Sway of West

Chapter Two-2

The third date kiss was worth the wait. Before parting ways we engaged in a severely cringe-worthy, totally awkward but necessary, ten seconds of good-bye conversation before the actual lean-in. First kisses are rarely picture perfect, and that’s where our awkwardness ended. The truth was, I hadn’t been kissed like that in years. It wasn’t a typical hard-to-watch prime time reality show tongue wrestle. This was so much better.

His right hand creeped up behind my neck, fingers laced slowly through my hair then gripped firmly, ever so slightly kissing me harder, as if to take hold of what was rightfully his and say “It’s about time”. His primal approach was unexpected, sexy beyond belief, and sent shockwaves straight to my pidgey. But this wasn’t a one night stand, it was something foundationally solid that had potential to go far. My pidge was desperate to play with something not requiring batteries, but despite experiencing the sexiest kiss I’ve had in 20 years, I wasn’t about to kick off my panties, get horizontal, and possibly screw it up.

The dates continued, and it was clear we were both in the relationship for the right reasons. The heat was building, it was now July in New Jersey, where hazy, hot, and humid are the only words used to describe the weather. In our case, we added a 4th H-word: Hard. The summer swelter acted like a relationship catalyst and launched us into hyper Get-To-Know-You Mode. We couldn’t keep our hands off one another. Date nights started out at classy restaurants with $200 bottles of wine and ended with kinky debauchery and mornings where my legs could barely carry me to my car.

We fell into a date night routine where I’d conveniently forget to wear panties underneath my dress and he’d pretend he’d want to go for a walk after our meal. We sprinkled our self-indulgent, dessert-like banging sessions all over alley ways, parking garages, neighborhoods, park benches, parking lots, and the University campus. And when the weather got cold, we started skipping the walks and snuck into the men’s room at whatever restaurant we were dining at.

The first time Myles suggested a joint trip to the loo was more of a dare, and being a total rule follower, I was feeling shy. He flashed that grin and ordered us both a shot of tequila for courage. The devilish smile, tequila, and knowing I’d get seven inches of the most glorious hardness a man has to offer had won me over.

Hot s*x up against an ice cold tile wall only heightens the nerve senses, and both of us came quickly. I walked out of the restaurant with a huge smile on my face and c*m dripping down the inside of my leg, all while feeling like a million bucks. The excitement of being desired, loved, and spiritually matched to this man was something I’ve never experienced before.

I was high on life and it wasn’t just about incredible s*x. Myles was everything I looked for: Witty, morally-rooted, and classically chivalrous. In a world where women are demanding control and equality in all aspects of life, I wanted tradition and a relationship where I can fully appreciate a man’s masculinity. I didn’t want the over the top, New Jersey guido who worships his biceps, owns a GlowBro 5000 tanning bed, and spends more time looking in the mirror than I do. I wanted the classy, self-confident man who likes to follow current events, holds open doors, and thinks his woman should have pretty things.

It’s so sensual to think about how a man courts a woman, a seductive dance done right ensures every moment is savored. We’d have deep discussions over cabernet and creme bruleé, if that’s what the night called for, or go loco with tequila shots and buffalo wings. He took the time to learn who I was. Not just how to apply the perfectly pressured circles right above my c**t, but cerebral things like why I cry at happy news stories, or how to spot signs of an oncoming migraine with body positioning, squinted eyes, and lack of conversation.

One morning I thought I was coming down with a cold and he brought me thick socks to put on. I was already wearing dress socks, but they weren’t warm enough. And he was right, I needed to get warm. The caring wasn’t oppressive, it was the right suggestions at the right time. Being a multi-dimensional thinker was important to me, the ying and the yang. Someone who is one-dimensional is either fatally boring or an extreme liability, there’s no in between.

Strong, profound relationships don’t happen by chance. The contributing factors that support a healthy relationship are so often learned from experiences with previous fucktards, and the emotional pain, dumbing-down, and adult-like babysitting that comes with it. Ours was no different. Myles and I both were fresh from divorcing our less-than significant others, surfacing with a need to find someone truly worthwhile. Both of us had experienced the single scene for long enough that the word ‘rebound’ didn’t register as a potential threat. We were focused on how to properly appreciate someone and to recognize past mistakes while adjusting to avoid future relationship f**k-ups. He was learning to love someone who had a soul and not a material checklist while I was learning to love a responsible and honest man instead of a party boy.

So many powerful lessons previously learned between the two of us that for a long time we felt invincible to the common relationship woes. Never in a million years would Myles come home late at night with skanky glitter still stuck on his neck from a lap dance or with mysterious dents appearing on his car because he drove home blotto for the thousandth time. Just the comfort of those thoughts alone would have been enough for me to say “yes” when Myles asked for my hand in marriage. Naturally, he absolutely has short-comings, but I could look past the relentless and repeated pun jokes, and lack of having any basic home maintenance skills outside of plunging a toilet. I was all in, till death do us part, and beyond.

