Free Mike, Mike & Me by Wendy Markham Page B

band of my boxer shorts. Which are actually his boxer shorts—my version of summer pajamas. As his fingers make their well-choreographed rounds from outer to inner thigh, my stomach launches into its usual gymnastic routine despite my desire to find out why Demi Moore just gave Dave the finger or a thumbs-up—I couldn’t tell which.
    “Let’s go,” Mike says suggestively, wiggling his dark eyebrows.
    “I guess I can TiVo Letterman,” I concede, pressing a few quick buttons on the remote.
    Have I mentioned that TiVo is the best invention ever?
    Oh. Sorry. But it really is. Especially at moments like this.
    Because the thing is, while I like sex as much as the next married mother of three, I have to admit that lately it isn’t necessarily worth the time and/or effort. And unlike Late Night with David Letterman, sex these days is highly predictable, not as creative as it used to be, and over in fifteen minutes or less.
    I hate that I’m at a place in my life when I actually have to weigh the benefits of romance versus post-prime-time viewing. I never thought I’d feel that way. There was a time when all Mike had to do was look at me, or graze my hand with his, and I was a primate in heat.
    But the truth is, after a day of traipsing around town like an attachment parenting baboon, the last thing I want is somebody else pawing at me or attached to my breasts—even if this brand of pawing and breast attachment is more pleasurable.
    When it comes to defining pleasure, there’s a lot to be said for the prospect of being undisturbed in a quiet house with a television remote, the entire length of the couch and the remaining half carton of melting ice cream all to myself.
    Then again, sex with my husband might remind me why even the fond recollection of sex with somebody else is bad.
    No, not bad.
    Naughty.
    Definitely naughty.
    As I follow Mike up to our bedroom, I do my best to banish the barrage of erotic memories that keep popping up.
    He looks in on the boys one at a time while I put away my ice cream and brush my teeth. Then I lie on our brand-new king-size pillow-top mattress and watch him unceremoniously strip off his suit, tie, shirt, T-shirt, boxers, socks.
    He seems a little off balance as he hops on one foot and removes the opposite sock.
    “How many drinks did you have tonight?” I ask him.
    “I don’t know. A few. Why?”
    “Just wondering.” I find myself wishing I’d had a glass or two of wine instead of lo-carb ice cream. Then maybe I’d feel a little more relaxed, and a little less anxious about that e-mail I sent earlier.
    Not so much anxious, really, as guilty. If Mike knew…
    But he doesn’t know, and he’ll never know.
    If I get a reply, I’ll just delete it immediately and forget all about the other Mike.
    I’ll stop thinking about the past, about what might have been.
    Because that, of course, is what I keep wondering about. What would have happened if I had made a different choice that summer? If I had married a different man?
    I wouldn’t have my boys…a thought so horrible that it should be enough to nip this thought process in the bud.
    But it isn’t.
    I envision the other Mike standing there naked; I try to see him as he probably looks now. Is he graying? Gaining weight? Losing his hair?
    I can’t help seeing him in my mind’s eye as a modern-day Dorian Gray, immune to the passage of time.
    As I watch my husband walk naked toward the adjoining bathroom, I can’t help noticing the slight paunch around his stomach, and, when he turns around, the hint of love handles just above his stark white buttocks.
    I know every inch of his body; have seen him naked every day for years. I’m well aware that he’s no longer a buff twentysomething with a six-pack and sculpted biceps. But rarely do I see him as a middle-aged man.
    I see that now.
    He doesn’t bother to close the door.
    Neither of us has; not in years. There’s nothing either of us can do in there that the other hasn’t seen