in purgatory.
A year ago, after he cheated, I advised him that I didn’t want to have sex with him for “a while.” A while was never defined. So there we were. King and Queen facing each other across the board. Day in and day out. I couldn’t desire him until he desired me. He wouldn’t move on me until I moved on him. I spent my time imagining things he could do to engage me in sexual play again. It was the jaded version of a fairy-tale fantasy:
I walk in the door after running errands, hair swept up in a bun, tight leggings and no panties. It’s Saturday and he’s on the couch. He gets up to greet me at the door. He places his hand over mine carrying a grocery bag. He slowly transfers the weight of the bag to his and places it on the ground gently. He grabs my hand again and wraps it around his back. He grabs my face with his hands and looks me in the eyes. “I want you,” he says earnestly.
We kiss our way up the stairs.
He slowly removes my clothes for me. He wants to feel every inch of my skin as they come off.
My pussy begins to pulse. My heart beat follows.
I begin to lose myself in the moment, kissing his body like I’m drunk. I position myself on top of him. Foggy vision overcomes me as I slide him inside me. I’m already halfway there. My mind wants to cum and all I need is the sensation of a cock pounding inside to put me over the edge. I tease his cock into my pussy and I feel the wave coming over me. My toes curl and I moan with bliss.
I snapped out of my fantasy. The checkered board in front of me refocused.
Is it me that’s become disengaged after all this? Am I lying to myself? Did I just fake an erotica orgasm because I so desperately want to feel something for him again? Faking an erotica orgasm is a whole new low. I checked myself out long ago from this game and I’ve been blaming him ever since.
I looked down at the board again.
Stalemate.
Neither of us had noticed.
I grabbed my wine and joined him upstairs where he was taking a call. I took a few sips and curled up next to him on the couch. I am waiting for his touch to become meaningful again. Humans crave the warmth of another body, but it truly is your mind that defines what that touch feels like. I felt his sweater against my bare shoulder and arm. It was comfortable like pajamas on a rainy Saturday.
He moves his hand to stroke my shoulder.
I move my foot beside his.
He moves my hair out of my face.
I move my hand on his chest.
Stalemate.
