The Secret Desires of a Soccer Mom (6 page)

“Hi!” I said, excited to see him.

“Hey, babe.” We kissed. “Sorry I’m late.
The plane was delayed.”

I stepped back to look at him. His
exhaustion was apparent. He wore a rumpled suit, a five-o’clock shadow, and
bags under his bloodshot eyes. “You look like crap.”

“I feel like crap.”

“Poor baby. Did your thingamajig go well?”

“Well enough to salvage the account—I hope.
But there are still some problems with the blah blah blabbidy blah…”

I made a sympathetic noise. “Come sit down.
Would you like a massage? I could give you a massage?”

“That would be awesome.” He gave me an
affectionate squeeze as we headed to the family room.

I poured my husband a glass of wine and
wedged myself in behind him on the couch. Paul flicked on the news as I began
to knead the tension from his shoulders.

“Ahhh… that feels great,” he moaned.

If you think that feels great, just you
wait, I felt like saying, but decided not to ruin the surprise. “I missed you,”
I whispered sexily, into his ear, as my hands continued to roam his shoulders
and back. He really was still, quite strong and muscular.

“I missed you, too. And the kids. How are
they?”

“Fine.” Now was not the time to alert my
husband to our children’s possible psychological problems.

“Good… good…”

I rubbed his shoulders for a few more
minutes, sporadically kissing his neck and nibbling his ear. Though I was not
an expert masseur, his tension had definitely eased, and I felt he was primed
for the big event to come. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered in his ear. “I
have a little surprise for you.”

It took about ten minutes to struggle back
into the sexy lingerie, but finally I was ready. With a deep breath for
courage, I headed down the stairs. “Surprise…” I called softly as I entered the
living room. Paul snored loudly in response.

“Paulllll,” I said gently. “I have a
surprise for you. Wake up, honey.”

Loud, unattractive snucking noise.

“Paul.” My voice had returned to regular
volume. “Hey, Paul.” I shook his knee.

More, horrible, snoring sounds.

I felt frustrated. My plan seemed doomed to
failure. I was also in incredible pain and desperately need him to wake up and
rip this lingerie off me. “Paul!” I said loudly, grabbing his shoulders and
shaking him. “Paul! Wake up! Wake up!”

He sat forward with a jolt. “We’ll provide
a backup server while the elite team works on the problem!” His speech was
slurred and his eyes still glazed with sleep.

For a long moment, I looked at my husband,
the object of my seduction. In his dishevelled and confused state, he really
wasn’t what you’d call sexually attractive. When I finally spoke, my voice had
become distinctly maternal, despite my hooker getup. “It’s okay honey. You’re
home now. Come on up to bed.”

The next morning, Paul stayed and had breakfast with us. He
usually left for the office at six-thirty, but decided he wanted to spend some
time with the children. He was fun and jovial, roughhousing with Spencer and
teasing Chloe. If he remembered my resexualizing attempt of the night before,
he wasn’t letting on. He probably felt sorry for me—humiliating myself in that
slutty outfit when he obviously wasn’t in the mood. Or maybe, he was so
exhausted that he didn’t even notice what I was wearing. Still, the sight of
your wife in a garter belt and fishnet stockings should have some sort of
stimulating effect, should it not?

I drove to Rosedale with a cartoon cloud of gloom hovering
above my head. Carly was just backing out of her driveway as we passed, looking
groomed and professional, ready to face the world. I waved, briefly, while
mentally admonishing myself for my own slovenly appearance. We rounded the
corner and headed down the hill towards the school, where I spotted Karen, out
for a morning jog. She waved exuberantly, her cheeks pink with exertion, and,
probably, remembrance of her great ‘talk’ with Javier last night. I was
surprised by a sudden pang of envy. It should be me with the rosy cheeks and
sly smile this morning. It wasn’t fair. Karen had two men who wanted her. She
had hot, passionate sex with Javier, and perfunctory, baby-making sex with
Doug. I had none of it! I couldn’t get my husband to have any kind of sex with
me—exciting
or
run-of-the-mill. God, when I tried to seduce him, he
didn’t even notice!

