by Megan Walker
I’m not sure how true that is lately. I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I guess I could try that . . . harness?” I point at something that reminds me of what that vendor lady at the Ren faire was carrying that first day.
Anna-Marie looks dubious. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think black leather is your style. It’s supposed to be something you feel comfortable in.” Though she takes it down off the rack and holds it up in front of the furry dress experimentally.
I can’t help but feel like if I had a body like hers, black leather could be my style. Even though I know that’s not what she meant. “I have never heard of anyone talking about how comfortable their lingerie is.”
“Not physically comfortable. God, no.” Anna-Marie snaps an elastic side of a hanging thong, as if to prove that point. “But, like, emotionally comfortable, I guess.”
I cannot even remotely imagine how I could feel emotionally comfortable in a g-string and garters, but I nod like I know what she’s talking about.
Anna-Marie hangs the bustier back up. “So you say that sex hasn’t been happening as much, and he doesn’t initiate it a lot, but when you do have sex, is it still good for you?”
“Yeah, it is,” I say. “I mean, I think I’ve been all up in my head with insecurities lately, and the self-consciousness can sometimes make it not as good, you know?”
She nods, and I have a brief moment of hope that she actually does know.
“Like, it’s fraught,” she says. “I get that.”
“You do? You get insecure about your sex life?” Because if someone like Anna-Marie can be insecure about that . . .
She bites her lip. “No, not . . . not really that.”
“Oh.” My hope deflates, even as a little bit of guilt pricks at me. I shouldn’t be wanting my best friend to be having bedroom troubles.
But god, it would be nice to not feel alone in this.
Anna-Marie studies the tag on a see-through nightie. “But other things can be fraught sometimes.”
She and Josh can fight, I know that. Not, like, super often, but they both have a tendency to the dramatic. But every one of those I’ve heard about has always been about some minor thing—like, say, Anna-Marie still taking Uber—and quickly blows over after a little melodrama and some great makeup sex. The way she says this, though . . . There’s definitely something going on, and now I’m starting to worry.
“Yeah? Like what?”
She is really staring at that tag, and I don’t think it’s because she’s blown away by how a company could charge forty-nine dollars for such a small scrap of fabric. “I don’t know. Every relationship gets tense about different things, right?” She blinks and drops the tag. “Why don’t we check out the stuff over there?”
It stings a little, that something’s going on and she clearly doesn’t want to talk to me about it. Especially when I’ve been open with her about my worries.
This is Anna-Marie, though. She’s always had a hard time being vulnerable, even with me. If there’s something big going on with her and Josh, she’ll tell me eventually.
I hope.
We move pretty quickly past the bondage and S&M section, partially because I’m sure Anna-Marie doesn’t think nipple clamps will be my style if I’m at the level where adding whipped cream to our sex life is an exotic adventure. Partially also because I don’t think this stuff is her style, either, though I could see her owning a whip if it went with some kind of geek-related costume.
Past the bondage section, Anna-Marie picks up another box. “You could get him a dick pump.”
That is indeed what is inside that box.
“Um,” I say.
“I got one for Josh,” Anna-Marie says fondly.
I pause. “Did he need one?”
“No, but it was hilarious, and he tried it out just to make me laugh. Which I did. A lot.” She grins.
“I think if I begin this whole thing by bringing home a dick pump, Will might take it personally.”
“Yeah, the bringing home of the dick pump is probably something that needs to be worked up to.” She sets the box back down.
I’m starting to wonder if the answer to my problems is actually in this shop, since all I’ve managed to do is take some notes about edible underwear and chocolate sauce and carry around a copy of the Kama Sutra that I’m still not sure I’m going to buy.
Do I need to start even more tame?
“Maybe Will and I could get one of those couples massages,” I suggest. “That could be romantic, and—”
“Noooo,” Anna-Marie says, wheeling around. “No way. Those are terrible.”
“That’s an emphatic stance.”
“Remember when Josh and I went to Cozumel?”
I nod. Is this going to tie into whatever is fraught between them? A couples massage from four months ago?
“So we’re at this nice resort, and we think, ‘oh, hey, a couples massage! That’ll be romantic!’ Because that’s what we’ve all been trained to believe,” she says, settling into Anna-Marie story-telling mode, which is always entertaining. “So Josh and I sign up and strip down and we’re on our tables, you know, side-by-side, with the relaxing music playing and the ocean right there—”
“God, it sounds like a nightmare.”
She gives me a look, and I motion for her to continue. “So my masseuse is a guy, and his is a girl, which, you know, we didn’t really think much about at the time, but let me tell you, it is super awkward to be pretty much naked with your husband while some other girl is massaging his ass—and man, did she spend some time on his ass—”
I can’t help but snicker. “I imagine it was awkward for Josh as well.”
“Oh my god, so awkward. Like he’s having . . . reactions . . . and is all tense and uncomfortable, and meanwhile, I’ve got this dude massaging me, and he’s got this huge boner, which keeps brushing my arm, and Josh and I are holding hands while all this is going on and it was just so weird. We got back to the hotel after, and Josh was like ‘That was . . . nice,’ and I’m like ‘No, it wasn’t!’ and then he’s like ‘No, it wasn’t! It was awful!’”
