Free Married Sex by Jesse Kornbluth

decade.
    â€œBlair,” I whispered.
    Her response was slow, distant. “Yes.”
    â€œWe’re in the dressing room at Bergdorf’s …”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThis dress … I like it. … Do you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOh, and here’s the salesgirl.”
    Blair, breathy as Marilyn Monroe, volleyed: “Salesgirl?”
    â€œWith another dress … she wants to help you.”
    All the while, I was stroking Blair’s thighs.
    â€œWhat does she look like?”
    â€œShort hair … big breasts … I think she’s Russian.”
    Setting it down here, that scene is ludicrous. But when it’s dark and late and you’re toasted, it’s easy and pleasant to role-play. And Blair seemed to be doing just that, arching her back as I moved my hands to her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples.
    â€œShe wants …”
    An abrupt end to the fantasy—Blair opened her eyes and laughed. Raucous laughter. Derisive laughter.
    â€œSorry, that’s just so … ridiculous.”
    â€œYou used to like that fantasy,” I said.
    â€œOnly the first hundred times.”
    â€œYou never said no.”
    My hand stopped making lazy patterns on Blair’s thigh. She sat up and caressed my face.
    â€œI hurt your feelings,” she said.
    â€œYou took me by surprise.”
    â€œOh, honey.” She kissed me. “You just can’t wait for Saturday, can you?”
    I felt transparent as a four-year-old.
    â€œNo. How about you?”
    â€œSome anticipation. But not like you. You’ve been thinking … disgusting thoughts, haven’t you?”
    I nodded.
    â€œAnd you thought you could hide them?” Blair pulled me close. “My poor darling beast, come and do horrible things to me.”

Chapter 14
    â€œYou want to get divorced—why?”
    It’s the first thing I ask new clients. Not out of curiosity, or to help me build their cases, but because … maybe they shouldn’t.
    Most matrimonial lawyers, like most other professionals, choose their trade for the fees. Clients enter, on a conveyor belt, married; they leave, sheared of a few illusions, divorced. The trick is to make that happen in the greatest number of billable hours but with the fewest possible strokes.
    Some matrimonial lawyers still have ideals. They’ll get you unhitched, but first they’ll test you to see if there’s still life in your marriage. Like first-stage marriage counselors.
    I’m in that group. I listen to my clients’ stories, and when I hear descriptions of marriages that are retrievable, I encourage these women to try couples therapy. They wonder why. The husband doesn’t listen, he has disgusting habits, he pays no attention to the kids, how can anyone stay married to a man like this?
    Yes, I say, he’s a slob, a jerk. But please notice there’s something you don’t complain about, and that’s sex.
    If you’re still having sex, you can save the marriage.
    If the sex has gone, it’s over.
    A woman laments that her husband has become her “best friend,” and the euphemism tells me all I need to know. “Friend” is what’s left when the sex goes. So that’s a dead marriage.
    A woman says she’s learned to schedule her husband’s desire for sex: “one night on, two nights off.” She doesn’t need to say more. For her, sex is an obligation that can’t be ignored but can be managed. And that’s a dead marriage.
    A woman complains that her husband has a lover, but she doesn’t complain about the lover to him, or get interested in his interests, or buy hot lingerie. For her, it’s a relief that he strays. Another dead marriage.
    And then there’s roommate marriage. Victoria calls this condition “low batt,” meaning low sexual battery, no erotic sparks. The husband’s nights are about the flat screen; weekends mean the