- #Wife of one and all fucking movie
- #Wife of one and all fucking Patch
- #Wife of one and all fucking upgrade
That’s when I began saying my bitter little joke: I’m just the guy who pays the bills. She was in the magic circle with the children. I licked her for hours and licked her some more and she seemed to enjoy it but she didn’t come back to me. I lit candles and anointed her with oils. On the best days I felt a bit irrelevant. It was fucking at the level of jungles and genetic survival, teeth sinking into flesh because the moment cannot be lost, something I have never known before or since.įirst one child, then another. I remember her making the first move and how I went through the motions. Our bedroom was upstairs, blue with flowery white trim. I was thirty-four, about to be a father, drinking too much and writing too little and hating my job, dazed by how fast the world was closing in on me.
It got so hot that sometimes we would take that tan wood table out onto the grass under the tree to eat dinner. We moved to another apartment, trees and gauzy curtains and dark wood floors. I don’t know if that was the night she got pregnant but I always hoped so-a good omen for our child. It was fucking at the level of jungles and genetic survival, teeth sinking into flesh because the moment cannot be lost, something I have never known before or since. Usually her orgasm is important to both of us but that night mine was the only one that mattered. I sat there with my pants around my knees as she straddled me and clutched my head and grabbed the back of the sofa and bucked and surged against me like some kind of furious trapped animal. We decided to have a baby and one night my wife attacked me on the sofa. If you held a gun to my head and asked me to draw an outline of the apartment that showed where the kitchen was, I couldn’t do it. I remember the color of the wood and the shape of the dining alcove and the way she looked lying across the table, dark hair flowing across the light wood and all that bare white skin. It was our first real place and we didn’t have much furniture and one night she lay back on our dining table.
#Wife of one and all fucking Patch
Ours was nicer than most, wood floors and a picture window and a little patch of grass outside shaded by one of those rubber trees with hard dark leaves and those long penile buds that tip pink. We were living in the San Fernando Valley, on one of those endless four-lane roads lined on both sides by tacky apartment buildings. Is this an omen? Have I made a terrible mistake? So what if it’s cold and rocky and exposed.
#Wife of one and all fucking movie
I wanted her to go down on me and she refused and it felt like the moment in an old movie when a dark cloud floats across the sun. I was still inside her when I decided to ask her to marry me.Īfter the wedding, we went to a beach town and wandered along a deserted beach, high bluffs behind us and long stretches of absolutely empty sand to either side. I got a sweet little angel, I love the way she spreads her wings. So we went to bed and it was that warm kind of familiar fucking where everything feels right. Then one night we sat in the yellow kitchen talking and I felt a wave of peace and love wash over me and thought, What the fuck, man, are you crazy? This is a good thing you’re blowing here. I felt guilty for dragging her all the way to New Mexico and dumping her. I started dropping by just to check in, to make sure she was doing all right. She’d fixed it up nice, comfy tan sofa and warm yellow walls, pictures in frames. She was living in an old building in town. After six months I told her it was over and asked her to move out.
But I don’t remember anything we did in that bed. When we lay on our bed, the cool night air poured over the rim of the window like water, falling to the floor and rising back up again, and sometimes cows would get through the gate next door and wake us by chewing the long grass outside the window. Like the time we were living in a small adobe cabin down a dirt road deep in a curve of the Rio Grande. This is the stuff that falls between, the stuff we never mention, the stuff we call life and forget. She was twenty-four and I was twenty-eight and it was the winter of 1982 on 110th Street in Manhattan. I remember moving in her and thinking, I could marry this girl.
I remember cupping her small hard breasts in my hands when I entered her from behind and the way she drove hard against my lips when she came. Lately I’ve been remembering how her room was almost empty and everything was white, how the winter sun washed her slim girlish body in a cool marble light.
#Wife of one and all fucking upgrade
To read every Esquire story ever published, upgrade to All Access. This article originally appeared in the February 2001 issue of Esquire.
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