Barbara's Sex Lives

In time they relaxed, slumped, and lay together.

Their pillow talk was light, impersonal, trivial.

Barb had a fleeting thought that June might have chosen her medical specialty because of her sexual orientation. She didn't say that.

The next thought was that Barb might be bisexual after all. Somewhat. She didn't say that.

What she did say was this:

"I still want to have children."

It was the first time, ever, that she hadn't qualified that statement. Even to herself.

"If you do, you should," said June. "And raise them in whatever environment you think best."

"Their father should raise them too."

June simply nodded.

Barb leaned close, and embraced June. She shifted to feel the full length of June's skin on hers. "Thank you for showing me this passion. But I would add it, not replace what I already feel."

They kissed, and caressed, in silence. If time passed, they were unaware of it.

At last June said, "If the man you marry doesn't give you enough love...or doesn't inspire enough love from you...I would gladly share love with you, Barbara. Privately. Secretly."

"Oh yes. Yes," said Barb, feeling a tear move from her eyelid to June's cheek.

==1995==

Barb didn't like what she was finding. She kept looking, however, out of due diligence. Maybe she could find a way to give Carl what he wanted, without harm to herself. Also, as she had done before, she was using her research to look beyond her long-standing personal biases. She always hoped that scientific data, or the experiences of more adventurous people, could lead her to change her mind.

When she left the library that afternoon, however, the most she could consider was an experiment that she would conduct on herself. Without Carl.

She was grateful for a change of subject, once she picked up Vickie at school. Her daughter asked, "Mommy, were you scared by the--" and then, with careful pronunciation, "So-vee-et Union?"

Barb tried to make her amused smile look like the usual maternal-supportive kind. "People worried a lot in those days, Honey. But everything worked out all right. Mr. Yeltsin seems like a good man." As willing as she was to help Vickie understand the history lesson from that day at school, Barb decided not to say anything about how she felt, at age ten, during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Then Barb looked away, at the traffic on the street. Any memory of those days brought to mind how she felt about what happened to President Kennedy.

Carl had just left on a work trip, to a trade show in Chicago. As Barb prepared dinner for herself and their daughter, she listened through headphones to her lesson in Japanese. Barb now worked part-time as a translator, but demand had dropped for fluency in French, German, and Italian. She worried that she might have waited too long to focus on Asia.

Barb also worked out the timing for the rest of the evening. When he was out of town, Carl always called home at nine pm Eastern time, because by then Barb would have Vickie tucked in with lights out. Barb planned to conduct the 'experiment' after the call. Even if the call went in the direction it always did.

At the library, Barb had also picked up several books. She knew that many parents let the television occupy their kids' attention, but Barb continued to read to Vickie at bedtime. The seven-year-old now read some books on her own. This pleased her text-valuing mother. Bedtime was different, however. The comfort of Barb's voice was at least as important to Vickie as the words and pictures.

With half an hour until Carl's call, Barb carried into the master bedroom her current work notes, and the speaker from what had been a crib monitor, but still served to keep Barb aware of Vickie's sleep status.

Barb then changed out of her Mom clothes.

The phone rang at 9:03.

"Hello?" Barb's phone-answering voice never gave anything away, even when she knew who must be calling.

"Hi Dollface. Is Vickie down?"

"I don't hear anything from her room."

"Great. How was your day?" Carl always sounded a bit brusque in the early exchanges, seeking to get through them.

Those exchanges, however, helped them both relax. Carl vented his annoyance with people who had visited his exhibit hall booth, and in so doing got to where he could relate a few amusing moments. Soon they were chuckling. Barb mostly commiserated and supported. Each enjoyed the sound of the voice they had heard for nine years.

Then Carl's voice lowered in pitch and volume. "What are you wearing?"

Barb, slow and breathy, said, "The powder-blue peignoir." It was true. She slid her hips against the sheet. The phone could usually convey that sound.

"You know what I want to do right now?"

She did, but he told her anyway. Barb was fairly sure that hotel room phones connected into direct lines, so nobody at the front desk would overhear their phone sex. Barb also trusted that Carl's knowledge of current telecoms would ensure the privacy of her whispered obscenities and manufactured moans.

