Getting sexy

Chapter Two
Annelise

I am in the zone.

“Yes! Oh God, yes!” A rush of excitement flows through me and my breathing picks up speed. I love this part—the moment when we are completely in tune with each other. There is a comfort level now, and neither of us is holding anything back. The flow and rhythm is steady, and I am moving rapidly toward the moment of total satisfaction.

I press my finger on the camera’s trigger and snap a round of shots. “Wonderful. Now, get a little closer. That’s right. You love this woman. Let it shine from your soul. Angle your head, Mark.” I glide toward him and guide his head in the direction I want. “Oh, that’s it.” I actually moan my pleasure. “Now hold that pose, and smile.”

I am holding the camera; I prefer this to mounting it on a tripod. I am much freer this way, free to explore different angles. I step backward, then move from left to right until I am satisfied. I look through the viewfinder, adjust the focus and voilà: perfection. The camera loves this couple.

I click off a few more shots of Mark and Robin in yet another perfect pose. I’ve gotten several photos, but I am not quite finished. The next shot will be the moment, the thrilling denouement.

“Turn slightly, both of you. Look at each other. Less of a smile, more of a romantic gaze.” God, there is so much honesty between them. “Yes, that’s absolutely perfect.”

I hold down the trigger and don’t let go until I’ve finished the roll. I was so born to do this. Photography is in my blood.

I lower the camera from my face. “That was great,” I tell Mark and Robin, feeling the high that comes from a great session. “The pictures will be fabulous.”

Robin grins from ear to ear. “You think so?”

“Absolutely. The camera loved you.”

“I can’t wait to see them.” Robin turns to Mark and nuzzles her nose with his.

I watch them for a moment, their happiness giving me a warm feeling in my chest. There’s nothing quite like capturing two people in love on film. I love the way their eyes convey everything that’s in their souls.

This particular couple has recently gotten engaged. That’s why they’re here at my studio—to take pictures they’ll use for an engagement announcement.

That’s also why they’re so openly affectionate. There’s hardly a moment when one isn’t touching the other. Even as they get up from the sofa, their hands are linked. As much as I enjoy seeing happy couples together, a feeling of longing stirs in my gut.

“Can we see the proofs now?”

I shake my head as I place the camera on a table near the set. “Call me old-fashioned, but I’m not a fan of digital photography. When you see physical proofs, you get a much better idea of what your prints will look like.”

Robin nods, but she looks a little disappointed. “How soon will they be ready?”

It has been a busy week at the studio. “Oh, probably around nine or ten days.”

“That long?” She looks from me to Mark in alarm. She is clearly eager to announce her engagement.

“I do offer two rush options. Three days or five.”

“Three,” Robin tells me without hesitation. “We’d like to get the announcement out right away.”

Ah, young love. I try to remember a time my husband and I were so in love. When each hour apart from each other seemed like an excruciating eternity.

The memory is fuzzy, but it’s there. Ten years ago, when we were both in college, before Charles went to law school. There was an easiness between us then. We laughed a lot, joked a lot.

Had a lot of sex.

Forget Charles, I tell myself. I do not want to think about him right now, not when I’m feeling such a high.

So I throw myself back into work, giving Robin and Mark an array of times when they can come back and view the proofs. They decide, pay me a deposit and I see them to the door. Arm in arm, the two descend the studio’s steps. I watch them climb into a BMW, and even give a little wave. It’s the personal touches that keep people coming back.

Once they drive away, I sigh softly and step back into the studio. Despite my desire to cling to my high, now that I am alone, my mood plummets.

It’s so easy to forget about my troubles when I’m in that perfect zone. But I remember them now. Seeing love in its purest form always makes me ponder my own love life. I think of the contrasts: Mark and Robin so happy, so affectionate. Charles and I so miserable, so distant.

I’ve been married to Charles for five years now, and most of it has been happy. But lately, over the last fourteen months, there has been a drastic change in our relationship. You see, Charles went from being loving and affectionate to cold and remote. He hasn’t touched me in over a year.