Deep discussions during those getting-to-know-you cabernet-filled nights had occasionally led to the topic of motherhood. At the time I was nearing 36, while true my biological clock was ticking, I wasn’t necessarily paying a lick of attention to it. I never latched (Pun definitely intended!) on to the idea of being a mom. Maybe my apprehension started with the first husband, knowing all of the responsibilities a baby would bring would ultimately take down the marriage, so I just avoided it.

But then came Myles, and so came conflicting thoughts on which path to take. Do we indulge in life as adults, keep climbing our respective corporate ladders, and spend stupid amounts of money on dining, travel, house, and cars? After all, we were both nearing the top of the age bracket for being active and engaged parents. Or do we take advantage of a beautiful gift that Mother Nature has to offer and possibly create a little monkey of our own that has his butt chin and my hammer toes?

We simply couldn’t decide, the potential regret of making a piss poor decision plagued us. As newlyweds, we did what any decision-avoider would do and handed our fate to the stars while pitching my birth control out the window. The stars RSVP’d about three weeks later on a fine autumn Sunday when Myles and I were indulging in a little afternoon delight, reverse cowgirl style. It was this particular rodeo where Myles and I became pregnant. I cried like a baby reading that damn pee stick. Then I peed on a second stick just to make sure it was correct and cried some more.

I felt like hell on fire the entire ten hours leading up to the pee stick moment, and had myself convinced I was super hungover from throwing a Halloween party the night before. All signs pointed in that direction; near-vomiting queasiness paired with the sweats, exaggerated body aches, and a pounding headache, all reinforcing a half-assed promise to never drink again.

Earlier in the afternoon, I attempted a McDonald’s resuscitation with a double quarter pounder with cheese, large fry, and a diet coke. When the 2,000 calories of heart attack-inducing loveliness didn’t make me feel any better, I started to think maybe I had caught some sort of feverless flu. Every piece of my body hurt, including my scalp from slightly snagging my hair on a zipper pull earlier that morning. The lousiness I was feeling didn’t make sense. Despite throwing the best Halloween party ever, I never reached Rock Star Mode because I was playing hostess, so technically I couldn’t be THAT hungover. But holy smokes, did I feel like the floor of a New Jersey Transit bus.

Slowly, I started putting the fertilization pieces together. Since when did a trip to McDonald’s ever fail to cure me from my hangover? The answer to that was never. In all of my 20 year relationship with alcohol, McDonald’s was the no-fail cure-all. Every. Single. Time. And why the hell was my scalp still throbbing? The hair snag was ridiculously minor. And, (Oh s**t!) why has my period been spotty over the last ten days? And that’s when the dim light bulb went off over my head.

Cue the tears, because life as I knew it was over. No more wine, no more life-threatening amounts of coffee, and even s*x got weird quick. Wanting a hard and fast, animalistic doggy style session seemed like a serious conflict of interest when you’re pregnant. And once I started to show, it got even worse. But I stayed positive and focused on preparing for my role as a mom, after all, I couldn’t wait to meet her.

Like most new moms, once Jess was born I went bat-s**t, postpartum crazy. Times were tough, emotions were unstable and mixed, but we got through it day by every-single-n****e-leaking day. I slowly acquiesced into motherhood and kissed my former, sexually-satisfied adult life good-bye. Even though I was endlessly amazed on an hourly basis at a little drooling ball of pudge and spit-up, I missed what Myles and I had like peanut butter misses jelly. But alas, the honeymoon was over. By the time the toddler years rolled around, we had become that constantly bickering couple we forever swore we wouldn’t be.

It’s becoming harder and harder to remember what we used to be like, what we can still be like. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t like what I see. The wrinkles and sunspots are fine, well maybe not fine, but not the end of the world either. It’s the anger, frustration, and resentment that’s tearing me apart inside resulting in a ferocious furrowed brow and resting b***h face. I hate feeling like I’m on the verge of insanity at any given moment.

I’m not looking to recapture the life filled with ultimate freedom and the exhibition style we once had, but I would like some of it back, dammit. We’ve still got the raw ingredients to bring this relationship back together. I’m about to turn 42 years old and what I want for my birthday is to reclaim the old me, to engage in a Strategic Mode and figure out a plan on how to get my sanity and my man back. I want a bit of my old self back, and Myles and I back to good.

As I navigate my way through the bowels of New Jersey’s pharmaceutical country, I ponder the different ways to go about reconnecting with Myles. It’s exhilarating to think of potential opportunities that may lie ahead, but also downright scary to think that whatever masterplan I come up with could also lead to the mother of all rejections; Divorce.

What if Myles isn’t feeling as convalescent as I am?

The reality is that we have not been in a good place for a very long time. The thought of us failing in marriage triggers my gut into a Great American Scream Machine-worthy free-fall, and the ride deposits me right into a swamp of major uncertainty. The stench of it radiates failure.

Get your s**t together, Rachael West.

This isn’t going to be a walk on the beach. Without some sort of responsibility pause button that resembles a hospital stay, I’ll be pushing myself past my normal RPM redlining efforts, if that’s even possible. But I have to at least try. Sometimes I think it would be easier to just keep our status quo, ignore the obvious and glaring funk that’s screwing up our marriage, and go buy myself a new Marc Jacobs bag for my birthday. But then again, nothing worthwhile comes easy.