Washed Up with a Broken Heart in Rock Hall

by Peter Svenson

  “What for?” she counters with a quizzical smile. “You hardly know me.”

  “I know enough about you to like you. And I like you enough to want to spend a lot more time with you.”

  Whew! That was a close call! I almost said, “I like you enough to want to go to bed with you.” If those words had tumbled out accidentally, I would have blown it for sure. Restraining myself thus, I’m winging it as never before. Nevertheless, I back up my statement with a steady gaze into her eyes. Putting down my fork, I reach across the table to take her hands; simultaneously sensing my intention, she offers them to me. Her fingers are warm and strong and smooth with wear. A caregiver’s hands, worldly in their pressure, honest and yearning—just like my own.

  “And I’m also thinking,” he adds for good measure, “that I like you enough to want to go to bed with you.”

  Why hold back? May as well lay all my cards on the table. Too late to stay poker-faced.

  “Well, that’s coming right to the point, Budge!”

  “If I offend you, Matty, I’m sorry.”

  “No, there’s nothing to apologize for. I’m not surprised that the thought has occurred to you.”

  “Really?”

  A stupid expression. Really has got to be the most overused word in the English language, and, with a question mark after it, the least meaningful. Are we implying that what we hear is a lie? Do we question the speaker’s veracity? Surely, there’s a better interjection to fill a conversational gap. Whatever happened, for example, to a good old-fashioned hmmm?

  She grins collusively. Her brown eyes—smallish, deep-set in fine papery rings, brimming with that strange new compasssion—regard him pensively. Their fingers are still entwined. He can see that she wants to communicate something important.

  “Well, I might as well tell you the truth,” she begins after a lengthy pause. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

  “You have?”

  Better than another really. This conversation is taking a decided upswing.

  “Yes, I have. Don’t look so surprised. I even called my doctor to ask for some advice. You see, I.” Matty pauses not for effect, but because of the frankness of the subject matter. “I haven’t had sexual relations for a very long time.”

  “Neither have I,” Budge interjects. “It’s been almost five months. Five incredibly long wasted months, and it’s driving me crazy.”

  I wouldn’t have confessed this to just anybody. Personally, I regard it as a stain, a black mark on my masculine character. I’ve been horny but I’ve been lazy about it. I haven’t been man enough to shag, however temporarily. Even the masturbating ceased weeks ago. All my progenital equipment, mothballed. What a waste of pleasure. I might as well have volunteered for astronaut duty on the space station.

  “I’ve gone five years without sex,” Matty is saying. “When a woman abstains from lovemaking that long, her body stops producing certain hormones.”

  Her revelation, with its clinical addendum, astounds him. “Whew! That is a long time!” Budge is at a loss for a more cogent remark.

  “Yes it is,” she says. “During my husband’s last years, he was too sick to do anything, although we tried various remedies …”

  Five years, did she say? That’s like going through college and a year of graduate school. Two presidential elections and more. How on earth did she stand it? A weaker person—like me—might have gone bonkers. It’s a well-known fact that women have different coping mechanisms than men; they go out with female friends, they watch soap operas and read magazines like Women’s Day and Good Housekeeping. They do yoga, they garden, they write poetry, they take gourmet cooking classes. All in all, I suppose she put the wasted time to good use.

  “That must have been incredibly hard for you, Matty.”

  She looks at Budge and says nothing. One thing he’s learning about her: she’s not a complainer.

  “What I try to do,” she finally says, “is have a good belly laugh at least once a day.”

  One evening a week later, I’m at her house for the first time—a baronial-colonial mini-mansion in a gated community north of town. She greets me at the door with a kiss full on the mouth—quite an advancement from the post-restaurant buss. She’s wearing a lacy black jumpsuit, her hair and makeup are glossed to perfection, and her manner is invitingly warm. It’s obvious that she has expended no small effort preparing for this occasion. I succumb as any sex-starved male would: I fall instantly under her spell.

