Free Wife Living Dangerously by Sara Susannah Katz Page A

prostitution and pederasty. While
     aristocracy brazenly flouted sexual freedom—the Prince of Wales’s well-publicized affair with Lily Langtry was among the most
     notable sex adventures of the time—the middle class pursued sexual restriction, even in marriage. Given the state of sexual
     activity in my own marriage (our family room interlude was the last time we made love) I think Michael and I would fit quite
     nicely in Queen Victoria’s England.
    I scan the intern’s list of proposed exhibit materials: posters and pamphlets decrying the danger of onania, the heinous sin
     of masturbation named for the biblical character who spilled his seed in defiance of God’s command to be fruitful and multiply;
     excerpts from an authentic diary describing the frustrations of a semicelibate marriage; writings by the Swiss physician Tissot,
     who warned of the physical dangers of sex, chief among them: insanity caused by the blood rushing to the brain. I’d told the
     intern I’d help if she couldn’t find everything on her list; I’ve already put through two calls to Tissot’s heirs, and another
     to the British Library in London.
    As I’m studying the proposal, Leslie leaps into my office to ask if I’ll serve on something called the Mendelsohn mural committee.
    “I just can’t be bothered with this now,” she tells me.
    And I can? I’m the one with three young children and the Bentley Greco-Roman anniversary extravaganza on her docket.
    “Please, Jules, be a sweetheart and fill in for me. Please? Pretty please with sugar on top? I’ll be your best friend for
     life.”
    I close my eyes as a migraine encroaches and nod grudgingly.
    “I ADORE you!” She grabs me by the shoulders and plants a lipsticky kiss on each cheek. “I owe you one, Julia.” Actually,
     she owes me six hundred and forty-seven. Repaying debts isn’t Leslie Keen’s style. “The first meeting’s today, by the way.
     Four P.M. , Whitehead Hall.”
    Truth is, I could probably use the distraction. I’ll do anything to keep my mind from meandering to Evan Delaney. In unguarded
     moments I have found myself speculating about whether he has ever dated a redhead, what he looked like as a little boy, and
     how he spends his leisure time, all because of two brief conversations and one silly dream.
    No time for those musings now that I am on the Mendelsohn committee. A poor man’s Caravaggio, Mendelsohn achieved some fame
     in the early 1920s for his sensationalistic blend of sex and violence. This particular painting was bequeathed to the university
     by George “Jelly” and Alma Bean, a local couple with bad taste, a lot of money, and no heirs. The mural depicts a plump, bare-breasted
     blonde with her arms bound behind her back, stoic under the salacious leer of her captor. Most of the scene is thrust into
     darkness, with one broad beam of light raking across the girl’s body and another illuminating a wall of big game trophies,
     bears, lions, and leopards who seem to gaze sympathetically at the latest victim.
    Campus animal rights activists have managed to collect 2,548 signatures on a petition demanding the painting’s immediate removal.
     I’m not sure where I stand on the issue. Should the mural be removed simply because it offends the sensibilities of a special
     interest group? And do I really care? I’d much prefer to be home with my husband and children tonight, eating crock pot chicken
     stew and playing Candyland.
    I call Michael to let him know I’ll be late and ask if he can be there when the kids get home from school.
    “Sure. Oh, no. Wait. Today’s what? Monday? Oh, sorry, honey, no can do,” he says, between bites of what sounds like a big,
     sloppy burrito. “Got an ex parte meeting with Judge Block. Can’t reschedule.” Pause. “What kind of committee is this, anyway?”
    Though I’m sure he means no offense, Michael’s question irritates me for the following reasons:
    (1) It indicates that he wasn’t