Mike, Mike & Me (9 page)

“I’m going to bed,” he says, stretching and yawning. “Are you coming?”

“I was going to finish watching Letterman,” I say, dipping my spoon into the ice-cream container again. “Sting is going to be on.”

“Can I have a taste?” Mike asks, eyeing my ice cream.

“You don’t like this kind. It’s lo-carb.”

“You’re right. I don’t like that kind.” He makes a face, then runs a hand over my bare lower leg. “But I can think of something I do like.”

So can I. For example, watching
Late Night
when Sting is Dave’s special musical guest.

“Come on…come to bed.”

There’s a TV in the bedroom, but I know that’s not what he has in mind. Like I said, give him a few drinks and he turns into
Bachelor
Bob Guiney, the kissing fool.

Still, I resist. Sting is sexy.

And I’m not the least bit ready for bed, thanks to the large coffee I drank at McDonald’s and the additional caffeine in the ice cream. After Mike does his thing and rolls over, I’ll undoubtedly be left to lie awake and think.

Given the day’s events, I would most likely think about the other Mike, and that’s the last thing I want to do. I’ve checked my e-mail at least six times since this afternoon.

He hasn’t written back yet.

Chances are, he won’t.

Oh, who am I kidding?

He wrote to me in the first place and he asked me to write back. Sooner or later, he’s going to reply to my reply.

And then what?

And then I’ll be tempted to reply to his reply to my reply, that’s what.

“Come on, Beau.” Mike runs his hand up over my knee to my thigh. He’s been around long enough to know his way around my erogenous zones better than I know my way around Super Stop and Shop. I can feel goose bumps rising on the back of my neck, and they aren’t from a lo-carb coffee-mocha head freeze.

Yes, Sting is sexy, but Mike is sexy, too.

Okay, not as sexy as Sting, but my chances of bedding my favorite rock star are probably nil.

Okay, definitely nil.

My chances of bedding Mike are imminent if I move now, but nil if I wait for Letterman to end. And now that I’m all hot and bothered, somebody is sure as hell going to get lucky tonight.

I contemplate waiting just a little while to join Mike. But waking my husband from a dead sleep after he’s been drinking is about as likely as Sting showing up at our door, sans Trudy, to seduce me into an evening of tantric sex.

In other words, it ain’t gonna happen.

I glance at the silent action on television as Mike’s hand arrives provocatively at the leg band of my boxer shorts. Which are actually his boxer shorts—my version of summer pajamas. As his fingers make their well-choreographed rounds from outer to inner thigh, my stomach launches into its usual gymnastic routine despite my desire to find out why Demi Moore just gave Dave the finger or a thumbs-up—I couldn’t tell which.

“Let’s go,” Mike says suggestively, wiggling his dark eyebrows.

“I guess I can TiVo Letterman,” I concede, pressing a few quick buttons on the remote.

Have I mentioned that TiVo is the best invention ever?

Oh. Sorry. But it really is. Especially at moments like this.

Because the thing is, while I like sex as much as the next married mother of three, I have to admit that lately it isn’t necessarily worth the time and/or effort. And unlike
Late Night with David Letterman,
sex these days is highly predictable, not as creative as it used to be, and over in fifteen minutes or less.

I hate that I’m at a place in my life when I actually have to weigh the benefits of romance versus post-prime-time viewing. I never thought I’d feel that way. There was a time when all Mike had to do was look at me, or graze my hand with his, and I was a primate in heat.

But the truth is, after a day of traipsing around town like an attachment parenting baboon, the last thing I want is somebody else pawing at me or attached to my breasts—even if this brand of pawing and breast attachment is more pleasurable.

When it comes to defining pleasure, there’s a lot to be said for the prospect of being undisturbed in a quiet house with a television remote, the entire length of the couch and the remaining half carton of melting ice cream all to myself.

Then again, sex with my husband might remind me why even the fond recollection of sex with somebody else is bad.

No, not bad.

Naughty.

Definitely naughty.

As I follow Mike up to our bedroom, I do my best to banish the barrage of erotic memories that keep popping up.