  She’s a terrific cook—did I mention that already? She has made a shrimp and crabmeat fritata which, by its aroma alone, promises to be out of this world—served with roasted potatoes, asparagus spears, and a tossed arugula salad. I’ve splurged and brought a pricey bottle, a Cabernet Franc from a Maryland winery called Fiore. We dine classically as lovers-to-be, conversing on truisms we hold dear and just happen to hold in common. We both like cool jazz. We both admire William Faulkner. We both dig the looks of Jaguars, although neither of us has ever owned one. Oh, it’s remarkable, this instant groove. Two like-minded individuals—you’d think we were lifelong bosom pals! In the candlelight, I’m aware that her blurry allure (I’m not wearing my glasses) radiates beyond her features. It encompasses the laden table, the dining alcove with its cathedral ceiling and hanging plants, the Ansel Adams print, the kitchen divider freighted with pans and bowls and utensils of preparation, including the corkscrew.

  Just before the triple sorbet course, as the last of the wine is poured and their wineglasses clink once more, Matty and Budge are prepared to discuss what is really on their minds. Matty has asked—coquettishly, yet quite plainly—just what he expects of their relationship. It’s a sassy gambit—borrowed from the pages of Cosmopolitan?—and Budge finesses it with inspired straightforwardness.

  “I’d like us to become lovers. In the fullest sense. That’s what we both need right now more than anything else.”

  My declarations could be phrased as questions, but somehow the tone of her query implies that she wants to be told what to do and why. With dessert, I know I’m in a race against time. This woman is waiting to be firmly taken by the hand and led to the bedroom.

  In actuality, Matty is testing Budge to see if he is 1) heterosexual, 2) actively so, and 3) interested in her enough to do something about it. Plus, she has more clinical information to impart.

  “Budge, I went to see my doctor the other day, and he examined me and said that my vaginal walls were somewhat atrophied from not having intercourse for so long.”

  Budge gulps, mustering his most serious and sympathetic mien. “Matty, I understand completely. Believe me, if things aren’t going to work out, it’s okay.”

  “Well, I told him I was interested in having sex with a certain gentleman …”

  A certain gentleman! That’s me! I can’t believe it! She wants me!

  “… and he prescribed a topical hormone cream to apply twice a day, which I’ve started doing. So what I’m trying to say is that we might have to take it slow for a while.”

  Having drained the last of his wine, Budge regards her with what he considers to be his sultriest expression—a level lip-biting gaze.

  “Matty, I’m a patient man.”

  “Ooh, that’s so sweet of you to say!” she exclaims, reaching across the table for his hands.

  “But maybe,” he continues, “what we could do right now—after we finish this scrumptious sorbet—is get undressed and lie down together. Just lie naked and hold each other because it has been so long. But only if you want to.”

  Her fingers squeeze his. “I want to very much,” she says.

  Her words both excite and tantalize him. He finds himself spooning the sorbet rather quickly.

  Well, Plan A isn’t gonna fly this evening, but Plan B is. And maybe it’s good that we take it slowly—I mean, if she hasn’t had sex in five years, she may not even want it anymore. Maybe she’s reached the bodhisattva level and can do without. But no, why am I thinking this? She wa
nts it as much as I do—hard-on, down boy!—she said so. And when was the last time I held a naked woman in my arms? It seems like fifty years ago! I can hardly remember the lolling plumpness of a woman’s breasts—hard-on, I’m tellin’ ya, ease off!—or the heft of a bell-shaped posterior—jeez, how’m I gonna get up from the table with this projection in my pants?—or the silken feel of a woman’s inner thigh. Just to smell a woman’s skin and hair would be ambrosia of the first order.

  The sorbet finished, they rise conspiratorially from the table. A lengthy kiss follows, then an all-enveloping hug that leaves Matty palpably gasping with desire (Budge has always been good at this). But she is also a stickler for cleaning up after a meal, so she breaks away to busy herself between kitchen sink and dishwasher while Budge, at her bidding, ferries all the items from the table, snuffs out the candles, and takes the empty wine bottle to the recycling bin in the garage.