Finally Carl said, "Was it good for you, Baby?"

"Oh yeah, Lover," Barb replied amid heavy breathing. She was relieved that their virtual tryst described only the kinds of sex they already enjoyed.

"Great. Same time tomorrow, okay?"

"I'll be here."

"I love you, Barb. Good night." The call ended.

Barb was puzzled, as she placed the handset in its cradle. Something wasn't right. Wasn't the same.

As she thought back through the call, during which she had tried to give Carl the responses that would sound like increasing passion, she had no recollection of him gasping and grunting. At least, not like in other calls. Nor like during their in-person sex.

Ever since Barb had turned forty, her worries about her attractiveness had become more difficult to tamp down. She now wondered if the call had shown that Carl was losing interest, and was now going through the motions--as she had done, the whole time that Carl wanted phone sex.

This gave Barb more of a motivation for her experiment.

An hour later, she gave up on it.

Setting the lube-slicked dildo on a towel, Barb moved her trunk gingerly, trying to find a position that was less painful. While one finger, pushed into her anus, was merely unpleasant, the dildo--soft, flexible, and narrow, unlike Carl's penis--was a major problem for her, even at her most relaxed.

Her library reading had persuaded her to rule out seeking a prescription for 'poppers.' She was also dubious of positions and practices touted as allowing painless (or pain-reduced) anal sex. She would simply have to deny Carl this supposed thrill.

That decision didn't make her feel better. Sleep eluded her, because of thought fragments like I'm past forty! and Isn't my vagina enough? and I've done kegels for years! and Are a few gray hairs so awful?

The next night, however, Carl gasped and grunted, when Barb described taking his prick deep inside the vagina that, she said, he had made so wet and warm with his hands and mouth. When they hung up, she felt a little better. But also confused.

The night after that, no gasps or grunts.

She didn't ask him about this, then or after he returned home.

Is this just a male health thing? Barb wondered. Carl was approaching forty-five.

She continued to dodge his hints about anal sex. Her hope that he'd lose interest seemed groundless.

***

When a credit card bill arrived in the mail, at first Barb just glanced at it. But some amounts got her attention.

And then, the timing of those amounts.

That evening, Barb behaved normally through Carl's arrival at home, dinner, and Vickie's bedtime.

She then told Carl to join in her in the living room. Told, not asked. But in her normal voice.

She showed him the bill. "On Monday and Wednesday of the trade show," she said, "there are charges of a hundred and fifty dollars, each night, to something called Penumbra Enterprises. What was that for, Carl?"

His eyes widened. "What was--oh, yeah, we brought in this huge TV, and a VCR, to show the new promotional video."

I've never really tried to read him, she thought, seeing nothing unusual behind his thick glasses and salt-and-pepper mustache. I never thought I'd need to.

"There's no charge for Tuesday."

"There isn't?" he said, frowning, looking at the bill. "Guess we caught a break there."

He adores Vickie. He's a good father.

"You told me a while ago," said Barb, "that charges on this credit card are electronic now. The payment time is when the money is transferred."

"Uh, yeah."

"Allowing for the different time zone, you paid about an hour before you called me, after the trade show closed for the day. Wouldn't you have paid to rent a television before you would use it?"

"Uh, well, yes..."

Does it have to be all over? Should I have never brought this up?

"On Monday and Wednesday," she said, now fighting down a tremor in her voice, "our phone call didn't seem to do much for you. On Tuesday, it did. Why is that, Carl?"

"Look, Baby, this is all just a--"

"If I take this to a lawyer's office," she said, her speech quickening, "What will they learn about Penumbra Enterprises?"

He deflated. "Okay, look, I hired a working girl. There's a lot of stress--"

"Is there, Carl? So much that you did it twice?"

His eyes met hers. "Barbara...all I really want is you. If only you could be more cooperative--"

It was all she could do, to keep her fury from escaping in screams that would awaken, and terrify, their child. "So is that what you were doing with her?"

"It's a common thing, these days," said Carl, standing, which only then made Barb realize that she was now standing. "Lots of women enjoy it!"