“Mom?” It was Spencer calling from the backseat.

I was thankful for the distraction from my silent fury.
“Yes, angel?” I looked at my son in the rearview mirror, and the frost encasing
my heart melted at the sight him. His quizzical blue eyes… his freckled nose…
He was growing up so fast. Already six years old and off at school. … My little
man… My precious little man. I was the lucky one, not Karen.

Spencer continued. “What would happen if you had a fountain
in your yard, and instead of water coming out, it had pee coming out?”

“There’s no such thing as a pee fountain,” I said irritably.
This had a somewhat dampening effect on my lovey-dovey mood.

“What about a throw-up fountain?”

“No.”

“Diarrhea?”

“Shut up you gross pig!” Chloe screamed.

“Spencer that’s enough! Chloe, don’t tell your brother to
shut up.”

“But he’s disgusting!” she hurled.

I pulled into our usual spot adjacent the playing field.
Slamming the vehicle into park, I swiveled to face my son in his booster seat.
“I’ve had enough of that kind of language, young man. I hope you don’t talk
about things like that when you’re at school.”

“No.” He blinked at me innocently.

“Because those things are not appropriate to talk about
ever
,
but especially not in school.”

He stared and blinked.

“Do you understand me?” I said firmly. “There will be no
more talking about those things.”

“Okay. (Long pause.) “What things?”

“You know what things!” I was aware that my voice was
becoming shrill.

Blink. Stare. “Fountains?”

“Spencer!” I was definitely losing my patience. “Bodily
functions, okay?”

“What are bodily functions?”

“You retard,” Chloe interjected.

“Chloe! Don’t you say that.” But I could only scold one
child at a time. “Spencer, you know what bodily functions are,” I said through
gritted teeth.

“Ummm… armpits?”

“No, not armpits.”

“Ummm…?”

“Diarrhea! Throw-up! Pee! Snot!” I shrieked. “Those are
bodily functions, okay?”

“Oh…” he said, nodding his head with sudden comprehension.
“Those things.”

“Right. Now I hope I’ve heard the last about them.” As I
turned away from my son, I suddenly realized that all four car windows were
partially open. A small crowd of primary school spectators and their parents
had gathered on the sidewalk to observe my pee and poo tirade.

Spencer waved at them and smiled. He seemed quite pleased
that an audience of his peers had witnessed his mom screaming all his favorite
words. Chloe shot me a look of pure hatred.

“Oh hello! Good morning!” I waved. One or two of the mothers
responded with a curt wave; most of them grabbed their children by the
shoulders and marched them away from us.

“Thanks a lot mom,” Chloe huffed, jumping out of the car and
slamming the door.

“Bye honey!” I called sweetly after her. “Have a nice day.”

When I returned home, I was tempted to lie on the couch,
watch soap operas and eat the entire contents of the freezer (except the fish
sticks). But I knew that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to improve
anything, and neither was gaining five pounds. From the corner of my eye, I
glimpsed a corner of my Life Makeover list, peeking out from its hiding place
in the back of my address book. I took a deep, fortifying breath. I would not
let last night’s failure deter me. I was still committed to improving my lot in
life, and I knew just where to start.

Grabbing two family-sized cans of Campbell’s soup from the
pantry, I moved to the living room and lay on my back on the Berber carpet.
With my arms outstretched, I began to slowly lift the soup cans, focusing on my
pectoral muscles. I had read about it in a magazine—an article on toning your
body using household items. There were all sorts of exercises using brooms and
laundry baskets and hand towels, but this was the one that had stuck with me. I
was realistic: I knew I wasn’t going to recapture my teenaged breasts with a
few soup-can hoists, but it certainly couldn’t hurt.

Just taking action toward reaching my goals
made me feel much more positive. True, these soup cans were not very heavy and
it didn’t really feel like my pectoral muscles were actually doing any work,
but the point was, I was moving forward. And really, it was silly of me to give
up so easily on my resexualization mission. Paul was home now, relaxed and
rested. And it was Friday night: the perfect night for romance. The phone rang.

“Hello?” I was actually a little winded
when I jumped up to answer the phone: a good sign.

