The Birthday Present 12

“Happy birthday!” I said with a great, wide, grin as I reached up around his neck to embrace him. Shrugging nonchalantly, he hugged me back, his arms encircling my waist. He had tried to convince me that to him, this was just another day and there was no cause for celebration, I felt differently and insisted on having a party for him. He hated parties, especially if the attention was focused on him, but he behaved graciously never the less. He was showered with gifts, adorned in colorful bows and wrapping paper. Off key verses of “Happy birthday to you” were sung by his family and closest friends while I brought in the cake lit with more candles than he cared to count or admit to. The candles lit the dark room, as he bent over to blow them out, I could see the lines time had made around his eyes and mouth, the graying hair made white by their glow.

With a puff they were extinguished, as I cut the cake, the white icing tinged blue from the melted wax from the candles, I contemplated time. It seemed like yesterday, yet the evidence of time lay before me; crumbs of soft, velvety, chocolate melded with white, sugary, icing and blue bits of candle wax. Smiling, I served the birthday boy the first piece, kissing him affectionately on the cheek as I handed him the brightly decorated paper plate, carefully balancing the slice of cake and the plastic fork. How many cakes had I baked, decorated, and served; for how many occasions? I pondered this as I took my seat beside him, my fork sliding through the slice, the sweet icing melting in my mouth.

There were birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, graduations, baby showers, and cakes made for no other reason than, just because. Each cake consisted of the same ingredients yet each one was unique, different flavors, and different colors of icing, each cake made to celebrate a landmark day in an otherwise normal calendar. I watched him as he finished off the last of his piece, scraping left over icing with his fork and landing it into his mouth. He always saved the icing for last claiming that it was the best part of the cake.

He joked with his friends, thanking them for their gifts. Hugged his family, kissing his fragile mother lovingly on the cheek as she left. He and I were alone now, staring at each other over a pile of dirty plates and napkins, wrapping paper that once decorated gifts, now lay in abandoned piles of color on the floor. “Did you have a nice birthday?” I asked him, watching him as he scooped up the icing left on the cake board, balanced it on his finger and slid it into his mouth.

“Mmm,” he replied through a mouthful of icing and cake crumbs. He retreated to the family room, flopping on the couch searching the cushions for the remote. After successfully rescuing the remote from the depths of the couch, releasing a confetti of bubble gum wrappers, loose change, and pop corn kernels, he surfed through the channels settling for the news.

Dutifully, I gathered up the remnants from the party, depositing trash into a black plastic bag, piling up cards and gifts into neat stacks. The carpet was littered with cake crumbs and bits of paper, but that could wait till morning. He sat on the couch, sprawled out resembling a beached whale; his jeans low, riding under his belly. His sweatshirt bunched up around his chest, revealing his pale, white, protruding stomach. He dozed, catching bits of the evening news between snores. I took advantage of the opportunity to prepare my gift to him.

Our sex life had always been satisfactory, but lately, it had lost its spark. I intended to rekindle that spark this evening. I pulled out a bag from underneath the bed; it contained a carefully selected negligee; complete with silk stockings and spiked heels. A little embarrassed, I slid my jeans and tee shirt off and slid on my ensemble. The stiff lace of the bodice was rough and itchy as it rubbed against my skin, the hose felt cool and smooth, my feet slid around in the spiked heels, I wobbled as I walked around the bedroom, the heels snagging in the carpet. The ensemble came with a thong, I had never worn one before, and it felt foreign as it twisted and slid as I walked. I listened for a minute, making sure he was still snoozing on the couch, before I made my way across the hallway to the bathroom.

Locking the door securely behind me, I hobbled to the vanity, pulling out a bag of new makeup I had purchased. I had not purchased my usual housewifely shades of mauve, pink, and beige. I had brilliant vermilions, cherry, and a seductive smoky black liner for my eyes. Gingerly, I applied the makeup; first lip liner then lipstick, a little blush, a lot of eyeliner and mascara, with just a hint of face powder. I pulled a new bottle of perfume out of the bag and applied it liberally. The perfume had a musky, sweet, erotic smell, quite different from my usual fragrance, a housewifely blend of Mr. Clean, Lemon Pledge, and Dawn. My hair, what to do with the obligatory, short cropped with blonde highlights, soccer mom, “don’t have time to mess with it” hair cut? I dusted off my curling iron, hoping the thing still worked and began to twist my poker straight locks into curls. I applied hairspray, teased, curled and begged my mop to do anything besides just lay there on my head, it obliged turning into a curly, bouncy, playful mass of curls.

Standing back and looking into the bathroom mirror, I admired my creation, plain old ordinary Jane Doe housewife to Sex Goddess in less than 20 minutes. I looked over my satin and lace-covered frame, and wondered to myself, do I still have it? I turned sideways and looked at my own pooch; sucking it in, I stood up straight. My thighs, wiggly on the inside, luckily were covered by the black hose; My breasts, once at the height of their glory, had, like the South, surrendered, their points facing the same southerly direction. I adjusted the underwire of the bodice and tightened the straps, trying to perk them up. I turned around to look at the backside. The black satin of the bodice, hid most of the love handles. When I saw the cheeks of my butt, sagging around the strap of the thong, I hung my head in shame, shaking my head. Still, all in all, after three kids, at least ten million café lattes with extra cream, and more snack cakes than I’d ever confess to, the overall picture wasn’t all too bad. “You’ve still got it baby,” I said to myself emerging from the bathroom.