I’m all-out laughing now, imagining this. “Yeah, okay, point made. No couples massages.”
“Ooh, but how about this?” She holds up an . . . art kit? “It’s one of those sex-painting things. You cover each other in paint and have sex on the canvas. It’s like . . .” She pauses, trying to think of the word. “Not a memorial, that makes it sound like your sex life is dead.” She snaps her fingers. “A memento! That’s what it is.”
With the current state of my sex life, the memorial sounds more accurate.
“It ends up looking like an abstract painting,” Anna-Marie goes on. “And then you can hang it up and it can be your secret, or you can make people who visit your house super uncomfortable when you tell them it’s your sex painting.” She sounds all too eager about this.
“Have you guys made one?”
“No, or you would have come to our house and I would have been like ‘Hey guys, check out our sex painting.’”
“Good point,” I say. But I find myself studying it. This actually sounds kind of fun. And definitely something new. “Okay, I think this is the one.”
Anna-Marie claps her hands together. “Fantastic!”
We bring the art kit and the Kama Sutra to the register, and Anna-Marie runs back and grabs the furry brown dress and the black harness. “If I put these together, I can turn them into a dominatrix Wookiee!” she says with a wide grin.
Of course she can. And will. I raise my eyebrow. “I knew Josh liked Star Wars, but I didn’t realize he had a thing for Chewbacca.” I don’t always get her geek references, but even I know the basics about Star Wars.
“He doesn’t,” she says. “But this is too hilarious to pass up.”
I think back to the dick p
ump and get the feeling that a not-insignificant percentage of their sex life starts with that sentence.
We leave the store with our dark “discreet” shopping bags, and I consider getting some Pinkberry before heading back. And then remember I’m about to be naked and covered in paint—hopefully—and probably shouldn’t eat a ton before then.
“So how should I bring it up?” I ask.
Anna-Marie raises an eyebrow.
“The art kit,” I clarify, then scuff the toe of my sneaker against the sidewalk. “Or . . . I don’t know, maybe you had a point about how I should maybe talk to him about our sex life. About what kind of things he’d like to introduce.”
She considers for a moment. “The art kit I think you could just show as this thing you bought that you thought might be fun. As for the other stuff, I mean, doing something like this makes for a great opportunity to talk about what else he might want to do.”
I nod, glad she’s not judging me for how little we have talked about it after three years. Even if I’m judging myself.
But until the last few months, it didn’t feel like something that needed to be talked about all that much, or dissected, or improved upon. It was just great as it was.
“You could ask what he’s liked in the past,” she suggests.
I grimace. “I don’t really want to think about him with Sarah and past girlfriends. And knowing me, I’d get all awkward and start talking in a British accent.”
“Yeah, don’t do that, then.” She gives me a small smile. “Probably you could just express that you’d like to try some new things and suggest some stuff from your list. And see if he seems interested in any of it.”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“You totally can,” she says. “And remember, Gabby, it’s you and Will. He’s crazy about you; he always has been. And for good reason, too—you’re awesome and sexy and he knows it.” She squeezes my arm, and I thank her and we hug. Then she takes off in the Uber that pulls up—she must have ordered it while we were ringing up our purchases—and I get into my Hyundai and set the black bag in the seat next to me.
“I’m awesome and sexy and he knows it,” I tell myself.
I wish it was all a little easier to believe.
Seven
Gabby
I know I shouldn’t be nervous to show the painting thing to Will. I mean, he’s my boyfriend and we have definitely had sex before, so that should make talking about it easier.
But I’m still not sure how to broach the topic of covering each other in paint and then rolling around on a canvas. I practice to myself in the car on the way home.
Will! Look what I found at the sex shop! Where I totally was for no particular reason because that’s something I normally do!
Hey, Will. Ever fantasize about having sex in an art gallery?
So, Will. Our walls are a little bare. Want to hang up things we’ve once had sex on?
I still haven’t settled on an approach when I arrive home. I’m sure that Anna-Marie would have some way to make the whole thing sound sultry and seductive, but when I try to do a sexy voice I sound like one of those deep-voiced announcers they dub over movie previews. And while this art kit seemed like one of the less intimidating products back in the sex shop, I’m now starting to realize it’s going to require Will to pay a whole lot more attention to my body than I’m comfortable with, especially if it’s my body specifically that bores him.
No, I tell myself. Will loves me. He says I’m sexy. And while I can’t imagine how he can think that after having been engaged to Sarah with her perfectly slender build and flawless facial features, I try to believe him.
But it was a lot easier to believe him when it seemed like he wanted me.
I open the door and walk in, finding Will sitting on our (cushioned) couch with his laptop again. He’s got jeans on instead of pajama pants, which generally means he left the house at some point today. I’m guessing by the faint smell of actual coffee (no offense to Bertrude) he probably went to the coffee shop to write.
“Hey,” I say, in what I hope sounds like a sexy voice and not like James Earl Jones. I keep the painting kit tucked behind my back.
