I should have posted this sooner, but mushy, gushy posts are never as interesting as the sad and depressing ones. But perhaps this will be. It’s quite erotic.
Mr. D and I are great again. Maybe it’s because I’m getting the D again.
I posted my pathetic post last Wednesday, and then sent him a long email on Thursday, and we yelled over the phone in hushed tones with closed office doors. I was PMS’ing so hardcore that at one point, I curled under my desk and cried. We made up, over text, and that night, we went to the Italian Festival, where Little A fell and scraped her knee. I was so overwhelmed by her endless wails that I said, “We’re leaving!” Then Big A cried because she wanted to go on another carnival ride, and then I started crying, and we were, in that moment, the only unhappy family there.
I slept early that night as Mr. D put the kids to bed. I woke up hours later to his body pressed against mine, his hands between my legs, his fingers pushing me to the edge of subconscious, slumber-drenched desire. Before I could fully come to, he was under the covers, removing my monkey shorts and kissing me some more. I trembled in his hands, my body quivering with each wet kiss.
I basked in the Friday morning sun. I had a better day at work. That night, I channeled the five-word New Year’s Resolution I once jotted at an erotic literary salon, and I “sucked that dick with vigor.”
We made love on Saturday morning. I never use that phrase because it feels cheesy, but it was tender and wet and deep and yearning, with hands that knew how to grip me and a mouth that knew where to kiss me, and I came, and came again.
And then I got my period, and I didn’t really do anything for him for Father’s Day. In fact, that Friday, as we were driving to our best friend’s place, I said, “I’ve been thinking about us, wondering if I was unfair to you earlier and I decided…”
“That you weren’t?” Mr. D asked, and we both laughed.
“Yeah,” I acknowledged. “I don’t think I was wrong. Because sometimes we need to be reminded how to treat each other.”
That’s just how it is, I suppose. “The ebb and flow of any relationship,” he once reminded me. “Waxing and waning. Like the moon.”