Middle Rage

Oma - 20

I'm washing dishes at the kitchen sink, and when I lean over to set the pan in the drying rack, a wet spot cools my T-shirt at the place my belly hits the counter. I pull back, annoyed, but it's too late of course, the unused apron hanging in the hall closet ten feet away. Every shirt I have gets a stain there, sooner or later.

"Aren't the kids supposed to do that?" Scott comes up behind me, voice husky against my neck.

"Do what?"

"Unload the dishwasher."

"Yeah well..." I sigh, wiggling my butt to communicate, I don't want sex, but might be talked into it. Which is a notch above the Not now, a single tilt of the hip. Both moves are higher than the rejecting butt of immobility, AKA Hell no, don't touch me, I'm pissed. Sometimes I think of all the variant butt moves as something aliens might document for a Human Show on the alien version of BBC, a confidently British-sounding alien doing the voiceover. Perhaps they would liken me to a bee, an entire language in the subtle supine thrusting or lack thereof.

Responding pelvic nudge from Scott: The kids are at sports. He can make it worth my while.

"We should go camping sometime," I say, letting my voice go husky as well.

"Really? I thought you hated camping."

"It'll be good for the boys. They won't be at home forever, and we always talk about it."

Camping is something Scott has been pestering me about, so he laughs a little, delighted. "Yeah, I'll check Morro Bay. Or if not there, we can try Pinnacles."

Full butt wiggle of consent and he squeezes me tight. "Hey, wanna..." He shifts his whole body slightly in the direction of the stairs, and beyond that, the bedroom. I nod and am almost home free when—

"Was that the boys?"

"Hmm?" I arch my neck, his stubble trailing along in that way I like.

"You were texting a minute ago. Boys need a ride home?"

"Aimee and Maria. They want to do a brunch thing on Sunday, maybe take Jenn out special for her birthday or something."

I lean against him, swiveling to kiss his collarbone, trying to distract him. He pulls away, hips silent. Shit. "Won't that conflict with camping?"

I give him a sly smile. "OK, confession. I'm using you and camping to get out of brunch." This is a lie. I am setting him up to take the boys for the weekend. I will fake illness at the last minute, and then, while Jenn is with Aimee and Maria, I will have time to do... I'm not sure yet.

"Ahh, now it makes sense. Who do you hate in that group so bad you'd rather go camping?"

"A good girl never tells." I slip past him, catching his wrist on the way upstairs. "You do want me to be good, right?" This kind of campy dirty talk is not my thing at all. But Scott lights up, becoming a stereotype of the horny middle-aged man chasing me up the stairs, pinching my butt. I squeal, same game since Boys Chase Girls in the schoolyard, my heart accelerating at the cheap thrill, the excitement of not yet being caught.

Sex is pleasurable. I like him inside me, the power of being everything to him, of making him shudder and pant, desperate to be part of me. It's not the same as when I touch myself, not the absolute satisfaction of eardrum throbbing release, but it's the way most sex goes down. I'm no longer sure if what I do with Scott is really faking anymore. Is a handshake faking it? Of course not. It's comforting and necessary, and that is exactly how I feel when we are done. The truth is, sometimes I do come with him, and it feels so vulnerable and exposed, I'm not sure if faking it is my way to stay in control, to keep part of myself wholly to myself. Half asleep next to me, Scott reaches over and fiddles with my bare left finger.