Will looks up at me. “Hey. What’s up?”
I’m pretty sure he’s referring to the large bulky box that I’m clearly hiding from him. “Nothing.”
Will looks at me quizzically. “Okaaaaay.”
I smile what I hope is a coy smile and take a step toward him. I remember that Anna-Marie suggested I ask him some questions about sex, but I can’t remember for the life of me what they are right now.
“We,” I finally say, “are going to have a very sexy conversation . . . about sex.”
Will smiles, though he looks confused, which is more than fair. Apparently stuffing the word sex into a sentence doesn’t actually make that sentence sexy.
Go figure.
“All right,” Will says slowly. “So, like, am I supposed to talk dirty to you?”
“Maybe. Do you want to? Is that something you’re into?” Something occurs to me. “That makes sense! Because you’re a man of words.”
I try to make that sound like I’m describing a sexy cowboy or a sultry lumberjack, but I think I’m veering toward James Earl Jones again.
“Well, written words, mostly.”
“Oh!” I say. “Written words could be sexy!”
Will looks more confused than ever. “So . . . you want me to write you a sexy play?”
I’m rapidly losing control of this conversation, but in typical me fashion, I can’t stop. “Do you want to?” I ask. “Would you be into that?”
“Okay, Gabby.” Will moves his laptop to the coffee table. “What’s going on?”
I cringe. “I may have gone to a sex shop with Anna-Marie.”
Understanding dawns. “Oh,” Will says. “Okay, cool. Did you find anything good there?” He turns to try to get a look at the box behind my back, but I shuffle around to Cushionless Couch and sit down on top of it.
I have a terrible image of the paints breaking and spurting everywhere under my ass. But then again, we’re supposed to roll around in it, aren’t we?
It’s probably fine.
“Anna-Marie tried to convince me to buy a dick pump,” I tell him. “But I didn’t. Do you wish I had?” Probably I should have started with something other than the dick pump.
Will looks stunned. “No, I think I’m good. Did you want to buy one?” He pauses. “Do you think I need one?”
“No!” I say. “But Anna-Marie got one for Josh.”
“Does he need one?” Will thinks about that for a second, which is longer than I want to think about Anna-Marie’s husband using a dick pump. “Oh, no. It’s probably ironic.”
“Yeah, I think so,” I say. This conversation is not getting us anywhere near our sex painting, and I don’t know any more about what Will is into than I did when I walked in. “How do you feel about erotic art?”
Will is back to looking confused. “Um . . . what?”
“What I did get,” I say slowly, in as normal a Gabby voice as I can muster at this moment, “is this sexy painting thing where you have sex on a tarp.” I shift off it and hold up the slightly crushed box. But no paint is spurting from the sides. So far, so good.
“Okay,” Will says. “So it’s not a nude painting.”
“No,” I say. “I think we paint each other and then have sex on the canvas. As, like, evidence.”
Smooth, Gabby. Now I sound like I feel I need to have evidence that we have, in fact, had sex. There are days lately where that reminder wouldn’t be unwelcome, I suppose.
“That sounds cool.” Will’s no longer confused, but he doesn’t sound super excited, either.
“Does it? Are you into it?”
“Sure,” he says. “That sounds like fun.”
“I thought it would be new and different,” I say. Then I have a terrible thought. “Unless you’ve done one of these before?”
“No, I haven’t. So, yeah. New and different. That’s good.”
“Okay, good,” I say. “Because otherwise it would be different for me, but not for you.” God, this is more awkward than I even imagined it might be. We have managed to talk about sex before, like two grown adults who have actually had sex—haven’t we? Yeah, we have. We talked about it a lot back in the beginning, when I was insecure about being a virgin. It wasn’t the most comfortable topic in the world for me, but I don’t think it was this awkward back then.
It feels like further evidence of things being so off between us.
Will narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s still confused about what’s going on. Which is fair. “But it is,” he says. “Different for me.” He looks at the box. “So, when it’s done, do we hang it on the wall?”
“Yeah. So it can be a sexy secret, or you can tell people it’s your sex painting.”
One corner of Will’s mouth quirks up. “So you’re definitely going to do the second one.”
“Not on purpose,” I say. But he makes a good point. “But yeah, the minute anyone comments on the painting, I’m going to blurt out that it’s a sex painting. So not everyone will know about it! But not . . . no one.”
Will laughs, showing off his adorable dimple. “That sounds about right. Maybe we should hang it in the bedroom so that you can still invite people over to our apartment without dying of mortification.”
I smile back. “That would probably be wise.”
This feels better. Joking, laughing. More like us again.
“So . . .” Will looks at me with interest.
I bounce in my seat, which is difficult, considering its lack of cushions.
“. . . should we do that now?” he finishes.
Oh, crap. “Um, I haven’t shaved,” I say. Why haven’t I shaved? Why did I not think to shave before we had this conversation? He opens his mouth, probably to tell me he doesn’t care, but I care. “We should do it later tonight! Like, as a date. A sex date. Not that we need a date to have sex.” Although maybe we do, lately. “But a painting seems like a date thing.”
