I do not often want to fuck my husband. My husband is monumentally dismayed by this predicament, and I am, I would say, both flummoxed and rapidly running out of excuses. I say flummoxed because I am unable to come up with a plausible reason as to why. We have a solid marriage, and my husband is quite attractive as far as I am concerned. As far as others are concerned, I am fairly certain he would be considered attractive as well. So I attempt a mental inventory, similar to a sex drive checklist. And the truth is I am not only not thinking about fucking my husband, but I am not thinking about fucking anyone else either. No neighbors, no husbands of friends, no parents at play dates, no movie stars.
In our culture everyone fantasizes about movie stars. They are revered. Once again I veer from the norm. For example, Brad Pitt is one of the most desired sex symbols in the world. I, however, have never found Brad Pitt attractive. He just doesn’t interest me, and now that he has performed in the recently aired Chanel advertisement, I literally giggle every time I see him. I can’t help myself. I audibly giggle. If the Chanel marketing people were using Brad in an attempt to turn me on and thus sell their perfume, they have failed. In that ad he appears somewhat akin to an overmedicated psych patient, not to mention that in my opinion men over twenty-five should not have long hair. It makes them look like children, or girls. And on a broader note, I must rather controversially admit that there is something about men who choose acting as a career, requiring them to focus on their looks and their ability to emote at a moment’s notice, in an attempt to make a living that seems somehow unmanly and therefore unattractive to me. I know I have now committed, and am admitting, to gender bias and will never share these views with my son. But God love me, I find male actors somewhat feminine and therefore unsexy.
I am driving to Walgreens. It is six o’clock on a Saturday night. Toothpaste, razors, shampoo, soap, and a prescription are on my list. In the old days at six o’clock on a Saturday night, I would be taking a bath or doing some last minute shopping to prepare for a Saturday night date or party. Being single was pretty miserable. Dating was comparable to attending continuous job interviews, which oddly required you to look really hot. But I always loved to get dressed up, and look pretty. I enjoyed the attention from men. I’ll admit it. After getting married that feedback stopped, and whether I was attractive or not became somewhat irrelevant. No matter how many times my husband insists I’m pretty, I can’t avoid the voice in my head whispering from the inside out, landing in my ear that he only says so because he chose to marry me and is therefore stuck with the product at hand. A stranger’s opinion would hold more weight. It’s deranged, and yet I am unable to alter that interior voice.
Nearing the Walgreens, I suddenly realize that I am wearing sweat pants covered with paint stains because it is laundry day, and I was left with no alternative and a long sleeve t-shirt covered in dried blood. Cradling and comforting my daughter through one of her infamous and frequent nosebleeds earlier that day, she bled all over my shirt. I never bothered to change. I imagine the counter guy at Walgreens I will inevitably encounter. What will he think as I stand before him at the check out? Perhaps I had just engaged in a suburban mom-on-mom knife fight over the last rolls of Cottonelle at our local Target. Was I the winner or the loser? Did I leave with the rolls, he’d wonder? Or maybe I was either the victim or perpetrator at a scandalous local crime scene. He will surmise that my prescription is perhaps an antibiotic to treat the wounds I have incurred. He is a crime solver watching syndicated repeats of Law and Order by day and working the counter at Walgreens by night. He knows that suburban housewives are not always what they seem.
My lack of attraction to actors has one exception. I have one pop culture crush. I have a special attraction for…and you will never guess whom…
My choice would be…
It’s true. The special way in which he would whisper sweet nothings in your ear in his Boston accent as he pounded some poor guy’s face into a city street who had looked at you sideways, all the while maintaining complete control over the rest of the city block is attractive. His blue-collar background combined with his boyish charm is reminiscent of my high school boyfriend, and a first love dies hard. I also enjoy his movies. My husband is aware of my crush and insists on referring to Mark Walhberg only as Marky Mark placing him back on a billboard, wearing only a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs, in Times Square where my husband believes he belongs. I allow my husband to denigrate Mark in this way in our home. I get it. But as much as I may find him attractive, if he were to saunter into my bedroom one night in the full glory of his buffed out birthday suit, grinning ear to ear, I would immediately grab my phone and call 911. Pleading with the emergency responder I would explain that Mark Wahlberg, the actor formerly known as Marky Mark, had apparently reverted to his old school criminal tendencies, broken into my home and was standing in my bedroom completely naked. I was unarmed, and please send the police to save my family and me immediately. I am far from delusional and do not have a penchant for fantasizing about Hollywood figures.
I am passing by Macy’s now en route to Walgreens, and I think perhaps I should shop more often. If I shopped more, doing my part to increase our personal deficit I might feel sexier in prettier clothes and then feel more like having sex. I have heard the stories of women within our suburb who partake in an amazing amount of shopping. They even venture out of our suburb to bigger better malls in wealthier parts of the Los Angeles area to find the perfect accessory for the perfect outfit or that pair of shoes they saw some celebrity wear. I always manage to shop for my children but not for myself. They take priority as I feel an obligation having made the choice to actually bring them into to this world. My logic proceeds as follows: “I chose to bring them into this world so it is my responsibility to make sure they are dressed appropriately.” This applies to other areas as well: food, toys, etc. Someone else chose to bring me into the world so somehow I don’t feel the same level of responsibility. Perhaps that makes no sense. I’ll schedule a time to reconsider my reasoning.
I used to watch the Oprah makeover shows before I even had children, and the stories were all the same. Some poor woman would enter the stage with over-grown grey hair, bad mom jeans, or a faded sweat suit, slightly over weight, with all white sneakers and claim, “I don’t know how it happened. It’s just after I had the kids, I never seemed to have the time.” Same story, insert different woman for each segment. And Oprah would give them a beautiful makeover turning back the clock ten years, and their family and friends and especially their husbands would cry with gratitude. I would think, “Oh, my God, I will never let that happen to me.”
My husband and I try so hard to fit in quality time and moments as a family. But these days with all the demands for snacks, juice boxes, meals, laundry, grocery shopping and (someone just needed their butt wiped right in the middle of this sentence…), we spend so much time discussing all that needs to get done and all that isn’t getting done, and then even sometimes bickering about who’s doing what, that by the time we go to bed all I want, desperately, is to go to sleep. I know that I am about to get up to do it all over again. Sex is no longer a priority for survival. I am passing by Macy’s, an obvious easily positioned target of my newly contrived shopping plans, driving my mini van dressed in bloody clothes, and I suddenly achieve clarity. I consider, taking it a step further, that ultimately what I need to do is raise my MILF quotient. Yes! It is feasible that if I am seen as a MILF, I will feel like a MILF and then begin to act like one too. Only at home of course. Could this work?
As I love my husband and have only wanted to be with him since the day that I married him, I know he deserves better. I just feel that I am continuously trying to dig my feelings of personal beauty and sexuality out from underneath an enormous pile of laundry amidst all of the other things that need attention. Now among the laundry, grocery shopping, juice boxes, snacks, butt wiping, fending off Mark Walberg, the actor formerly known as Marky Mark, with the base of my bedside reading lamp while waiting for the cops to arrive, remembering to change bloody clothes before entering local convenience stores and increasing our personal deficit by shopping at expensive retail stores to raise both my self esteem and potential of being viewed as a MILF within our suburban community, fucking is officially on my to do list.