Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek at what your friends and neighbors are doing behind doors left slightly ajar. Today, the Frisky, Sexually Frustrated, Post-Knee-Operation Writer: female, 43, writer, Prospect Heights, married.
8:15 a.m.: My guy told me I look like a Sports Illustrated model this morning, lying on the bed. This comment brought a flush to my cheeks, since, at 43 and soft from five recent knee and ankle operations, I’d given up on that job possibility. Note to self: Buy more three-button tank tops.
8:16 a.m.: Still lying on the bed alone. Why? Because this is what happens when every attempt at sex brings howls of pain from you and fear into the eyes of your lover. (Oh! Move off my knee! Ouch! You kicked my ankle! My back! My back!) You end up on the bed alone, even if you are a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.
8:39 a.m.: When I attempt a seductive pose in the tank top in front of him, now wet from the shower, he reminds me that he has to go to work (yes, on a weekend) and that my timing is off, as usual. He says, “Save that pose for me tonight.”
4:30 p.m.: I practice my posing with a straight face.
9:45 p.m.: As we lie in the bed tonight, me on a heating pad, him listening to the blues on earphones, the only pose I attempt is repose. Sigh.
9:45 a.m.: Floating in the pool for my water-aerobics class, I feel no pain for the first time in three years.
Noon: My guy calls from work (yes, on a Sunday) to check in, and I tell him that I really miss sex as a full-contact sport and remind him our Sopranos marathon starts tonight at nine.
9:45 p.m.: Why do I find Tony Soprano sexy? Is it the violence lurking just under the surface or the effect of a New Jersey accent on a home-grown Kansas girl?
10:05 p.m.: Watching my guy fall asleep, I realize that Tony Soprano is not attractive, he is in therapy, and he kills people for a living. I am glad I had the sense to choose my guy.
4:30 p.m.: Our new neighbor asks about my injuries in the elevator, and I think, wouldn’t it have been a better story if I’d blown out my knee during a hot, sweaty evening with my lover than the truth — that I fell off the boardwalk at Coney Island?
8:35 p.m.: We are watching The Colbert Report tonight, holding hands on the bed. How can I find Stephen Colbert and Tony Soprano and my guy sexy? I decide that I’ve been isolated at home recovering from surgery too long.
8:45 p.m.: My guy tells me he loves me for the sixth time today. Looking down at his muscular legs, I appreciate for the millionth time that I am still ridiculously attracted to him.
9:54 p.m.: Back aches, left hip feels like a samurai sword is stuck in it, ankle is throbbing, and right knee is crackling like a bonfire. I look over at that peaceful face, almost asleep and want to ravage him, but I take two Vicodins instead.
10:30 a.m.: I notice for the first time that my physical therapist of three years has incredibly manly and muscular arms.
10:45 a.m.: I ask newly discovered hunky physical therapist how much longer it will be until I can injure myself in bed through wildly exuberant sex. He just laughs. Not a good sign.
11:45 p.m.: I am lying in bed still awake and am reminiscing about what we used to do as a couple before I was injured. I remember once, early in our relationship, my guy and I ran together in the park, and when we came back, sweaty and tired, we made love on his purple madras bedspread.
1:55 p.m.: I am at the farmers’ market looking at the strawberries. I decide to taste one of the fresh ripe berries and close my eyes, and somehow end up imagining I am kissing my man with the warm, sweet juice on my lips. I open my eyes and realize I’ve been standing in public with my lips puckered in a kiss.
7 p.m.: Serving strawberries on a pretty plate at dinnertime brings a blank stare from my lover. “Where is the ‘real’ food?” he asks.
7:15 p.m.: I am washing dishes, and I feel a lingering kiss on the back of my neck. My hands are in hot water, but I am shivering with pleasure.
7:30 p.m.: Watching him eat like a starving animal, I am absolutely stunned that this is the same man who was nuzzling my neck like a teenager just a few minutes ago.
8:45 p.m.: So what if he has a little tomato on his face? His strong hands massaging lotion into my sore foot makes that tiny flaw so meaningless.
7:30 p.m.: I cannot concentrate on the movie because my guy is stroking my fingers seductively and I feel butterflies in my stomach.
8:15 p.m.: I think, maybe tonight I will take an extra pain pill and give him a whirl.
10:30 p.m.: Why do my fantasies always involve planning and usually end with me falling asleep before anything interesting happens? Too much pain. No whirl. Alas.
Total: Zero acts of intercourse, zero acts of oral sex, three massages, one accidental act of faux-solo kissing in public, and a dozen Vicodin.