Oh we kiss, we hug. With about as much passion as a brother and sister. If I try to get closer to him, take our interaction beyond the platonic, Charles pulls away.

He tells me it’s stress, which I do understand. My husband is a civil-litigation attorney and has a lot on his plate. I’m not at all insensitive to that. But fourteen months? I thought sex was supposed to be a great stress reliever.

I get so frustrated that at times I simply want to give up. But then I think, how can I give up? This is the man I love more than anything. I’ll be married to him forever. And forever is a long time to go without getting any sex.

When I pressure him, he immediately shuts down, so I have tried to do subtle things to get his interest. Like give him a back rub, or reach for his hand as we sit on the couch together. But even that doesn’t work. Because just when I think he’s sufficiently relaxed and I might hit a home run, he’ll give me a chaste kiss and tell me he’s going to bed.

This happened last night.

The night before that, Charles went to bed after I did. He didn’t curl up next to me. He never does. It’s like there’s a line down the middle of our bed and he doesn’t want to cross it.

I cried this morning as I asked him if he still wants to be married to me. He assured me that he does—then kissed me on the forehead before heading out the door.

Truly, I am at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do. But I can’t throw in the towel. I have to find a way to help us reconnect as a couple.

Today, I am more determined than ever to get some love from my husband. I was thinking about ways to make that happen as I drove to the studio, and came up with the conclusion that I have to do something different. Something drastically different.

I’m thinking scented candles and wine and a completely relaxing environment. You’re probably thinking no big deal. And you’re right. But I’m going to up the ante by wearing something scandalous. The kind of outfit my husband won’t be able to resist me in.

We used to do this sort of thing in the early days of our marriage, but somewhere along the way I guess we got stale. Boring.

Great sex is on my mind as I lock up the studio. It’s a small space, one room and an office area in a strip mall-type building. It’s all I can afford in order to make a marginal profit doing the job I love. But the landscape out back is lush and beautiful and free—I use it often when taking photos.

This month has been a good one for me, with more weddings than I expected. Thankfully, I have a few extra dollars to spend. And I am going to spend them on spicing up my marriage.

There is one person who can probably help me in my quest. My sister. As I get behind the wheel of my Jetta, I’m already dialing her number on my cell phone. My sister and I don’t talk very often. We don’t exactly see eye to eye. But this is an emergency. I need her expertise.

I’ve always been the good girl. Samera’s always been the whore.

I love her in spite of it, and I can hardly blame her for her choices. My mother is a religious nut—if I haven’t said so before. Sent my sister right into the sex trade, while for a long time I thought that even feeling sexual desire would send me straight to hell.

For the past six years, Samera has worked as a stripper. She prefers “exotic dancer” but I like to call a spade a spade.

Samera’s phone rings and I wait. “Hello,” she says cheerfully when she answers after three rings.

“Hey, Sam. It’s me.”

She pauses for a moment, then says, “Annie. Wow, this is a surprise.”

“I know. Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I’ve been busy with work.”

“I hear you. I’ve been busy, too. Are you finally making decent money?”

What she really wants to know is if I’m making enough money to be self-sufficient. Samera hates the idea that if Charles and I were to split, I wouldn’t be able to support myself.

“Things are looking up,” I tell her. I don’t add, “Just barely.”

“Because if things aren’t going well, you know I can always get you work at the club.”

I chuckle sarcastically, like I always do. This is a running joke between us—though I don’t particularly find it funny. It’s Samera’s way of saying she thinks I’m a prude. Of course, she doesn’t think she’s loose. She says she’s sexually liberated.

“How about we settle on lunch instead?” I suggest. “Sometime soon. It’s been way too long.”

“You’re on, sis.”

It remains to be seen if this will happen. “Listen,” I say. “The reason I’m calling. I need to ask a favor.”

“Sure.”

“This is going to sound weird, but where can I find an adult store?”

“An adult store? You mean like JCPenney?”

She knows exactly what I mean. “No, a store that sells…stuff. You know.”

“You mean a sex shop?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Samera laughs. “I swear, Annie, I can see you turning red. I don’t know why you get so embarrassed. This is the new millennium. Women are allowed to say sex without fear of being persecuted.”