“Hey babe, it’s me.”

“Hi honey,” I cooed. “How are you?”

“Good… good…” (Tap tap tap of keyboard in
background) “Listen hon, we’ve got some vendors in from San Jose. We’re going
to take them out for a beer after work. But don’t worry, it’ll be an early
night.”

“Great. An early night sounds great.”

“Yeah, we’ve got a seven A.M. tee-off time
tomorrow, so I want to hit the hay by eleven.”

I was so engulfed by anger and
disappointment that I could not respond. There was a long silence.

“… Paige?”

“Yeah?” I managed, weakly.

“I know I’ve been away a lot, but I’ll make
it up to you on Saturday, okay?”

“Okay.”

I clung to that promise. Somehow, I did not
succumb to the feelings of anger and neglect that simmered under the surface.
Saturday would be the day—it was sex night after all. It would mark the
beginning of a new phase in our relationship. A hot and sexy phase! Despite my
lack of progress, I was as committed as ever to turning this marriage around.

On Saturday morning, after I dropped
Spencer at soccer and Chloe at her hip-hop dance class, I raced to the mall. A
woman on a mission, I walked directly to Victoria’s Secret and purchased the
sexiest red bra and G-string panties I could find. There was no way he could
not notice me in red! When I picked up the children, I drove toward home with a
small smile of accomplishment on my face. Within the hour, I had taken my children
to their enriching, extracurricular activities, and outfitted myself for a
night of incredible passion with my husband. Really, I was pretty good at this
whole wife and mother game. I seemed to have been able to achieve the perfect
balance between kind and nurturing maternal figure, and hot and sexy—

“Heyyyyy… What’s in this pink bag?” Spencer called from the
backseat, interrupting my self-congratulations.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!!!” I shrieked. Keeping my eyes on the road,
I flailed my arm in the backseat area, trying in vain to grab the lingerie bag
that had slid out from under the passenger seat and was now in Spencer’s grasp.

“Why? What is it?” He continued, oblivious to my
admonitions. I could hear the tissue rustling as he dug in the sack. “What is
this thing?” He removed the sheer red G-string from the bag and proceeded to
sling shot it into the front seat of the car.

“Spencer!” I hissed as my new panties landed on the floor
mat beside me. “Put the friggin’ bag away!”

“But what is that thing? Is it a toy?”

“You are such an idiot!” Chloe screamed. “They’re underpants
for mom! They’re disgusting!”

“Thanks Chloe.”

“And what’s this?” Spencer continued undeterred, pulling
another garment from the bag.

“It’s a bra!” Chloe said. “Like duh?”

“But why is it all squishy and lumpy? It sounds like there’s
water in it. Listen.” He shook it for his sister. “See? It’s full of water.”

“It’s a water bra,” I said resignedly. “Now put it away.”

“What’s a water bra?” Chloe asked.

“A bra with water in it. Now, put it away please.”

“But why?” She persisted.

The last thing Chloe needed to be made aware of was the fact
that men were completely obsessed with big boobs. With the track she was on,
this knowledge would see her saving up for breast implants at fifteen, which
she would likely need if she took after me. “It’s more comfortable.” I lied.

“A water bra,” Spencer mumbled, still playing with it.
“That’s weird, a bra with water in it. Could you put something else in it
instead of water? Like pee?”

“Spencer stop!!!” I shrieked. “Just stop! Put the friggin’
bra back in the friggin’ bag!”

“Jeez!” he muttered, but I could hear him replacing it. “You
don’t need to spaz.”

Paul’s car was in the drive when we arrived home. I tucked
the pink bag into my purse as we entered. “Hey guys!” He greeted us cheerfully.
Spencer careened himself into his father and even Chloe gave him an
affectionate shove as she walked past. Paul moved toward me. “How are you?” He
leaned in for a kiss.

“I’m good. How was golf?”

“I didn’t play very well, but the vendors had a good time.
And I ran into Doug Sutherland.”

“Karen’s Doug?” I felt my heart lurch for some reason.

“Yeah. I invited them around for a barbecue tonight. I
thought I’d grill up a few steaks, have a few beers…”