Grant Me A Wish

This story is a slight departure from my usual stories and was co-written with my husband, Rusty Marshall.

Bridget Mallory lay corpse-still, staring at the ceiling, beside her husband of more than twenty years. A solitary tear slipped from one eye and slowly snaked its way toward her ear. Frustration was nothing new to her. She had spent more than a few frustrated nights alone in their bed, even though her husband had been right there beside her. Dropping off to sleep with tears in her eyes, pain in her heart, and that all-too-familiar need between her thighs had become increasingly difficult for her over the last few years. Recently, it had been occurring far too often.

Bridget lived in a constant search for anything that might help rekindle the fires of passion in her husband. She loved Grant with all her heart. He was a faithful husband, a great father, and an excellent provider for their family. The sexual side of their relationship had always left a lot to be desired but now he was a big, fat zero. And that was exactly what she had been getting from him lately, zero.

Determined to keep her marriage together and her sanity intact, she had consumed every bit of information available on the subject. In the process of attempting to fuel Grant's nearly non-existent libido, Bridget Mallory had become a revered name with the order department at Victoria's Secret. Resolute in her quest for a solution to her dilemma, she had taken to cutting out the pictures of the sexy, more-perfect-than-life models from the catalog and taping them to the refrigerator as inspiration in her endeavor to make herself more sexually alluring to Grant.

In her heart, Bridget knew she could never look like those airbrushed beauties, but there was no harm in trying. Many times she had analyzed her nude figure in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door; she still had a nice figure and decent appearance; maybe a bit of a tummy, but hell, she's given birth to two children. She had gained a few pounds while carrying the babies, but with much effort, had lost all of it. But that little tummy pouch one develops during pregnancy was still present and nothing short of cosmetic surgery would ever get rid of it.

One evening she had struck a sexy pose for Grant just before slipping into bed beside him and said, "Whataya think? I've lost forty pounds."

He eyed her from over the top of the book he had been reading and replied, "If you could just lose that flabby pouch over your belly, you might be okay." With obvious lack of concern for her or her feelings, he returned to his book.

Her mind raced.How can you be so cruel? She wondered.You could've said, "Hey, you're looking good, but if you can lose that pouch you'd be looking great!" But no, nothing like that. "You might be okay." Might? Okay? That's the best you can do? You're a son-of-a-bitch, a rotten son-of-a-bitch! She wanted so desperately to vocalize her thoughts, but as usual, kept her mouth shut and her damaged feelings to herself.

"So much for the possibility of sex for tonight," she mumbled under her breath as she walked into the bathroom. "After a comment like that, I wouldn't give it to you tonight even if you begged for it. Yeah right, like a chance of that happening might've really existed. I stand a better chance of getting hit by a meteor."

#

The next morning, with rising hopes, she had watched Grant ogle the pictures on the refrigerator. She owned an outfit like each of the ones the different models were wearing. Her hopes were quickly and unceremoniously dashed to the floor when he glanced at her, than back at the pictures, and commented, "Tyra Banks you ain't."

Before she could regain enough composure to reply, he strolled from the kitchen without a clue of how rude and hurtful he had just been to the woman he supposedly loved. Finally, she recovered enough from the shock to mumble under her breath, "That may be true, but I'm as close as you'll ever get to her, mister. For such a highly educated man you can sure make some stupid statements. You'd think with two degrees you'd at least have alittle common sense."

She had carefully watched Grant as his eyes roamed from picture to picture. She was interested to see which models or outfits seemed to strike his fancy the most. Then he had made his snide remark about Tyra Banks, which had narrowed the field down considerably. All she had to do after that was figure out which of the three photos of Tyra he had stared at the most, then she would have a pretty decent idea which outfit he had found the most interesting. Even though she was pissed at him at the moment, she wasn't about to give up hope for the future.

His eyes had returned repeatedly to one particular photo on the upper-right-hand corner of the refrigerator. After he left the kitchen, Bridget scanned over the photos and sure enough, the photo attracting the most attention was one of Tyra Banks in a sheer, deep-red baby-doll nightie, leaving very little to the imagination. The outfit included matching bikini panties and garter belt.

