42

It’s my birthday today.

I haven’t heard from The Ninja. I am not sure I even want to. I wish I could talk to my husband about him. I really wish my husband wanted to be with me. But he doesn’t

Deeply sad. I don’t know if I can be with someone else. I really don’t know

The different parts of me are sitting at a large round wooden table, like Camelot. Except the guests aren’t knights in shining armor, they are the disparate parts of myself. Cynthia is cowering at one end. Terrified that she will be abandoned. Sheila the punk rocker is carving her initials into the table with a butter knife. Fucking stoked that she can fuck whoever she wants to. Fuck ya! So liberated. Sophia the Italian woman and Sheila are sitting next to each other. They both seem very pleased with the situation. Especially the Italian woman. She likes nice things. Clothes and boots and make-up She would still like to travel to Germany in the Fall. She doesn’t want to give up her lifestyle. The Mother, good honest strong patient mother, also enjoys the security that this arrangement brings her daughter. Her one and only. The Facilitator is also pleased. She wants to keep doing her creative writing work part-time and splitting the other days with the Mother. The Writer, the bespectacled introverted observant woman, is appreciating having such a juicy story to write about in such great detail.

The only one who seems to not be okay is Cynthia. But she is never okay. She needs so much reassurance and validation. I just keep telling her that I love her. That I validate her. That I need her.

Then there is me when I was 12, home from India. Alone in front of an oven staring at a baked potato. She is the loneliest of them all. I have no idea what to say to her.

There is also a 6-month-old baby screaming in a crib by the side of the table. No one pays any attention to her.

Cue sad strings.

I can’t believe I am 42 years old. Holy shit.

Tonight my husband and I are going out to what has been exalted as THE BEST  FUCKING SUSHI OF YOUR LIFE!

He invited my older brother to come. I guess romance isn’t a priority. I didn’t say anything about it.

Since sushi is by far my most favorite food on the planet, I am loving life a little bit right now. It would be slightly better if I felt confident that I would be exploring some sensuality tonight. But I fear, based on history, that will not happen. Not with my husband, at least.

I must be ovulating. I am really tingling down there and nowhere to take it but to myself and no time or privacy for that.

Frustrated.

Later on…

It truly was THE BEST FUCKING SUSHI OF MY LIFE. And I have had some damn good sushi.  It really was something else entirely. Flavor explosions of epic proportions with raw fish that melted like butter in my mouth. It was the most erotic part of the evening. Eating fish.

I ate too much. I couldn’t help myself. I don’t feel very sexy bloated like this but hey, I would still go for it if he did. I tried to connect with my husband affectionately at the table. He felt distant.

For my birthday, he not only treated me to sushi porn, but he gave me a cute little necklace with three small golden rings intertwined.

He wrote on the card, “I picked the three rings and triangle as symbols of your beautiful family. We will always have each other in life. I love you.”

It was sweet. Thoughtful. Considerate.

No one would ever criticize him for not being those three things. I just wanted to hear how gorgeous sexy vivacious I was as a 42-year-old woman. I wanted to be exalted. Not appreciated kindly.

I fear he can’t see me any other way other than as the mother of his child. When we were in therapy not too long ago the therapist had asked us to each tell the other what we loved about them. I started. I gave a long list of the big things and the little things I adored about him. How he helps old people. He takes out the garbage. He wears cute indie band t-shirts. He has a sexy body. He is handsome. He has good hands. He is funny. Smart.

Then it was his turn.

All he said was, “I love what an amazing mother you are.”

Wow. Both the therapist and I waited for him to continue speaking but it was clear, he said what he wanted to say and was done.

Needless to say, we did not have sex on my birthday. He said he was too full. He said okay.

I am fucking forty-two years old!

Dammit, if I can’t think for myself.

What THE FUCK DO I WANT????

What do I think of HIM???

And the truth is rather shocking. At least in my state of usual denial.

I am not super attracted to him. Not right now. He is a good provider. An amazing provider. The best ever. I feel like we actually have a solid financial future. He is kind, for the most part. He is never intentionally cruel, but he can be cold. He is passive aggressive, but so am I. And we both love our daughter with everything we’ve got. We are a team.

But sexually and sensually it’s just not there.

I don’t remember when I was last touched in that way. When we met? Making our daughter?

I feel a trembling fear in my loins when I imagine spending the rest of my life never feeling a passionate kiss again. Or being manhandled in a rough and tumble kind of way. Then I try to rationalize it by telling myself that I had so much raunchy kinky wild and crazy sex in my teens and twenties that I don’t deserve sex now. I had my quota. This is karma for being so overtly sexual. This is my punishment.

Ouch.

The kicker is, I could be attracted to him, in a heartbeat if he wanted me.

Being wanted.

That is what I want.

To feel chosen. Desired. Wanted.

Being wanted is the single greatest aphrodisiac that I know of to date.

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