“I don’t need a lecture. Just directions.”

“What do you want exactly? Videos? Toys?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of sexy lingerie. I want to spice things up with Charles.” As I say this, I envision a laughing devil with a pitchfork. Believe me, it’s hard to undo eighteen years of my mother’s conditioning.

“Why not come by the club? That’ll get you both in the mood.”

“No thanks.” I wouldn’t be caught dead in a strip joint with Charles. That’s not the drastically different I had in mind. “I just want to find a place where I can buy some naughty stuff. Lace and feathers. Maybe even crotchless underwear.”

“Oh, my. You are serious.”

“You can stop your snickering. I haven’t been living under a rock.”

“Okay, okay.” Samera settles down. “Crotchless is great, by the way. Always gets a guy in the mood. So are edible undies. There was one time when I bought them for this guy I was seeing and let me tell—”

“Too much information,” I announce, cutting my sister off. Samera often gets carried away, telling me details I don’t want to know. “I just want to know where I can find a place to buy some stuff.”

“Where are you? Coming from the studio?”

“Yep.”

“There’s a place in Sugarloaf that I highly recommend. It’s on your way home. I get a ton of my stuff there. It’s called A Little Naughty. Corner of John and Hibiscus.”

Now that Samera’s said this, I get a mental image of this shop. I’ve driven by it but haven’t consciously noticed it. “I think I know the place,” I say.

“It’s got everything you could possibly dream of. Ask for Suzie. Tell her I sent you and she’ll give you a discount.”

I wonder how much stuff my sister buys there. Actually, I don’t want to know. “Thanks a bunch, sis. Listen, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“You don’t have to stay with Charles if he doesn’t appreciate you. And if this doesn’t get him aroused, I’d seriously start wondering if he’s not screwing around.”

“Bye.” I roll my eyes as I end the call, remembering exactly why we don’t talk that often. Between her implying that I’m a docile wife who’s far too sexually inexperienced and her often brazen suggestion that I dump my husband, I can only take so much of her. I love Samera, but our lives are as different as night and day. She’s single and doesn’t believe in marriage, much less monogamy. She’s more into what men can give her, since she says she’s been burned too many times. I, on the other hand, would never think of being with a man for his money. Samera thinks I’m setting myself up for failure, especially since she knows that Charles isn’t giving me any love these days.

Thirty minutes later, I’m pulling into the strip mall at the corner of John and Hibiscus Streets. Right away I see the neon-pink lights and naughtily dressed mannequin in the window. The sun is already disappearing on the horizon, but nonetheless, I slip my sunglasses on as I exit my car. I don’t want to chance being recognized.

I enter the store and for what seems like minutes, I just stand there, checking it all out. I’m experiencing sensory overload. There’s lots of skimpy lingerie to my left, but nothing I haven’t seen before. It’s the stuff to my right that makes me blush.

There’s a wall with dildos on display—some so large I can’t imagine any woman ever buying one. And apparently they come in all the colors of the rainbow, which makes me wonder if they’re flavored like Life Savers.

“Hi!” A petite brunette bounces toward me. She has a piercing in her eyebrow and is into dark makeup. “Can I help you?”

“I’m…just looking.”

Her eyes narrow, as if she’s trying to decide if she knows me. “You look really familiar. Have you been here before?”

“Me? God, no.” Then it hits me. “You’re probably confusing me with my sister. Samera Peyton.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Are you Suzie?”

“Uh-huh. Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you find?”

I know this is a sex shop, but I don’t want this cute little thing getting a visual image of what I might be doing later. I shake my head. “Not right now, anyway. But I’ll let you know.”

I turn and wander to the left, heading toward the safe-looking lingerie I have no intention of buying. Not that that really makes much sense when I think about it. Suzie will see what I purchase soon enough.

“Relax,” I whisper to myself as I finger a lacy black teddy. “You’re a grown woman. You’re allowed to have good sex.”

Hell, I’d take mediocre sex right now. That sad reality has me forgetting about my reservations and I forge ahead to find the raunchiest piece of lingerie here. I find panties with no crotch, bras with feathers at the nipple. I hang on to both like they’re the answers to all my problems.