Bridget had an outfit exactly like it, still in the box in her closet. The only part of the sexy outfit Tyra was wearing that Bridget didn't already own was the red stockings and red-satin stiletto heels.

"This little oversight will be remedied before bedtime tonight," she mumbled as she stared at the picture.

#

Hoping to squelch Bridget's incessant nagging once and for all, over their need to seek professional assistance, Grant finally agreed to see a marriage counselor with her. He also agreed to be both, open with any questions he might have, and honest with any answers he gave. Sitting in front of the counselor's desk, Bridget began to wonder if the whole thing had simply been a total waste of time and money.

"Okay, now that we've laid out the ground rules, who's going to start off?" the counselor asked.

"Go for it, Bridget," Grant suggested. "This whole farce was your asinine idea in the first place."

"Mr. Mallory, if that's the kind of attitude you're going to exhibit, you're right, this is going to be a farce and an asinine idea," the counselor stated, folding her hands together and resting her elbows on top of her desk. "If this is the same attitude you have toward your marriage, I can see why your wife feels the need for professional help. It seems to me that you're ready to blow the whole thing off as some kind of big joke already, before the first words have even been spoken."

Grant sat quietly for several minutes, like he was mulling the issue over. Finally he spoke, "I just don't see where there's a problem in our marriage big enough to warrant seeing a marriage counselor. I'm sorry if I seem to be too frank, but I promised Bridget I would be open and honest here today."

"Open and honest is one thing, but open hostility, and out and out rudeness are quite another," the counselor replied.

"Again, I am sorry," Grant apologized.

"Apparently, Mrs. Mallory feels something is threatening your marriage. But it's also apparent she feels the marriage is worth saving at this point and that whatever the problem is can be worked out if addressed properly. Otherwise, the two of you wouldn't be sitting here right now. Do you think your marriage is worth saving?"

"Of course I do," Grant replied after a brief hesitation. "We've been married twenty some years. We've got two teenage children. We own a nice home. There's a lot of reasons for us to stay together."

"How about love?" the counselor asked. "That's an important factor in a good relationship. Do you still love Bridget?"

Again, Grant hesitated before responding. "Well, yes… of course I do."

The counselor eyed Grant for a few moments before turning to Bridget. "How about you, do you still love him?"

There was no hesitation in Bridget's answer. "As much as the day I married him. And I honestly feel he still loves me." Bridget stared into her lap for a moment. Seeming a bit embarrassed, she added, "It's the sex thing. He no longer seems to find me the slightest bit attractive and has absolutely no sexual interest in me at all."

The counselor wordlessly looked at Grant, but the question was in her stare.

"Hey, I'm forty-five-years old," Grand snapped. "And I have more important things to do than to hop into the sack every time she gets the urge. If that were the case, I'd never get anything else done. That's all she ever thinks about."

"Well, maybe if you'd take care of your homework once in a while, I'd be able to have something else on my mind now and then," Bridget said. "But as long as my needs are not being satisfied, that's what commands most of my attention, whether I like it or not. All I'm asking for is a normal sex life for a couple of our age. I'm not asking for sex every day."

"Yes, you do," Grant snapped. "Every time I come home, you're trying to seduce me."

"Well maybe if you gave in once in a while, I'd be able to leave you alone for awhile," Bridget barked "I'm only forty-two. I still have needs and wants. Can you remember the last time we had anything resembling sex together?"

"Well, I can't remember the date, if that's what you're asking," Grant replied. "But it wasn't all that long ago."

"I can. It was on my birthday," Bridget stated.

"See, there you go! That was only, what, four or five months ago," Grant beamed.

"No! It wasn't! I wasn't talking about my last birthday. I meant last year's! It was almost a year and a half ago!" Bridget was getting upset. "And that was about as exciting as a trip to the mail box in front of the house. Plus, a trip to the mail box would've taken longer!"

"Hey, I'm not some kind of super-stud!" Grant almost yelled. "I can't perform on cue just because you want me to!"

The counselor sat quietly listening to their exchange. She had done her job; they were openly discussing what seemed to be the main problem in their marriage.

