When my ex-wife first bought a baby-blue vibrator
to add a little buzz back into our sex-life, I spent
all night pacing our patio, my head spinning from the thought
that my non-vibrating penis had grown stale and
boring, like a christmas tree still standing in your living room
in March. For my birthday, she gifted me a coffee mug,
and a paddle which promised to be Euphoric & Titillating.
With martini mustache, I sheepishly whipped her butt,
feeling like a bad ping pong player, and at first,
she liked the small red marks streaked upon her body,
told me harder, harder. But soon, I accidentally snapped
the paddle back into my face, and for twenty minutes,
my nose gushed blood—red snot splatter crusted on the sheets.
Our marriage counselor would later say that this was a perfect example
of managing expectations, that sex isn’t the hot fuzz
flurry depicted in romance novels. And she was right.
I’ve yet to find a book that gets even close to our failing sex life,
the passion creeping away from us like a racoon slipping out
from a trash can. Months before the divorce, my ex-wife
took a game of Connect 4 and blazoned the pieces
with sexy acts like foot massage and earlobe licking.
But when she hitched 4 pieces together, I fastened my arms
against my chest like a seatbelt, and announced,
I can’t get turned on until I win at least one round. After losing
the fifth game in a row, I fumed out into the hall, then told my wife
that she cheated more in Connect 4 than in her low-carb diet.
We stomped around our house, yelling at each other until our faces
turned the color of the pink vibrator my wife stashed in
the sock drawer. We fought until the sun peeked through the prison
of our blinds, blinked off the metal of our handcuffs. Not once
did our clothes come off. Not once could I connect four.
Jean-Luc Fontaine is a Tucson based poet. He enjoys hot coffee and long bus rides.