When I see a maid’s outfit on a mannequin, I can’t help but laugh. But once I stop chuckling, I take a closer look. This maid’s outfit is barely there. Talk about stepping out of your comfort zone to do something different. In this uniform, I can role-play. I can be a lousy cook, or suck at dusting.

And Charles can spank me, then punish me with his piercing shaft…

I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing out loud. I’ve been reading way too many historical romances.

I continue to browse. There’s also a mannequin in leather, wearing a dog collar and holding a whip. That’s an idea. I could always whip Charles for being a bad boy. But I can’t quite imagine him on all fours with his butt in the air. I pick up a package with the maid’s uniform and stuff it under my arm. I even choose a black wig. If I’m going to role-play, I may as well go all out.

Fifteen minutes in this place and I’m feeling like a different woman. So much so that when I stroll toward the cash register—passing through an aisle full of vibrators—I stop and take a gander. I more than take a gander, actually, but hey, I’m curious. The shaft that gets my attention is long, thick and blue (an odd color given its lifelike dimensions but I’m not about to ask why). I pick it up and examine it through the packaging.

“Oooh, I love that one.”

I jump with fright, dropping the blue penis and my crotchless underwear to the floor. Cute little Suzie doesn’t miss a beat. She quickly scoops my items up.

Knowing that my face is flaming, I accept the items but don’t meet her eyes.

“There’s also this,” Suzie says. She picks up a display penis that’s extremely huge. “This one feels so real. Touch it.”

God forgive me, I say to myself. Then I touch the proffered penis and am surprised at just how soft it is. “Nice,” I mumble, for lack of something more appropriate to say.

“The balls even move on this one, giving added stimulation. And it has three speed levels, depending on what you prefer.”

I know I’m as red as a beet. “Um…I think I’ll stick with this stuff.” I lift the lingerie items. There’s no way I can bring another penis into my house, even if I could use it. What would my husband say?

Suzie leads the way to the register and I follow her. I know this is the new millennium, but this place is so…sinful. I can hardly believe I’m really here. I feel a rush of guilt and consider going to confession.

“You might want to try some of these.” Suzie points to a bin with small tubes. “Flavored lubricant,” she announces proudly. “Personally, I like the raspberry best.”

Good Lord, she looks way too young to have tried all this stuff. I’m about to tell her I’m not interested, but I suddenly change my mind. How much have I missed out on? Too much, clearly. I want to catch up, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I pick up a handful of the tubes. “Can’t get too much of these.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

I’m actually chuckling, enjoying this moment, when I sense someone to my right. Turning, I nearly die of horror when I see a total hottie standing a few feet away from me. How long has he been here, and how did I not see him before?

Worse, how much of my conversation has he heard?

He grins as he meets my gaze.

God help me, he thinks I’m a freak. I quickly pay for my items and rush out of the store.

Nine o’clock and still no Charles.

What seemed like a good idea three hours ago seems utterly foolish right now. I’m lying on the sofa wearing that ridiculous maid’s uniform and the even more ridiculous wig, only half paying attention to some pathetic reality dating show. The meat loaf I prepared is lukewarm in the oven.

Not even so much as a phone call to tell me he’d be late.

I could have changed—in fact I almost did—but I want Charles to see what I’ve done to try to seduce him. And if I’m entirely honest, I guess a part of me still hopes that he’ll walk through the door, see me half-naked and perk right up—then ravish me until I can’t even blink.

Like that’s gonna happen. Why the hell do I bother? Maybe my sister’s right. Maybe Charles is having some torrid affair.

The cordless phone is at the foot of the sofa, nice and close to me, because I’d hoped Charles would call. Now I lift it and punch in the digits to one of my girlfriend’s. I desperately need to hear a friendly voice right now.

“Hello?”

Thank God, Lishelle is home. She’s a newscaster and sometimes works through the evening. I met her at Spelman, the same place I met my other best friend, Claudia Fisher. I think they took pity on me—one of the few white girls who had the guts to go to a predominantly black school. I didn’t care about any of that, of course. I wanted to experience life at an all-girl college, probably to please my mother who was worried about all the temptation I’d face on a regular college campus.