"Well, I'm not one of them, Carl." She was hissing. That stopped her from yelling. "I studied it, the way I studied 'piledriver,' and 'wheelbarrow,' because you asked to do those things. And I did them, for you. But this one time, I found that I won't, I can't, because it would be painful, and even dangerous."

She took a slow deep breath.

The way she read him, now, was that he was at a loss, unable to say anything.

She said, "So is this so important, that you'll want to find someone else, instead?"

He was still unable.

Sobs overcame her. She turned, and left the room.

***

They tried marriage counseling. Carl pledged to give up both anal and prostitutes, and Barbara forgave his indiscretion, but did not forget it. They stayed together, but the road they traveled had bumps, and then potholes. Soon, concern for Vickie was left as the only thing keeping them together. As Vickie grew, she became more aware of the lack of affection between her mother and her father.

Soon after the divorce was final, Barb unburdened about it to June. They were both recent subscribers to America Online, and learning how to use electronic mail. Both were unsure how openly to express themselves, in that medium.

June sent:

Do you remember what I told you once, if this ever happened?

Barb sent:

Yes, I remember.

June:

My view of this remains the same.

After reading that, Barb leaned back in her chair, eyes shutting tightly. She remembered more than what June said. She remembered the excitement, the passion, her fascination with June's eyes and sleek body.

She also remembered her other trysts with June, made possible through an agreement with Carl after their counseling. The phrase 'Don't ask, don't tell' had become common, in an entirely different context. The lack of detailed information was essential, because Barb didn't want Carl to know she was seeing a woman. Barb was sure he would have begged for a threesome.

June had accepted Barb's insistence on privacy. Lately, however, June had questioned that insistence.

For her part, Barb was still not aroused by any woman's genitals. She had tried to improve at cunnilingus, but she found it more of a chore than fellatio. At least a penis and testicles gave her a basic visceral excitement, as she pleasured them with her hands and mouth. This had overcome her youthful dislike of the practice.

With June, however, the tribbing thrilled Barb, as she feasted her eyes on the parts of a woman, this woman, which captivated her.

June's message still gleamed on the computer monitor.

Secure at home, with Vickie at school, Barb sobbed quietly.

June isn't lonely. She's had other lovers. Yet Barb was sure that June was sincere, now.

Barb had always been interested in learning about herself.

She had always been interested in limiting what other people learned about her.

Do I want everyone I know, every place I might work, to think that I'm a lesbian?

Then, heart speeding from panic: Could I lose custody of Vickie?

She didn't research this.

Her fingers moved to the keyboard.

Thank you. But I just can't.

This message thread never went any further.

==2006==

"I promised you," said Barb, "that when you turned eighteen, I'd let you ask me about my intimate experiences." She sipped her coffee, then set the mug on the kitchen table. "I may not answer everything, but if I dodge, I'll at least explain why."

Her daughter's look was serious, but her posture was relaxed. "My most important question is, how are you? Is menopause a problem?"

Barb smiled. "There have been some hot flashes. That's why I've been dressing in layers. But right now, I'm enjoying the coffee at this temperature. I don't expect to need hormone replacement."

"Good," said the girl who was named Victoria, but who had said she would use the name Stallard as a grown-up. That was the middle name on the birth certificate, and Barbara's surname. Stallard had declared that 'Victoria,' and every short form of it, was sexist or infantile.

"Thank you for that," said Barb with a smirk. "Next?"

"What were the 'irreconcilable differences' that made you divorce Dad?"

Barb knew this was coming. She and Carl had spent years, each in their own way, telling their daughter that even people who care about each other sometimes need to find different paths in life, while still doing everything they could to love their child and raise her in safety and security. This was even true. But Barb thought that Stallard would no longer be satisfied by this explanation alone.

"They were sexual," said Barb. "Will you be grossed out if I say more?"

"Maybe," said Stallard. "But please tell me anyway."

"Mainly, he kept wanting more and different, and I preferred staying with what we already did. He wanted anal sex. I learned enough about that, and my own body, to say no. Then he wanted to open the relationship. A few times, I allowed him what are now called 'hall passes,' but I insisted on him being tested often for STIs. Waiting for test results interfered with our own sex. He also didn't like that I wouldn't join him, so we could be swingers as a couple. In the end, we decided that we'd be happier if we weren't married."

