Page 46 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘What are you doing?’
‘Having fun?’
He comes back to lie back next to me, has a cheeky crop, adds a filter and then shows me the picture.
‘See, beautiful.’
Danny puts an arm around me and kisses me on the shoulder. I can’t quite tell if he’s being facetious or actually paying me a compliment but he looks at the picture for a moment too long. Don’t you dare make that your wallpaper.
‘We’ll start slow. Tomorrow I want your legs wide apart and we’ll stick that dildo up you. That’d be a pic.’
‘It’d look like I’ve got an arm hanging out of it.’ We are both in hysterics now. You idiot. Danny snuggles into me. The last time we shared phone and bed space like this was to watchLine of Dutyon a tablet with a packet of chocolate Bourbons and a bottle of wine. Across his face is an expression I’ve come to know and adore: there are lines around his eyes, crinkled with laughter, a broad and warm smile away from the usual scowl.
I have to give him the benefit of the doubt now, don’t I? That he didn’t do all his research looking for kicks and affairs and quiet wanks in the living room over pictures of people’s private parts. To be honest, I still don’t know what to think about it all. Have we sorted anything? Have we touched on the fact this was kept secret from me for so long? I want to ask him so many questions. I want to drown the twilight in them and talk until the sun comes up. Who do all those vaginas belong to in your sketches? But maybe these answers will trickle in at a later time. Maybe I want too much, too soon. Because he’s here. He’s next to me exuding warmth, rubbing a stubbly chin over my bare shoulder. There is a desire to still be by my side, and talk and laugh and connect in all those tiny ways.
I pull him towards me and look him in the eye, trying to draw out that same level of intensity he gives me. Has anything tonight turned me on? No. But I need you, Danny. I need you here, next to me. I want to feel like some pictures are not going to get in the way and for whatever it all means, I’m not going anywhere. I just want him; I want to be held, to feel him.
He studies my face, looking a little sad. It’ll be light soon and those little people and real life will get in the way of us ever finishing this conversation. ‘I am sorry. I am sorry if this has made you feel bad. You’re my wife, my magnificent wife. It all means nothing.’
And this is what’s arousing, this is what I need to hear. He kisses me gently, moving his lips to the side of my chin, down my neck, our feet touching at the end of the bed, with caution obviously given my fragile leg. But it’s not broken. He does that strange manoeuvre where he tries to kick off his own underpants by lunging his crotch up into the air. I laugh, let him kick them to the end of the bed and nestle himself close to me. Let’s take this slowly but it really isn’t broken.
Nine
‘Tea?’
If I had a pound for the number of times anyone up North has asked me if I wanted a cup of tea, I could buy that island off Richard Branson and possibly another one on top of it. No one ever refuses a cup of tea either so it always feels bad form to say no. This usually leaves your thirst quenched but is often followed by being out in the cold with a very full bladder.
‘Why not? Cheers, Tim.’
I’m at work today for the first time in a fortnight since ankle-sex-gate (Danny’s name for that little episode). I’m back at my desk putting my husband’s hobby to one side, trying to write an article about a local school raising money for some new football goals because their last ones were stolen by thieving gits, leaving the poor kids kicking balls in between a couple of bins. I’ve been given photos of the year six boys looking forlornly towards a barren school playing field. Life could be worse. For them, and me. I could have been given the football to report on, which is Tim’s allocated task. Kendal Town FC’s nickname is the Mintcakes which could have made things a little awkward. Bloody mint cake. It’s just like eating a giant chewable Polo. It’s the least sexual thing in the world and now every time it’s mentioned all I can think about are phalluses. Thanks, Danny.
Speak of the devil, a text pops up on my phone:
What doing?
The furore that all Danny’s sketches caused has simmered down. I guess the difference now is that he doesn’t hide away to draw them anymore. I’ll be doing the dishes and he’ll be behind me rendering a bellend in charcoal. Once he accosted me at the kitchen table and turned me around. It was quite a moment and I thought that we might be engaging in something quite erotic despite the fact I was wearing Disney print Primark pyjamas. Alas, no. He was just drawing something and had to figure out the configuration of limbs. Turns out what he had in mind would’ve meant my kneecaps being able to rotate at 360 degree angles.
Important journalistic shit. You?
Paper
Are you really doing paper or drawing porn at your desk?
Yes. Drawing a series about a wife who sexts her husband from her office.
Does she put bulldog clips on her nipples and pleasure herself with a hole punch?
No one puts a hole punch up their fanny unless they have a bucket minge
I do it all the time
No comment. I got pizzas in for tea
Yum. Latersxx
I stare down at my phone. The dialogue has always been like this, with a casual affectionate cajoling, but now it has an added dimension. I don’t mind. But I wonder how much there is to say about this. I’ve just accepted it for now. I’ve wanted to avoid any more conflict so have just tried to see it as an added part of our fabric, almost relieved that it wasn’t the worst-case scenario. He’s still here, with us. We’re still married. People go through much worse; true sorrow through circumstances they can or can’t control. This is just pictures. For now, to seal over the cracks, I can make out that everything is fine.
‘Meg! Wonderful to have you back! How’s the leg?’