"You wouldn't know a cue if it jumped up and licked your face!" Bridget was getting angrier by the second. "The only thing you're interested in sexually, is those damn girls in your filthy magazines and movies!"

"Well, at least they're not so hard to deal with. And they're not after me to jump into the sack with them all the time!" Grant countered. "Besides, they don't care how much time I spend with them! They're just as satisfied whether I spent thirty minutes or thirty seconds with them! And with them, I don't have to worry about satisfying anyone but myself!"

"Wait a second," the counselor interrupted. "Magazines? Movies?"

"Yes," Bridget replied. "That was a major error in judgement on my part. I got him a subscription toPlayboy magazine for his birthday. I even ordered several erotic movies for him. I thought they might turn him on a little. But it seems like he's perfectly content to sit there staring at the girls in the magazines and movies. But it didn't do a damn thing to make him look in my direction. If anything, it made him even more distant."

"Grant, how do you feel about what Bridget just said?" the counselor asked.

"Like I said, with them, I don't have to make anyone happy but me," Grant replied.

"Do you have a fear of failure?" the counselor asked.

"Me? Failure? Are you crazy?" Grant barked. "I have an IQ of one-eighty-nine. Do I look like the type of person who is use to failure? I've never failed at anything in my life! And I don't intend to start now!"

"Well, I think we may have already stumbled onto where the problem lies," the counselor said. "But our time is up for today. I'm asking both of you to think about everything you've said and heard here today, and maybe we can come up with an agreeable remedy next week and hopefully, get things started back in the right direction."

That was the end of the first and last meeting Bridget and Grant had with the marriage counselor. Grant flatly refused to go back.

#

One evening Bridget did all the normal things preparing for bed; showered, shaved her legs, brushed her teeth, and brushed her hair. Then she added a few things to her normal routine. She had moved the photo of Tyra Banks from the refrigerator to her bathroom mirror. With meticulous care, she did her makeup exactly as Tyra's in the photo. She added just a hint of Grant's favorite perfume behind each ear, her wrists, and just for good measure, she added a dash between her breasts.

A final glance in the mirror told her she had done her homework. The sexy outfit slinked around her curves but still did a nice job of hiding the tummy Grant apparently found so unattractive. She glanced at the picture of Tyra, struck a similar pose, and glanced back at her reflection one more time. "Not bad," she remarked to the lady in the mirror. "You're not Tyra Banks, but you're close enough for government work. If this doesn't turn him on, I don't know what will."

She strolled from the bathroom and found Grant lying in the bed with aPlayboy magazine in front of his face.

"Hey handsome, wouldn't you prefer the real thing?" she cooed, striking the same pose she had just practiced in front of the mirror.

Glancing over his magazine with the same unconcerned look on his face she had seen so many times before, he snapped, "Can't you see I'm reading?" His eyes fell back to the magazine.

With her pride ruffled a little and her feelings ruffled a lot, but her determination still firmly intact, she stormed back into the bathroom. With great care, she peeled the photo of Tyra Banks from the mirror, along with the tape holding it. Carefully carrying the photo facedown in the palm of her hand, she stomped back into the bedroom, and slapped the photo right in the middle of the page Grant's eyes were focused on. Before he had a chance to open his mouth or she had a chance to change her mind, she barked, "That's a photo; a piece of paper! This, on the other hand," she paused long enough to strike a pose like the photo and slid her hands slowly down over her hips, "is the real deal! Can you see the difference?"

Grant sat there wide-eyed for a few moments, unable to speak; looking from the photo now taped to the magazine page, then back at Bridget. "Yeah, I can see a lot of differences," he finally replied. "For one thing, her boobs are a lot bigger than yours."

"Fine!" she yelled, stepping up beside the bed. Grabbing his hand, she pressed it against the photograph, then pressed it over one of her own breasts. "But which onefeels the best?"

He jerked his hand from under hers and quickly smacked her hand like she was a child caught with her hand somewhere it wasn't supposed to be. "I don't happen to be in the mood tofeel one at the moment," he snapped. "Maybe I prefer just to look at a nice big pair right now."

