Protest or Principle: Withholding Sex from My Wife
Day 1: So it begins. Call it a protest if you like. I call it principle. We’ll see who cares more about this election. And by election I mean sex. And by sex I mean me withholding it to make a point. That point being . . . I’m not exactly sure. Maybe that I can go without sex to prove that I am in support of what my wife is in support of, both politically and also in terms of not wanting to have sex with me much.
Day 4: Still no sex, which of course is fine by me. That’s the plan. Surprised it’s been only three days (feels longer?). Is my wife aware of the plan? Hard to say. Last night, I was reading in bed as she entered the room, engaging in our usual foreplay banter. “It would kill you to switch the clothes from the washer to the dryer?” she said. “Seriously?”
I heard what she was saying. But I also heard sexual tension. Or maybe just tension. Come to think of it, it was definitely more annoyance. But I think buried way down under that annoyance (and quite a bit of drawer slamming) was a longing for sex. Which is why I was trying to maintain a look that said, “I am a sexual man but also will not be used for your pleasure, because I have principles, but please know that I will make exceptions.”
My wife did not appear to see me as she put away clothes, but then a quick glance suggested that she had, in fact, seen me and was drawn to me sexually (or possibly not), when she said, “What’s wrong with your face? Are you sick?”
She got into bed, turning her back to me (a sign?), and, sighing loudly, muttered, “I’m so tired I could kill myself.”
Day 7: I feel I’m doing what I must, even if I don’t understand what I’m doing. I haven’t even thought about sex much over the past six days and ten hours. Has my wife? Her coquettish behavior would suggest that she has. When I enter our room, wearing just a towel, I sense, from my wife’s mud mask and Invisalign mouth guard, that the sexual energy is palpable but that I will have to say no. Or maybe make an exception. “What are you doing?” I ask seductively. Maybe not seductively. Maybe just regular.
“What?” she asks, looking at her phone, drooling a bit from the mouth guard. I’ve been standing with one arm leaning against the doorframe. My wife does not look up. My arm begins to tingle from the reduced flow of blood. I revert to a tactic I know she can’t resist: taking handfuls of my stomach fat, pushing them together, and speaking in the voice of Belly Man, who this evening has chosen the lyrics to Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” She looks up and appears to have developed a resistance to Belly Man, then resumes texting.
Day 10: She hasn’t cracked yet, but that could be because she’s on a business trip in Miami, from which she texts photos of herself by the pool. In a bathing suit. But I will not be lured. Well, I would. But she’s in Miami. I consider flying there. But principles cannot be broken. Also, I would have to connect through Phoenix, with a six-hour layover.
Day 14: The conversation starts innocently. But I know my wife. And I won’t budge. Because I want to make the point that I, too, believe in whatever she believes in, which is something I know but am spacing on at this moment.
“Oh, I meant to tell you,” she says casually but also sexually, if you listen very closely, as she unloads bags from Trader Joe’s. “You know Howard and Vivian?”
It’s so funny to me, because she asks this as if sex isn’t on her mind. Her body all but screams sex, underneath her flannel shirt, sweatshirt, and fleece.
“No,” I say, having no idea who Howard and Vivian are.
“Don’t be dumb,” she says. “Two streets over. Older couple. Always gardening.”
It turns out I do know them. “Oh, sure,” I say, knowing we’ll most likely be having sex soon, because although I want to stand by my principles, I also want to be a good husband when my wife clearly wants to have sex.
“Howard died yesterday,” she says.
(Sure he did.)
“So you want to have sex,” I say.
“What? What is wrong with you?”
“Wait. You’re serious? Howard died?”
“He had a heart attack in the garden and fell into a wheelbarrow, which rolled into the street, where he was hit by a car.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I know!”
“So do you want to have sex or not? You’re sending mixed signals.”
Day 18: I decide to test her resolve by luring her, as she sometimes lures me, by wearing form-fitting clothing. (“I’m just wearing yoga pants,” she protests at these times. Protests too much, methinks.)
At breakfast, I say, casually, “How about that election and my principled stand against the things you are against?”
“What are you even talking about?” she asks. “And why are you wearing my yoga pants? Are you drunk?”
Day 21: Wait. Is my protest still valid if I forgot to vote? ♦