  I admire her efficiency, despite the delay it causes. She keeps a spic-and-span household, unlike my wife, who insisted on leaving all the dirty dishes until the next morning. One time I asked my wife why we couldn’t just attend to the mess right away, and she got so angry that she almost flung a crudded-up saucepan at me. She didn’t like my questioning her way of doing things. She said I was showing disrespect. She also accused me of killing the post-dinner mood in which lovemaking was a possible option. There’d be none the next day either, if she woke up bearing a grudge, which she often did. The thought of yet another stretch of argument-induced privation caused my own anger to flare.

  “Can you blame me for wanting to get it over and done with? I’m the one that winds up doing it anyway.”

  “Oh, you’re impossible!” she raged. “As if I don’t do any of the work myself!”

  “I’m not saying that, honey …” I began.

  “Don’t “honey” me! I’ve been slaving in the kitchen for over an hour, making you a nice dinner, and all you do is complain about cleaning up!”

  “That’s right! You make a big mess, then expect me to make it disappear—and the next day, too, when everything’s dried and nasty.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be like that, I’m not going to cook anymore. That’s final! From now on, you can do all the cooking yourself.”

  But it was never final; whenever she cooked the evening meal, I always did the next morning’s cleaning up. Until the day she walked out, that is. Who knows what arrangement she’s worked out now, or with whom?

  Sidetracked by this unpleasant reminiscence, Budge doesn’t notice that Matty has almost finished in the kitchen. One by one, the appurtenances and appliances have been stowed and the cabinet doors closed. She wipes the countertop one last time; it would take a microscope to detect the slightest crumb.

  We could have both pitched in and gotten the job done. Together, without postponement or arbitration. As a loving husband, I was willing to help her with any task; she only had to tell me what she wanted done—and maybe offer a little positive encouragement. But this was the opposite of encouragement; this was habituated put-down with sexual repercussions. Moreover, there was something that rankled about being Mr. Cleanup the morning after—not only the delay, but the gratuitous elbow grease. Oh well, no point in getting worked up over it …

  “Shall we make our way to the bedroom?” Matty is asking.

  “What? Oh, sure. Yeah, that would be nice.” Budge is thrown from his reverie, not quite believing what is about to happen.

  Concrete steps to the bedroom! Am I climbing this stairwell for real? Is the woman treading the steps ahead of me actually going to get undressed? And what’s more, am I? She seems determined to follow through with the plan. Does this mean that the long dry spell is coming to an end?

  The master bedroom is large, tastefully appointed and draped, with a white ceiling fan suspended at its center. Illumination is provided by two electric candles on a long teak bureau across from the bed.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” says Matty, veering toward the master bathroom’s louvered door. “You can use the bathroom down the hall, if you’d like. Just put your clothes on the back of this chair.”

  Nice easy-to-understand instructions. No ambiguities. She’s getting undressed behind the door and will come out fully naked, crossing the carpet to whichever is her side of the bed. I sit in the chair and remove my socks and shoes. Unbuttoning my shirt, I glance around. The bed is huge—a mahogany four-poster looming in both height and breadth. The Klein connubial mattress, upon which I will trespass … I force my eyes to look elsewhere. Several subdued prints, tastefully framed, grace the walls, and a bevy of family photographs is propped aslant along the bureau. A telephone occupies one end table, along with a reading lamp, digital clock, sharpened pencil and notepad. There’s a small desk, too, with accordion folders and a tennis trophy. I’m in the sanctum sanctorum, both bedroom and office, and the fact that I’m here, after five years of unconducted business, is indeed a high honor.

  Hearing the toilet flush, I hastily remove the last of my clothing. Now I stand naked, ready for I know not what, still in a partial state of disbelief but expectant beyond all experience in recent memory.

  Matty opens the bathroom door and walks demurely into the room. She hasn’t a stitch of clothing on.