Stallard took her own slow sip of coffee, apparently as careful in this discussion as her mother was. Barb was relieved in a way that her daughter had opted for short hair, and had inherited height from Carl. It made Stallard seem less like a replica of Barb, with the younger woman's face almost exactly like what Barb's had been at that age, after the pimples were gone.

"You married late," said Stallard at last. "What was your experience like, before then?"

"I was sexually active. But always very careful. I tried to gain reliable information before I tried new things." Barb took another sip, watching Stallard over the rim of the mug. "You know what's in the bookcases. Some of them are in English."

"I can read the French ones, too."

Barb smiled. What seemed to matter so much, years ago, no longer worried her. Still, she said, "I hope I can trust you to keep this between you and me, only. Even Carl doesn't know."

Stallard seemed to suppress a smile. "Go on."

"I don't consider myself bisexual. But one of my lovers was a woman."

After a moment "Was?"

"Was. I won't say more about that. Out of respect for her privacy."

"Did Dad give you hall passes?"

"He did. And sometimes I used them."

"With men?"

"No."

"And after the divorce?"

Barb couldn't help smiling. "Apparently, some men believe that a woman over fifty is still a woman. On these dating sites, there have been plenty of men, shall I say, expressing interest. You've been aware that I've gone on dates. Sometimes, there's been sex. You're also aware that I haven't entered any relationships."

Another searching look from her daughter. "Is that the way you want it?"

Barb smiled, able to be completely open. "Yes."

Stallard also smiled. "Can you impart to me any maternal wisdom about what I should or shouldn't try?"

Barb gave her a mock scowl. "You haven't been eighteen for very long. I hope you aren't excessively eager."

Stallard shrugged. "Boys are jerks. Men are scum. Eventually I'll make use of them, on my terms."

"Well then, I can tell you that I, personally, gained nothing from acting submissive, and lost patience with men who thought they'd enjoy being dominant. Once, my wrists tied to bed rails, but I insisted on slipknots, so I wouldn't have to depend on a safe word."

"Were you ever in a threesome?"

Barb drew back in surprise. "No. Had you been hoping to freak out your mother?"

"A little. You're so private, I was pretty sure you'd only be with one person."

"You're right." Barb set down her mug and leaned at her daughter. "And despite fleeting fantasies about having two men, I've never regretted that. If you really want maternal wisdom, remember this: The greatest risks to a woman, in everyday life, are from sex. Risks from your own desire, the desires of partners, and, yes, the opinions and beliefs of other people. Sex is good, sometimes it's even wonderful, but it should never happen without a clear understanding of potential consequences. Lately I've been hearing this term 'sex-positive,' and I can agree with it--but only when it isn't achieved through ignorance, or intellectual laziness. Does that sound stodgy, or old-fashioned?"

Stallard grinned. "Yes. But I'm with you."

Barb relaxed. "Fine. Any more questions?"

"Not now."

"Good." Barb picked up a stack of papers. "Your father has already filled out some of the financial aid application forms. You and I should finish them. And we'll need them, because even your 'safety' college will be quite expensive, Stallard."

"You can still call me Victoria, or even Vickie. Until graduation. Once I'm in college, I'll be Stallard all the time."

***

A few days later, Vickie was picked up by some friends. They were headed for a movie house that had been carved up into eight screening rooms. Barb would be alone in the house for at least two hours.

She was in no rush. She enjoyed her leftover tofu casserole, while perusing a French novel on her e-book reader.

The novel was erotica, although it built slowly.

A few chapters in, Barb put the plate and fork in the kitchen sink, and took the reader with her to the bedroom.

She stripped, and donned the New York Jets jersey. The ancient polyester doubleknit was worn in many places, but it amused her to continue to wear it for this purpose.

From the bottom of a dresser drawer, she brought out her magic wand.

I wonder if the manufacturer regrets the notoriety of this device, she thought as she plugged in the cord on the outlet above the nightstand. The company is a major Japanese multinational, with several product lines. It even makes nuclear reactors! Yet it may become most famous for helping women masturbate.