I tip toed down the hall; the never-ending drone of the news and of my husband’s snoring wafted in the corridor. I turned off the TV and put on some sexy music, lowering the lights I lit the scented candles I had purchased earlier today. Kicking a soccer ball out of the way, I lowered myself on top of him. With a snort, the smacking of lips, and a tiny string of drool, he awoke. “Hey, what’s this?” he asked feeling the smooth fabric of my ensemble. He inhaled deeply of my scent, stating, “You smell nice.” I felt his interest peak, pressing against my crotch, which was barely covered by the thong.

“Happy birthday, baby,” I said as I lowered my head to kiss him. I was expecting one of those, “we’ve been married forever” pecks on the lips that I so often receive as a preamble to sex. What I got was a probing tongue, stroking my teeth searching out the depths of my mouth. I responded by opening my mouth wider, granting him entrance. I felt my cheeks redden and become warm, flushed, I felt my pulse quicken. He grabbed onto me tightly, rising into a sitting position, holding me in his lap. The roughness of his five-o-clock shadow dug into my face, for once, I didn’t mind.

He lay me back, he remained sitting, “Just let me look at you,” he said, his eyes full of desire. He sat there staring down at me for what seemed hours. “I’ve never seen you like this before,” he said as he traced the lace top of the bodice. “What a pretty lady,” he said as he traced his way down my body, his fingers dancing down the front of my thong. He lowered his face down to my breasts, nuzzling in between them. Untying the satin laces of the bodice as he said, “Let me unwrap my present.”

I spoke up in protest, “But it’s your birthday, I had all these things I wanted to do to you.” He silenced me by kissing me as he parted the lacey confines of my negligee revealing my breasts. Gently, he stroked them, teasing them with his thumbs. My protests became pleas as he worked his way down my body, showering me with tiny kisses, teasing nips, and probing fingers. I felt as if I were on fire, my back arched in response to his erotic onslaught. How different this was from the usual “it’s Saturday night, we gotta have sex”, or “the kids are gone” we gotta do “it” now, rushed, fumbling, and foreplay I usually received, and gave. This man was gentle, this man was erotic, this man was patient, this man was good and experienced, …and this man was going to make me come. I cried out as the wave of sensations rocked through my body. The bulk of my ensemble had been discarded on the living room floor, the only garb I was wearing were the stockings and my shoes.

“That’s what I wanted for my birthday,” he said sliding me into a sitting position on the couch, lowering himself to the floor, he spread my legs and buried his head in between them. His tongue teased me, lapping at me; the tickle soon became a throb and then a burn as my body tensed. I felt the sand paper roughness of his face as it pressed against the tender flesh of my thighs. I raised my hips up to greet him, pressing him for more. I wrapped my legs around his shoulders and slid further down on the couch granting him better access. I pinched and rolled my nipples in my fingers, I kneaded my breasts the way I had kneaded bread dough for Thanksgiving dinner.

He stopped right before that magic moment. “No,” I begged, “More, now,” I cried out my words broken, my breath in short pants. Obediently, he finished what he had started, with a great gush of feeling and release, I came.

I lay back on the couch, my mind and my senses reeling with pleasure. He stood before me, taking my hand; he lifted me off the couch and guided me to the bedroom. He lowered me on the ancient mattress, the same mattress we have had since we got married a lifetime ago; wars were fought, battles lost and won, children conceived, and dreams dreamed on this sagging, stained mattress, tonight, love would be made on this mattress. He slid in me easily; I felt his warmth and his hardness as he rocked inside of me. He whispered to me in strange, loving, words. I felt the weight of his body as it pressed against me, pushing me into the mattress. I felt the tickle of his chest hair as it rubbed against my tender breasts. His breath was coming out in a series of moans and pants, I joined him, wrapping myself around him, guiding him further inside of me. I felt his body as it tensed, felt the warmth of him as he came, driving himself into my depths.

Afterwards, we rested on the bed, arm in arm. My fingers curled up in his chest hair, his arms wrapped around me tightly like steel bands. Our hearts seemed to beat in unison, he and I lost in a private world of thoughts. He kissed me tenderly on my forehead, “I love you,” he whispered. I nuzzled into him, I didn’t have to reply; he already knew. Together, naked, arm in arm, we slid into the solace of slumber.

I awoke the next morning before he did. I watched him as he slept; I watched his chest rise and fall, curly, dark, patches of chest hair going up and down with his breath. His hair was a tangled mass of brown and gray; thinner than it used to be years ago. The lines on his face deeper now; telling their story of laughter and tears. His unshaven growth, looking like spilled salt and pepper as it traveled across his jaw, upper lip, and neck. The chin once lean and hard was now soft and double, his belly once firm and solid was now soft and comfortable; a perfect perch for the grandchildren yet to come. Random scars dotted the flesh of his body; a fishing lure buried into a thumb, leaving a scar; the scar from his appendectomy, a scar on his knee; from a childhood bike wreck. Here he was defenseless in slumber, he a man, that’s all, only a man; and I, a woman, nothing more, only a woman.

Together, man and woman; husband and wife, we had made a life, we had created three tiny miracles. Together, we had created one giant miracle; the joy of life and the gift of love.