  For an older woman, she’s nicely built. No, that sounds sexist. She’s nicely built, period. She comes right up to me, and we embrace and kiss. The coolness and smoothness of her flesh is magical; I cup her buttocks, pulling her hips against mine, and of course, my penis practically jumps to attention, insinuating itself against the soft amplitude of her abdomen. Her breasts plump against my chest, twin fenders warmly cushioning. We aren’t too steady on our feet, as if our brains, momentarily distracted by this crescendo of sensation, provide minimal motor control and balance. Tripping over each other, we stumble toward the bed. Matty exhibits enough presence of mind to reach out and tug down the counterpane.

  “Which side do you prefer?” Budge asks, but he doesn’t have to because they recline as one, comfortably and easily. Clearly, she is as hungry for lovemaking as he is, if not hungrier.

  “This is fine,” she murmurs. Her kisses grow more aggressive.

  I endeavor to match her intensity. Really, for a woman of her age, she’s hot. Hotter than I would have imagined—I mean, she’s practically devouring me. But I can give as well as I get; I’m no wimp when it comes to tough love. At first we grapple more than embrace—a hyper-passionate exploration fueled by starvation and neglect. The chaste years have left her like this, and the same goes for me, albeit in a shorter time frame. Hungrily, we burn hundreds upon hundreds of calories in this bonfire of precoital gluttony.

  Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes of this, and I realize that my vitality is peaking. While my ardor is undiminished—now I’m lightly fingering her and she’s not stopping me—I’m expending greater physical effort. Foreplay of this duration is indeed a chore! As my energy saps, my erection, though still serviceable, becomes somewhat malleable in her grasp. This flaccidity, however, is of no concern to me, for we’ve achieved what we set out to do. Naked and thrashing on the bed, we’ve broken ground for a promising sexual future. Our fiery embrace can now subside in gentler caresses of lovingkindness as we relax side by side, quietly stroking and smooching.

  But Matty ups the ante. “Let’s go ahead with it,” she whispers.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” Budge says.

  “You won’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t we need protection?” he asks.

  Matty smirks, landing a kiss squarely on the tip of his nose. “A couple of old marrieds, celibate and randier than hell?” I’m not worried. Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what’s stopping us?”

  Under any other circumstance, in real life or fantasy, Budge wouldn’t be so hesitant, but he still feels obliged to abide by the original ground rules—he has internalized them, it seems. Now that
she has changed her mind, he definitely wants to accommodate her—of course he does!—but the fact of the matter is, he’s not … quite … ready.

  I move to climb on top of her, and she spreads her thighs willingly. In ye olde missionary position, I’m counting on my erection to reassert itself. Always has in the past. Matty brings her free hand into play, guiding me between her waiting wet labia. Our pelvises nudge, then grind, and I’m home—oh, she’s in a fever, she wants all of me and I give it to her.

  Not quite. The guiding, the grinding—that part is all true, but Budge’s erection fails miserably. The more he attempts to prod, the less he has to prod with, until finally his penis has become so shrunken and useless that it’s a joke, more or less, and he announces it thus.

  “Looks like one part of me’s gone to sleep. Wish it were just a leg or an arm. Sorry about that.”

  Matty looks up at him with understanding eyes. “It’s okay, it happens to the best of us.”

  He climbs off her and they lie side by side, barely touching. He knows he needs to take it easy, just relax and not get upset. Unfortunately, he is capable of only the opposite.

  A naked woman. In her own bed. Wants to get laid. Hasn’t been laid in five years. What happens next? I can’t get it up!

  Budge feels he has to explain himself to Matty. “I guess I’m out of practice,” he says.

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “I know, but it’s ridiculous. I really want you, I want you badly.”

  “You can’t win ’em all, Budge.”

  His dejection renders him momentarily disinterested in her flesh.

  What have I gotten myself into? There’s a job to be done and I’m not man enough to do it. A tradesman without his tools, a soldier without his weapon. If I found her repulsive, this state of affairs would make sense, but, truth to tell, I’m turned on by her—perfervidly so. Everything about her excites me, so why am I so … unexcited?

  Wallowing so deeply in self-pity, he almost doesn’t hear what Matty is telling him.

  “… and he kept the pills in the medicine cabinet. I could get one if you wanted to try it.”