He looks in on the boys one at a time while I put away my ice cream and brush my teeth. Then I lie on our brand-new king-size pillow-top mattress and watch him unceremoniously strip off his suit, tie, shirt, T-shirt, boxers, socks.

He seems a little off balance as he hops on one foot and removes the opposite sock.

“How many drinks did you have tonight?” I ask him.

“I don’t know. A few. Why?”

“Just wondering.” I find myself wishing I’d had a glass or two of wine instead of lo-carb ice cream. Then maybe I’d feel a little more relaxed, and a little less anxious about that e-mail I sent earlier.

Not so much anxious, really, as guilty. If Mike knew…

But he doesn’t know, and he’ll never know.

If I get a reply, I’ll just delete it immediately and forget all about the other Mike.

I’ll stop thinking about the past, about what might have been.

Because that, of course, is what I keep wondering about. What would have happened if I had made a different choice that summer? If I had married a different man?

I wouldn’t have my boys…a thought so horrible that it should be enough to nip this thought process in the bud.

But it isn’t.

I envision the other Mike standing there naked; I try to see him as he probably looks now. Is he graying? Gaining weight? Losing his hair?

I can’t help seeing him in my mind’s eye as a modern-day Dorian Gray, immune to the passage of time.

As I watch my husband walk naked toward the adjoining bathroom, I can’t help noticing the slight paunch around his stomach, and, when he turns around, the hint of love handles just above his stark white buttocks.

I know every inch of his body; have seen him naked every day for years. I’m well aware that he’s no longer a buff twentysomething with a six-pack and sculpted biceps. But rarely do I see him as a middle-aged man.

I see that now.

He doesn’t bother to close the door.

Neither of us has; not in years. There’s nothing either of us can do in there that the other hasn’t seen or heard—or smelled—a thousand times before. Back in the beginning of our marriage, there was a certain thrill to sharing each other’s most intimate moments, knowing that no part of our lives was too private to share.

Back then, I couldn’t imagine keeping any secrets from the man I loved.

Now, I have a few.

Like, he doesn’t know that I still have a Neiman Marcus credit card in my own name. We mutually agreed to cut up all our store cards years ago and use cash or American Express.

He doesn’t know that I dented the fender of our old Trailblazer when I backed into a stone wall in the Apple-bee’s parking lot. When he spotted the damage, I feigned innocence and let him think somebody must have backed into me while I was parked somewhere.

He doesn’t know that it isn’t mandatory that both parents attend conferences at Josh’s preschool; that our old washing machine could have been repaired instead of replaced with a shiny new front-loading model; that I lost one of the sapphire earrings he got me for Christmas a few years ago.

And he doesn’t know that I heard from Mike today.

As I listen to the steady stream of urine hitting the toilet water in the next room, I find my arousal waning.

I can’t help it. There’s nothing sexy about pee, unless you have some sick fetish.

I wonder if the other Mike would shut the bathroom door if we were married.

I can’t help that, either. The wondering.

Where would I be, right this very moment, if I had married the other Mike?

I’d still have my career, because my children are the reason I gave it up. I might even be an executive producer by now.

Or maybe I’d still be Ma Ingalls meets Olivia Walton meets Marian Cunningham. Maybe I’d still have my boys, only they’d have a different daddy.

But that’s impossible. If they had a different daddy, they’d have half his genes. They wouldn’t be who they are now. They’d be different.

I don’t want different boys.

I don’t want a different husband, either. Really, I don’t.

The toilet flushes, the water runs, and Mike steps back into the bedroom. He’s familiar and safe and comfortable, and I welcome him into our bed, shoving his fantasy counterpart out of it.

Mike turns out the lamp and slips in beside me. I hear him patting the mattress, as if he’s feeling around for me.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“On my side.”

“Way over there? I told you this bed would be too big.”

He did tell me that.

But I told him there was no such thing as too big, and insisted that our queen-size bed was too small. As evidence, I offered the following:

Exhibit A: our nightly battle over the queen-size comforter—also too small;

Exhibit B: the boys’ tendency to join us whenever they’ve had a bad dream, are sick, need to cuddle, or simply feel like they might be missing something;

Exhibit C: Mike’s irksome habit of sleeping with one arm bent beneath his head and the protruding elbow jabbing my face every time one of us moves slightly.

