Monica and Chandler had been a couple for several months, when hints of boredom and routine became noticeable. They neglected to set the mood before making love. They wore sweats around. They talked of practical matters while undressing, and even while making love. One or the other would stay up watching TV, while the other went to sleep alone. Their lovemaking was sloppy, and half-assed.
Monica and Chandler knew that these things were characteristic of a maturing relationship, but before they were even married? Before they were even engaged? After just a few months? Monica watched a rerun of a late-night interview actor Omar Sharif had done years before.
Such a beautiful man! So sexy! Omar described frankly how he and his lady friend always dressed for bed, whether they were going to make love or not. The way he described it, it was so genteel, so romantic, like one of his movies, where everyone is classy and beautiful. Monica took this opportunity to rearrange all of Chandler's closet and drawer space, a favorite diversion of hers. She also shopped, another favorite pastime.
When Chandler got home from the gym one Saturday, he found no sweats in his sweats drawer. It was filled with shiny, thin fabrics. Silk pajamas with cuffs and collars, elegant slippers, a smoking jacket, of all things. Monica said, "From now on, we dress like civilized people. Civilized people who live on a higher plane. Sweats are for sweating. If you want to wear sweats, you have to go to the gym.
Chandler slipped into sarcasm mode, "What, no meerschaum pipe? No cravat? No Playboy bunnies?"
"Get undressed, and get dressed," ordered Monica. Chandler set about it with a sigh. When he came out of the bedroom, he was sure that he would slide off anything he sat upon because he was covered in silk. He sat down at the table. Monica had a meal laid out. She emerged from the bathroom wearing a—what else?—silk robe that covered her from her ankles to just under her chin.
She looked alluring, anyway. Somehow, the robe made him want to see what was underneath, even though he was quite familiar with its contents. Monica lit two candles, turned off the lights, and poured wine. They ate and drank in silence, letting themselves relax into a slower pace, in the moment.
As they dined, Chandler grew more interested in Monica's face and hair. In the candlelight, she could not have been lovelier. When Chandler finished eating, he set his elbows on the table and looked at Monica as if she were dessert. She stood, opened her robe, and dropped it to the floor. She was wearing a red negligee that made her look more nude than being nude. Her breasts billowed out the top. The lace highlighted her skin rather than concealing it. She had great legs.
Chandler's eyes bulged and his rational mind departed his body. He leapt out of his chair and seized her. He kissed her face, neck and shoulders, and crushed her body to his. He released her momentarily to cast off his pajamas. He grabbed her greedily, and started peeling the negligee off of her. She writhed in his arms, purring, "No, darling. Oh, my darling. No, please no. Oh, this feels soooooo good." He was mauling her, but she was not mauling back. She didn't kiss him. It drove him mad. She pleaded, "No, I cannot help you."
He responded, "I don't need your help."
