I can’t shop in Trader Joe’s anymore without bursting into tears, which sucks because I like shopping there. It reminds me of being part of a family. Something bigger than myself. A sum of parts. Now I am a single part.  I told My Husband this. He shrugged his shoulders and walked away. He has no compassion for me.

That morning I asked him if he wanted to know what happened on my date. He said he only wanted to know if I wanted to tell him. Oh, I wanted to tell him alright. I wanted him to know that someone out there found me desirable. I told him it went shockingly well and that we ended up making out in my car for almost an hour.

He didn’t say anything. He finished tying up the trash and quickly said goodbye.

Later on he sent me an email asking me not to tell him things like that.

I felt confused for a minute.

Then I wished that I had told him how Highland Park, as I shall refer to him from now on, took my nipple in his mouth and made me feel things I have never felt before. I thought these old chewed up things were dead. Apparently, they are quite alive and well and yearning to be kissed, bitten, and played with.

Then I remembered My Husband’s first kiss. Oh boy. It was the most awkward innocent somewhat charming but yet totally weird kind of thing. We were standing at the front door of my studio apartment in Silverlake after walking around the reservoir holding hands. After we said goodbye and thank you he stood there for an extra beat with this wide-eyed grin and then suddenly, without warning, leaned in and planted a super fast kiss on my lips before leaning back out. I was shocked and confused, to say the least. I looked at him curiously as he leaned in once again and repeated the same move. Then he turned on his heels and left me standing there stunned and slightly horrified. I thought I would never see that guy again.

Obviously, I did see him again. He was a persistent motherfucker. He pursued and courted me like no other. I thought he was too sweet for me. He liked me too much. But then he melted this bitter heart, and I fell for him. Hard. Yes, I will marry you and have a baby with you after three months of dating you, hard.

And now this. I fell hard, and he fell out.

I returned home from an AA meeting around 9 pm, joining him on the couch. He began by telling me he didn’t think we should kiss on the lips hello or goodbye anymore.

Ouch. Okay.

Reeling slightly from that sucker punch, I decided to go for it, and ask all the questions I was holding back, have a real Come To Jesus with him.

I asked him when he felt he stopped wanting to have sex with me. How early on was it?

Because I feel like it was as soon as I got pregnant. He was not into pregnant sex at all. Which drove me nuts because I was super horny and wanting to connect like crazy.

He said my postpartum anxiety was a real turn-off.

And that the year of depression I went through after the “abortion” was also hard for him.

For him.

I had diagnosable postpartum anxiety that I could only talk about in hindsight. It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

I think that because of the acute anxiety I wanted desperately to have another baby right away. A part of me felt it would help me relax. He said he wanted another baby too. We began trying when our daughter was 13 months old. We had tried for two months before he told me he didn’t actually want to have another baby. At all. And his reasons were valid; money, time, energy. I understood and acquiesced, but I was sad. Then, a week later, we found out I was pregnant. What a funny joke, universe! I told him. He didn’t want it. He said I could keep it if I really wanted to, but here were all the reasons that we shouldn’t.

I didn’t keep it.

I sincerely regretted that decision and grieved for over a year. I hated him, I hated me, I blamed him, I blamed me and finally, found peace and acceptance within myself when I finally took full responsibility for my choice and moved on.

I thought we had weathered some storms that would keep us bonded a lifetime. I had no idea the storms had blown us apart.

I suggested that maybe we were sexually incompatible?

He didn’t think so until I reminded him that he never liked my blowjobs or handjobs. He said, “Oh right. I don’t like your blowjobs or handjobs.”

Which, for the record, is insane. I have no gag reflex and I swallow.

Enough said.

So I asked him, “Is there anyone who ever gave you a good blowjob?”

He looked up at me and asked me if I was sure I wanted to go there.

I did.

He told me that the burlesque dancer he dated before me did. She wanted to be good at one thing in her life, and so she studied blowjobs and she was fucking good at them.

He was right. I didn’t want to go there. I wanted to go back, suddenly, to when I didn’t know this piece of information.

He did say that making our daughter was still the best sex of his life, however.

But we haven’t had that kind of sex since we made her, and she is almost four years old.

He got up to go to bed. It was 10 pm now. He didn’t kiss me on the lips goodnight. I stayed upstairs staring numbly at the wall until I heard my phone beep. I had a text. I picked it up- the text was from Highland Park. He knew it was crazy, this late and all, but did I want to meet him to make-out somewhere?

You bet your sweet ass I did.

I said YES. I will meet you now. We couldn’t go to our house or his house because of our situations, being married and all, so I told him to meet me in the parking lot behind York Avenue.

I didn’t change my clothes or put any make-up on. I walked downstairs with determination, walking into our bedroom and telling him I was leaving to meet Highland Park and did he mind? He didn’t skip a beat. He said he did not mind and Oh, here, take a condom, you will need it.

He grabbed one out of his nightstand and threw it towards me. It landed on the bed. I picked it up, pocketing it, and said thank you before I walked out the door.

I was driven, man. I knew exactly what I wanted, and I was happy to go and get it right then and there. Poor Highland Park didn’t stand a chance.

I had parked my station wagon under a bright light in a sparsely populated lot before he pulled in next to me, in his dark blue station wagon. He got into my car and began saying something before I pulled him into me. We quickly realized his back seat was much more conducive than mine because he only had a booster seat and I still had a toddler’s car seat. So we switched cars. I laid my head on his chest for a beat. It felt like the most natural place to be at that moment.

Something about this guy. I know him, but I don’t know him at all.

Things progressed from there rapidly and heavily. I wanted him. Badly. And I wanted to know that he wanted me. Badly. I needed to feel that. All those feelings. Right then and there. He was perfect. Passionate. Loving. Strong. Intense. He got it. He saw me. He knew exactly what I wanted and needed, and he gave it to me one hundred percent.

I never even bothered with the condom. I know it was stupid. But I was beyond giving a shit about anything other than carnal knowledge.

I needed validation that I was alive and that I could and would experience raw fucking pleasure if I wanted to.

Highland Park is something else. He is one of a kind. He felt it and needed it too. I could tell. We were meeting each other where we needed to be met. Equals. A level playing field with two well-matched players.

I felt no shame driving home.

I walked into the house and didn’t bother showering but instead climbed into bed next to My Husband with my body tingling from postcoital exaltations.

I lay there feeling the new sensations coursing through my body when My Husband got up and grabbed his pillow. I asked him where he was going. He said upstairs. He couldn’t sleep next to me.

I felt hurt and confused.

But also incredibly relaxed and satiated.

It was the strangest mix of feelings.

Of all the things I was thinking, the biggest one was, “Wow, My Husband really would have sucked at this whole polyamorous thing.”

Good to know.


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