This story is a slight departure from my usual stories and was co-written with my husband, Rusty Marshall
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Bridget Mallory lay corpse-still, staring at the ceiling, beside her husband of more than twenty years. A solitary tear slipped from one eye and slowly snaked its way toward her ear. Frustration was nothing new to her. She had spent more than a few frustrated nights alone in their bed, even though her husband had been right there beside her. Dropping off to sleep with tears in her eyes, pain in her heart, and that all-too-familiar need between her thighs had become increasingly difficult for her over the last few years. Recently, it had been occurring far too often.
Bridget lived in a constant search for anything that might help rekindle the fires of passion in her husband. She loved Grant with all her heart. He was a faithful husband, a great father, and an excellent provider for their family. The sexual side of their relationship had always left a lot to be desired but now he was a big, fat zero. And that was exactly what she had been getting from him lately, zero.
Determined to keep her marriage together and her sanity intact, she had consumed every bit of information available on the subject. In the process of attempting to fuel Grant's nearly non-existent libido, Bridget Mallory had become a revered name with the order department at Victoria's Secret. Resolute in her quest for a solution to her dilemma, she had taken to cutting out the pictures of the sexy, more-perfect-than-life models from the catalog and taping them to the refrigerator as inspiration in her endeavor to make herself more sexually alluring to Grant.
In her heart, Bridget knew she could never look like those airbrushed beauties, but there was no harm in trying. Many times she had analyzed her nude figure in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door; she still had a nice figure and decent appearance; maybe a bit of a tummy, but hell, she's given birth to two children. She had gained a few pounds while carrying the babies, but with much effort, had lost all of it. But that little tummy pouch one develops during pregnancy was still present and nothing short of cosmetic surgery would ever get rid of it.
One evening she had struck a sexy pose for Grant just before slipping into bed beside him and said, "Whataya think? I've lost forty pounds."
He eyed her from over the top of the book he had been reading and replied, "If you could just lose that flabby pouch over your belly, you might be okay." With obvious lack of concern for her or her feelings, he returned to his book.
Her mind raced.
How can you be so cruel?
She wondered.
You could've said, "Hey, you're looking good, but if you can lose that pouch you'd be looking great!" But no, nothing like that. "You might be okay." Might? Okay? That's the best you can do? You're a son-of-a-bitch, a rotten son-of-a-bitch!
She wanted so desperately to vocalize her thoughts, but as usual, kept her mouth shut and her damaged feelings to herself.
"So much for the possibility of sex for tonight," she mumbled under her breath as she walked into the bathroom. "After a comment like that, I wouldn't give it to you tonight even if you begged for it. Yeah right, like a chance of that happening might've really existed. I stand a better chance of getting hit by a meteor."
#
The next morning, with rising hopes, she had watched Grant ogle the pictures on the refrigerator. She owned an outfit like each of the ones the different models were wearing. Her hopes were quickly and unceremoniously dashed to the floor when he glanced at her, than back at the pictures, and commented, "Tyra Banks you ain't."
Before she could regain enough composure to reply, he strolled from the kitchen without a clue of how rude and hurtful he had just been to the woman he supposedly loved. Finally, she recovered enough from the shock to mumble under her breath, "That may be true, but I'm as close as you'll ever get to her, mister. For such a highly educated man you can sure make some stupid statements. You'd think with two degrees you'd at least have a
little
common sense."
She had carefully watched Grant as his eyes roamed from picture to picture. She was interested to see which models or outfits seemed to strike his fancy the most. Then he had made his snide remark about Tyra Banks, which had narrowed the field down considerably. All she had to do after that was figure out which of the three photos of Tyra he had stared at the most, then she would have a pretty decent idea which outfit he had found the most interesting. Even though she was pissed at him at the moment, she wasn't about to give up hope for the future.
His eyes had returned repeatedly to one particular photo on the upper-right-hand corner of the refrigerator. After he left the kitchen, Bridget scanned over the photos and sure enough, the photo attracting the most attention was one of Tyra Banks in a sheer, deep-red baby-doll nightie, leaving very little to the imagination. The outfit included matching bikini panties and garter belt.
Bridget had an outfit exactly like it, still in the box in her closet. The only part of the sexy outfit Tyra was wearing that Bridget didn't already own was the red stockings and red-satin stiletto heels.
"This little oversight will be remedied before bedtime tonight," she mumbled as she stared at the picture.
#
Hoping to squelch Bridget's incessant nagging once and for all, over their need to seek professional assistance, Grant finally agreed to see a marriage counselor with her. He also agreed to be both, open with any questions he might have, and honest with any answers he gave. Sitting in front of the counselor's desk, Bridget began to wonder if the whole thing had simply been a total waste of time and money.
"Okay, now that we've laid out the ground rules, who's going to start off?" the counselor asked.
"Go for it, Bridget," Grant suggested. "This whole farce was your asinine idea in the first place."
"Mr. Mallory, if that's the kind of attitude you're going to exhibit, you're right, this is going to be a farce and an asinine idea," the counselor stated, folding her hands together and resting her elbows on top of her desk. "If this is the same attitude you have toward your marriage, I can see why your wife feels the need for professional help. It seems to me that you're ready to blow the whole thing off as some kind of big joke already, before the first words have even been spoken."
Grant sat quietly for several minutes, like he was mulling the issue over. Finally he spoke, "I just don't see where there's a problem in our marriage big enough to warrant seeing a marriage counselor. I'm sorry if I seem to be too frank, but I promised Bridget I would be open and honest here today."
"Open and honest is one thing, but open hostility, and out and out rudeness are quite another," the counselor replied.
"Again, I am sorry," Grant apologized.
"Apparently, Mrs. Mallory feels something is threatening your marriage. But it's also apparent she feels the marriage is worth saving at this point and that whatever the problem is can be worked out if addressed properly. Otherwise, the two of you wouldn't be sitting here right now. Do you think your marriage is worth saving?"
