6:30 a.m. I awake to my alarm buzzing and Husband not in bed next to me. I hit snooze until Husband opens the bedroom door and tells me to get up before I’m late taking Little, our 4-year-old son, to his special-needs program where he gets all his therapies.
7:15 a.m. I watch Husband as he tries to get in a few minutes of quality time with Little. Husband picks Little up, throws him, and catches him. Husband doesn’t seem to notice the way Little’s hands clench in spasm, the way he walks with his leg braces the way I imagine a scissor would walk, thanks to his cerebral palsy. I both adore how Husband treats Little like a typical child, and resent that, as the one in charge of coordinating his therapies, I don’t always have that luxury.
9:30 p.m. Husband comes home late after working overtime again (he’s in advertising). I’ve been researching stuff online and barely look at him when he walks through the door because I’m immersed in an article.
9:35 p.m. He physically lifts me away from the computer and slaps my butt over my jeans. I say hello properly, and he smiles and kisses me. He tells me he loves me and doesn’t want to be ignored when he comes home. Husband takes me by the hand and leads me to the bedroom.
9:38 p.m. He pulls my jeans down and bends me over the bed. I’m still wearing my shirt and shoes. He begins to spank me, panties down, but I recognize by the lightness of the swats that he’s just playing and trying to get me turned on. It kinda works, and it takes my mind off of things long enough for him to be able to push himself inside me while we’re fully clothed. I worry about getting sex juice on the comforter. It feels good, but I can’t focus. I don’t come.
10 p.m. “All right, fine. What did you want to show me on the computer?” he asks when we finish.
8:30 a.m. I come home from dropping Little off at school. Husband’s in the kitchen, injecting something into the upper part of his muscular butt. I know this is why he has the sex drive of a horny teenager at the age of 36. Despite my fears about steroids, Husband has zero acne and his balls never shrunk, thanks to the estrogen-boosting drugs the doctor gave him in addition to the testosterone. He looks better than any of my friends’ husbands, filling out his T-shirt so his biceps strain against the material. “I love your shoulders,” I say. He drops the needle into an old protein-powder container and grins. “Thanks, babe. And you’re totally hot.” I laugh but I know he means it, and I feel sexy. He leaves for work.
9 a.m. Husband leaves for his job and says,“I love you,” as he walks out the door. We both make sure it’s always the very last thing we say to each other before either of us leaves the house, or hangs up the phone. That means if he says “I love you” and then has to come back in and grab the keys, he’ll say it again. We never made a plan to do this, it just happened. Since I do the same thing with both my parents and with Little, and Husband does the same with his parents, I wonder if it’s something that Jewish mothers habitually instill in their children.
11 p.m. Husband goes to bed before me after we watch Alex Jones’s alternative news show on YouTube. I’m all riled up again and can’t sleep so I stay on the couch, watching a year-old video of Adam Kokesh getting brutalized by cops for dancing at the Jefferson Memorial. I think that Kokesh is really hot, with that shaved head and all those muscles, just like Husband. I love how he resists authority peacefully. I hate how they beat him and choke him, even though he doesn’t fight back. But I watch the video three times in a row.
6:45 a.m. Husband is awake and out of bed before me. I don’t know if he slept on the couch or not.
8 p.m. I dress up for “girls’ night out,” glad to be out of my usual outfit of jeans and a shirt. Husband pins my arms to the wall as he kisses me and tells me I look hot. He lets go of my arms and we wrap each other in an embrace against the wall, making out, hidden by the layout of our house. Little is late to bed and sees us, toddling over to us in his funny gait, his left hand held up in a claw position next to his ear as if for balance. He hugs our legs and looks up, grinning. The sexy make-out session becomes a family group hug.
9:30 p.m. All the girls have had a few drinks except for me and are trash-talking their husbands. I have nothing bad to say about mine, but if they knew he spanked me they’d think he was some sort of abuser, even if I told them I enjoyed the dynamic. They’re totally vanilla.
Midnight I come home. Husband is on the couch, watching Sons of Anarchy. I straddle his lap and we neck on the couch like teenagers. I want to mount him, but the windows have sheer curtains, so we go into the bedroom and do it there, me on top.
5 a.m. Husband wakes me up accidentally and now I’m up, too. He never attempts morning sex anymore, after almost ten years of me turning him down. I’m not a morning person, so he jacks off in the shower.