In the end, Mike gave in and let me charge the king-size pillow-top at Sears’ last one-day sale—no payments, no interest until the new year. It cost over two grand and we don’t have a headboard for it yet, but I don’t care. The last thing I want at night is somebody else crowding my personal space. I really need my space lately, even in my nonwaking hours.

But the whole point of my being in bed with Mike now is to be near him, so I scootch across the cushy new mattress and into his arms.

“That’s better,” Mike says, and kisses me.

“You taste like minty toothpaste.”

He tastes like limes and stale gin.

He kisses me again, first on the lips, then in the hollow behind my ear, then just above my collarbone. I’m aroused again; he knows my body as well as I know his; knows what to do, where to touch me.

Our lovemaking is passionate; more so than usual. As he moves over me and then into me, I find myself closing my eyes and, for the first time in our marriage, pretending that he is somebody else.

The name I call out in a pivotal moment is the right one, but it isn’t my husband whose sweaty body is climaxing into mine, and it isn’t my husband’s face that haunts my dreams when I finally fall asleep hours later, on the far side of the vast new mattress.

ten

The past

C
ue
Mission Impossible
music:

Duh-dah-da-da-duh-dah-da-da-duh-dah-da-da-duh-dah. Badadah. Badadah. Badadah. Badadah…da-da-dah.

Gaile and I had exactly half an hour remaining in which to locate a dozen wintergreen-flavored candy canes on the isle of Manhattan in the dog days of summer.

Why, you ask, did we face such a daunting task?

Because today’s coveted guest on
J-Squared
, a female pop star who shall remain nameless, had stipulated in her contract that the greenroom be stocked with certain items.

So there we were, lowly production assistants on a glorified scavenger hunt that had thus far taken us uptown, downtown, all around the town. We had little trouble locating the specific brands of bottled water and crudités dip.

But so far, catering to our diva’s other demands had proven to be a tremendous pain in the ass. We had to go to a specific Mulberry Street bakery for white-chocolate toasted-almond biscotti and to a specific health-food store in the East Village for the homeopathic lozenges to protect her precious vocal cords.

We had found a box of stale candy canes in a discount bin in a NoHo drug store, but alas, they were peppermint. Now we were headed to a dollar store in Chelsea that was rumored to have received an assorted-flavors Christmas candy closeout shipment.

“Okay, which way is north?” Gaile asked, bending to adjust the strap of her high-heeled shoe as we emerged from the subway at Fourteenth Street.

I looked around for the reassuring sight of the twin towers of the World Trade Center, every New Yorker’s trusty old anticompass. Wherever they were, that was south. Unless you were in Brooklyn, in which case you didn’t need a compass or the World Trade Center to find your way around; you needed a full-blown guidebook. At least, I did.

All that mattered to me that summer was that I had mastered Manhattan, the only borough that counted. Nobody I knew had resorted to living in Brooklyn, or wanted to.

As we zigzagged our way uptown, our Oakley Frogskins shielding our eyes from the bright midday sun, I filled Gaile in on my conversation with commitment-phobe Mike before he got on his return flight to L.A. the night before.

“He said that even if he lands one of the jobs he interviewed for, he isn’t sure he’s going to take it,” I told Gaile. “He said something about having to make sure they’re offering the right ‘package.’”

“Package? What the hell does that mean?”

“You know…salary, benefits, vacation days, perks.”

“Oh, please. Who the hell is entitled to a ‘package’ the first year out of grad school?”

I explained to Gaile that things were different outside of our industry, where hordes of brilliant and ambitious newcomers were willing to sign on for slave labor at a pittance. In the real world—i.e., the high-tech computer world—entry-level applicants with master’s degrees actually shopped themselves around.

“So it’s beggars—you and me—versus choosers—Mike. He has the luxury of entertaining offers instead of jumping on the first one that comes in. Is that how it works?” Gaile asked, stopping to lean against a Batman movie poster on a bus-stop wall so she could once again adjust the strap of her left four-inch-heeled stiletto.