Peter Gibbons was freaking out. The final presentation was supposed to have been sent to his manager by noon. It was five o'clock, and Peter was still furiously working on the most crucial slide in the deck. The phone rang, and he knew who it was before he even answered it.
"Yeah, I know," he said. "I know. I...I am. I know. I...I'll have it done. I know. I'll send it to you by the bottom of the hour."
He hung up the phone and continued working at a furious pace. In the surrounding cubicles, co-workers were shutting down their laptops for the night and heading home. As it was Friday, several of them were discussing their plans for the weekend.
"Peter, why are you still working?" It was Michael, one of the members of his team.
"I'm trying to get this goddamned slide done for Lumbergh's presentation next week," Peter said.
Another colleague joined Michael and asked the same question. As Michael patiently explained the situation, Peter continued his frantic efforts.
"Well, listen," said Michael, "we're heading to Chotchkie's for a beer or two. Why don't you stop by when you're done?"
"I'd love to, guys," Peter said, "but I really have to get home."
"No problem," Michael said. As they walked away, Peter could hear Michael making the "pussy-whip" sound effect. He recognized that sound all too well. He had heard it for years.
By the time Peter wrapped up his work, it was nearly six o'clock. He hurried home to discover his wife, Joanna, sitting at the dining room table with their two daughters, Emily and Sarah. By the looks of their plates, it appeared that they were nearly finished with dinner.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, hanging up his coat. "Traffic was really bad."
"There's plenty left on the stove," Joanna said, motioning with her fork.
Peter filled a plate and sat at his usual spot at the table. "How was your day?" he asked.
"Ugh," Joanna responded. "Don't get me started." She then proceeded to tell him every excruciating detail of her day, from the long drop-off lines at the schools, to the phone call from Sarah's teacher about her missing homework assignments, to the lunch meeting with her friend who suspects her husband is having an affair.
Peter listened patiently as he finished his lukewarm dinner, pausing every now and then to nod his head or give some sign that he was listening. Truthfully, he hadn't absorbed a single word she said. He finished his meal and made his way to the kitchen to wash the dishes. He barely had enough time to change out of his work clothes before it was time to put the girls to bed. He read to them both and tucked them in. He returned downstairs to find Joanna wiping the kitchen counters.
"You got water everywhere," she complained. "Honestly, do you have to make such a mess when you do the dishes?"
"Sorry, honey," he said.
He sat in his usual spot on the couch and exhaled deeply. It had been a long and difficult week, to say the least, but the worst of it was over. Joanna sat in her customary spot at the other end of the couch, and stretched her legs until her feet rested on his lap. Without even thinking about it, he instinctively took each foot in his hands and massaged and kneaded them as they watched whatever mindless show was on the screen.
At eleven o'clock, right on schedule, Joanna announced she was tired and rose from the couch. Peter followed, shutting off the lights and locking the doors along the way. As usual, she wore a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized tee-shirt to bed. He simply stripped down to his boxers. They got under the sheets, and she turned her back to him. He instinctually wrapped his arms around her in the "spooning" position, and gently kissed her neck.
"I'm so tired," she repeated. It was her oft-repeated, completely transparent, code phrase for "I'm not in the mood for sex."
Like every married couple, it seemed, their sex life had dwindled down to nothing in recent years. In a good month, they had sex two or three times. When they did, it was always a quick session in the standard military position. It wasn't always like that, of course. When they first met, Joanna couldn't keep her hands off of him. She was so wild in bed, he thought he hit the jackpot. She was open to just about anything, and often initiated their sexual adventures.
As the years passed, sex became more and more of a rare treat. After Sarah was born, it seemed as though their sex life went into a coma. Peter protested at first, and tried everything he could think of to revive her libido: sex toys, romantic evenings, extra doses of affection, kinky lingerie, extra work around the house, and even role-playing. Nothing worked.
Joanna explained that she was simply growing older, and that it was natural to lose your libido over time. All of her girlfriends said the same thing, she insisted. She explained that she had too many things on her plate, and too many responsibilities caring for their daughters. Sex just wasn't at the top of her mind anymore.
As was his nightly habit, he massaged her back as his thoughts roamed. It was Friday, he thought, and that was usually the best night for sex. It had been more than three weeks since the last time they had sex. They were due. The muscles in his hands ached, but he kept rubbing and kneading. If she enjoyed her massage, he thought, maybe she would reciprocate his kind gesture. Everything he did for her, it seemed, was predicated on the notion that she would reciprocate with sex. As the years went by, he found himself doing more and more for her, all under the presumption that she would repay him with affection.
He allowed his hands to roam down to the small of her back. He contemplated whether or not he should make the next move. It would either result in some much-needed intimacy or yet another bruise to his ego. He decided it was worth the risk. He slid his hands under the waistband of her sweatpants, and beneath her panties. He cupped one of her ass cheeks and squeezed.
"Ugh!" she said, pushing his hand away and turning around to face him. "Seriously? I told you I'm tired."
"I just...I thought..."
"Ugh!" she repeated. "You're always pawing at me. I just want to go to sleep. It's been a long day."
Another blow to his ego. He could feel his temper rising. "Okay, fine," he said, turning away from her. "Get your precious sleep."
She gave an exasperated sigh and grabbed him by the shoulder, forcefully pulling him onto his back. Giving an exaggerated yawn, she yanked down the sheet and blanket and grabbed his cock. She yawned again and she squeezed and stretched it like it was made of putty.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of sexy thoughts. He knew that if it took more than a few minutes to finish, she would become frustrated and angry. He wondered if maybe she would let him fuck her, or if this would only be a handjob. Either way, she would consider it as sex, and it would likely be weeks until the next display of intimacy, so he had better make the best of it.
Another yawn. She increased the pace of her dry hand stroking up and down along his semi-rigid shaft. He concentrated hard, frantically searching for some image or idea that would send him over the edge. Another deep sigh. She was growing impatient.
"Can I fuck you?" he whispered.
She stopped stroking. "Not tonight," she said. "I told you, I'm tired. Do you want me to continue or not?"
"Okay," he said, defeated.
She continued her stroking, her annoyance clearly evident in the manner in which she performed the act. "Are you almost there?" she asked with a sigh.
"Almost," he lied. It was difficult to enjoy the moment when it was so apparent that pleasuring him had become such a chore to her.
After another minute or so, he pushed her hand away. "Just forget it," he said. He kissed her forehead and rolled over while she did the same. In the back of his mind, he thought,