5:30 p.m. Husband, Little, and I eat at McDonald’s. We don’t keep kosher the way we did when we first got married. Husband eats so much food I get a little ill watching him, but since he works out at the gym every day during lunch and is on steroids, his metabolism absorbs it. I’d still love him if he gained a bunch of weight, of course. But knowing him, he’ll be using TRT (testosterone replacement therapy, i.e., steroids) forever. I imagine after ten years of marriage and a child together, having him gain weight if he had to stop working out wouldn’t be the end of the world. God knows I gained a bunch when I was pregnant. Took a year to lose it, too. And yet he still told me I was hot every single day. Such a keeper!
7 p.m. I light the Shabbat candles late, but since we don’t actually keep the Sabbath I’m not too concerned. We’re Jewish-lite.
8:45 p.m. With Little in bed, Husband and I have time to ourselves, but he says he’s still too full for sex. We watch the mainstream news and debate everything being told to us.
9 p.m. I tell Husband about the lithium pipeline in Afghanistan worth a trillion dollars, lithium that America wants for computers and batteries. He agrees that the mineral resources and the oil in the Middle East are the reason the American government is overstaying its welcome. Husband thinks terrorists are still a threat, in part at least. The debate continues when I say the only threat to our safety is our own government. At this point I’m too pissed off at the news to have sex anyway.
11 p.m. We go to bed and say a prayer for the troops, that they can come home and put an end to this blood for oil war. Then we tell each other “I love you,” and go to sleep, our backs pressed against each other for comfort.
10 a.m. I start my period, and on the weekend too. I curse my bad luck and regret not having sex with Husband last night when I could. We semi-follow the laws of Taharat Ha’Mishpacha, Family Purity. Once I get my period I’m “niddah” (unclean, not that I think of myself as unclean) and we can’t have sex until after I stop spotting. I tell Husband the bad news. The good news is that by the time we can have sex, it’s always like our honeymoon all over again. Technically, there’s no touching at all allowed during this time, although we always cheat and continue non-sexual touching, mainly because I can’t keep my hands off of him and vice versa. The few times in our marriage when we had sex during my period, I ended up getting a urinary tract infection right after. That sealed the deal for us. Even though we were both raised Jewish, neither of us knew about Family Purity until right before we got married.
12:30 p.m. Husband takes Little to the playground and I’m grateful to have an hour of privacy. I use my vibrator on the outside of my panties, thinking about the last time my husband used the vibrator on me and gave me so many orgasms I lost count. This time I have two in a row and take a nap.
2 p.m. Little and Husband are home. Husband watches as I make the bed again, knowing he’s not supposed to watch me make the bed because it might incite us to have sex when I’m niddah. I laugh at him. “Mommy’s hot,” he tells Little. “Firestar hot,” Little says. That’s Spiderman’s female sidekick. I raise my eyebrows at Husband, knowing he taught the kid to say that.
Midnight Husband and I sleep facing away from each other to avoid temptation. I’m not in the mood anyway. At some point in the night, he moves to the couch.
1:30 p.m. Little is napping and will be for the next two to three hours. Husband kisses my neck as I fold the laundry and fondles my breasts. I push his hand away, and PMS makes me not so gentle about it. “Don’t start what you can’t finish,” I say. Husband groans and excuses himself to the bathroom to jack off.
3 p.m. Husband’s dad watches Little, so Husband and I can go do target practice. I shoot the paper target right in the head on the first shotand follow it up with a tight grouping of more head shots. “That’s some clean shooting,” the gun range owner says when we check out and he sees my target. Husband looks very proud of me, and even though I hate the loud pop pop pop of the gun range, I love that look on his face. It’s a good date.
7:30 a.m. Husband comes in and wakes me up, but I’ve already hit snooze so many times that Little and I will be late for school.
3 p.m. Little is napping, so I take a nap too. I can’t fall asleep even though I’m tired, so I give myself a quick orgasm with the vibrator again. Masturbation gives me a different type of orgasm than when Husband makes me come. It’s faster by myself, and a bit more relaxing since I know I can just fall asleep right after instead of it being a prelude to a longer sexual experience.
9:30 p.m. Husband asks if I’m still spotting, and I am, so he doesn’t bother even kissing me. He tells me he loves me and goes to bed early, and I stay up researching things online until I’m so upset I can’t sleep at all.
2 a.m. Still awake. Still worrying.
TOTALS: Two acts of intercourse; two masturbation sessions; one spanking; two make-out sessions; one illicit fondle; several attempts at practicing our religion.