"Oh, these aren't big enough for you anymore?" she yelled, lifting both breasts with the palms of her hands.

"As a mater of fact, no, they aren't. Never have been," he snapped back at her as he slapped his magazine shut and slammed it down on his nightstand. As if to say, this conversation is over, he slid down in the bed and rolled over with his back toward her. "Now shut up and let me get some sleep."

Bridget stood staring dumbfounded at the back of his head in disbelief. There were several things she wanted to say right then, but decided against it. Grabbing her frumpy terrycloth bathrobe from the hook on the back of the closet door and storming from the room, all she could manage to say was, "You're unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable!"

#

Bridget ended up in the family room, where she stood looking at her reflection in one of the two huge mirrors covering both entire end walls of the room. She had loved the mirrors when they were first installed. They made the rather-small room look enormous. But at the moment, they only served to remind her of what was happening to her marriage.

She slipped the bathrobe from around herself and dropped it onto her recliner chair. She tried several different sexy poses in the mirror she had practiced following the arrival of each new issue of Victoria's Secret catalog over the last few months. Finally she spoke to the woman staring back at her from the mirror. "You still look good. You're still sexy. Hell, you actually look downright hot, right now! What's wrong with him? Why isn't he interested in you anymore?"

The lady in the mirror didn't answer; she simply stared back at Bridget.

"Don't just stand there looking all hot and bothered! Think of something! Do something!" Bridget barked.

In her mind, she could almost hear her reflection reply, "Look at me! I mean, what else can I do? I've done every damn thing except rape the stupid son-of-a-bitch!"

"Well, maybe that's what you need to do," Bridget said. "Outright seduction don't seem to be working."

#

Finally tired of arguing a lost cause with herself, Bridget dropped into her favorite chair and leaned it back to its full-reclined position. Figuring she would probably be spending the rest of the night in the chair, she pulled the heavy bathrobe from under her and tossed it over herself for a blanket. Even though she was sure the kids were in their beds fast asleep, she didn't want to take a chance on one of them getting up during the night and finding her dressed, or more accurately, undressed the way she was at the moment. It might be a bit difficult to explain to a couple of teenagers.

For quite some time she lay there thinking about the heart-wrenching conversation she'd just had with Grant and his rude, hurtful comments. At the moment, she couldn't figure out which needed stroking the most; her damaged pride, her hurt feelings, her trampled ego, or the frustrating ache between her thighs. She decided there wasn't much she could do about her pride. When the man you love has basically just told you that you're not built to his satisfaction, what the hellcan you do? She would simply consider the source and leave it at that. As far as her hurt feelings were concerned, again she would just consider the source. What about her ego, that feeling of self, of being an independent individual? Well, that part of her no longer existed, she knew she needed him to be complete. But the almost-constant ache between her thighs was a different matter. She could do something to remedy that, at least temporarily.

#

Grant lay in the bed for a while after Bridget had stormed out of the room. His mind roamed from the stories he had been reading to the sexy Playboy Bunnies he had been looking at in the magazine. Eventually, his thoughts turned to the photo of Tyra Banks his wife had slapped on the page in front of his face, then finally to the vision of Bridget and how hard she had tried to look, or at least dress, like Tyra in the photo. He wondered,why'd she go to so much trouble? Surely she doesn't think she looks anything like Tyra. Slowly he began to realize just how rude he had been to her and it was obvious, even to him, she had done all of that dress-up crap just to please him.

Gradually, his conscience began to gnaw at him. This was something Grant was not remotely use to, especially when it concerned Bridget.

"What the hell?" he barked, setting up suddenly in the bed and snapping his lamp back on. "What the hell's wrong with me? After all these years, I think she's finally driving me crazy! I'm actually sitting here feeling sorry for her. Sorry for what I said. Sorry for the way I've been treating her."

Grabbing up the magazine he had earlier slammed down on his nightstand he thumbed through page after page of sexy, naked women until he finally found the page with Tyra Banks taped to it. He sat for several minutes staring at the photo "I've got to admit, she did a pretty fair job of dressing like this picture," he mumbled. "Of course, she isn't built anything like this, but hell, not very damn many women are."