“Hey, Lishelle,” I say, pulling the wig off. “It’s Annelise.”

“What’s up, girl?”

I sigh softly. “Nothing much. Just sitting here watching some TV and I thought I’d call.” I don’t want to talk about Charles. I’m depressed enough as it is. “Did you get a message from Claudia today?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“So there is another fitting on Saturday?”

“You know that girl’s tripping. The way she’s going through dresses and designers, I’m not sure anything will be good enough for her.”

“She’s got to make up her mind soon. The wedding’s on May twenty-seventh.” I lift my head when I hear the doorknob turning. Charles. My heart slams against my chest. “Lishelle, I have to go.”

“What?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell her, then disconnect the call.

My whole seduction scene has been ruined, and I’m now confused about what to do. Simply stand up and greet my husband, or lie provocatively on the sofa?

The decision is made for me. I don’t have time to get up. I toss the wig across the room, then fluff my blond hair. Drawing in a deep breath, I bend one leg at the knee and ease up onto my elbows. As Charles comes into view, I whisper, “Hi.”

Charles stops dead in his tracks, as though he is surprised to see me. I guess he is, because he’s got the stack of mail from the hall table in his hands and he must have been looking at that.

“Hi,” I say again, this time adding a smile.

“Hey.”

Charles glances to the left, at the row of candles burning on the table. I wait for his reaction…

He goes back to sifting through the mail.

The mail! I’m dressed like a French slut and he’s concerned with the mail!

I sit up, not sure if I should scream or cry. Really, I want to pummel him.

“Charles,” I say, noting the hint of exasperation in my voice.

He makes his way around the sofa and sits beside me. My heart lifts. Maybe there’s hope after all.

I lean into him and kiss his cheek. “I missed you, sweetheart.”

“It’s been a long day.” His eyes roam over me. “What are you wearing?”

Yes! I think. He’s noticing me. He’s getting turned on. We’re going to have wild, passionate sex right here on the sofa.

“Just a little something I picked up today.” Now I press my mouth to his. I open my lips and move them over his lips. Instantly I’m getting hot…until I realize I may as well be kissing a dead fish.

My shoulders slump in defeat. “Charles…”

“God, I’m sorry. But honestly, Ann, I’ve had a long day. My head is pounding.”

I tune out the rest of his spiel. I can probably recite it by heart if I have to.

I don’t want to give up, but how can I fight this? Before Charles even walks through the door he’s thinking of ways to reject me. What happened to the man who used to write me poetry, sing to me off-key? I miss that man.

“There’s meat loaf in the oven.”

Charles makes a sound of derision. “Meat loaf? You know I’m not big on red meat.”

The nerve of this man! I embarrass myself at a sex shop, come home and slave over a meal for him, and he doesn’t even care? I want to smother him to death with the sofa cushion.

“Sorry,” I say. “It was…” My voice trails off. I don’t want to tell him I made an easy meal because I was hoping he’d come home early and ravish me.

“I already ate, anyway,” he tells me.

Then, to add insult to injury, Charles reaches for the remote and starts channel surfing. This is poor, overworked Charles, so friggin’ tired that he can’t even give me a decent kiss, yet he’s up for watching TV. Why isn’t he taking two aspirin and heading straight to bed?

Charles finds a soccer game. Since when does he like soccer?

I can’t help wondering if it’s me he doesn’t like.

It hurts being rejected. Like you’ve reached inside yourself and given your very soul to someone and they spit on it. That’s how I feel. And it sucks.

Tears well up in my eyes, but my dear husband doesn’t notice. I’ve seen talk of this on Oprah, read about it in magazines, women wondering What happened to the passion? Never once in my wildest dreams would I have thought I would be one of those women.

“Oh, you moron!” Charles shouts, as if he even knows what’s going on in the game. But at least with soccer, he’s willing to pick a team and play.

Me—I’m left standing on the sidelines.

Silently, I rise from the sofa and disappear from the room.