How I Fell Madly In Lust With My Husband

by Susan Shapiro

Aaron was tall, handsome, brilliant, funny—everything I wanted in a lover except reckless. Indeed, the kinkiest thing about him was his luxuriant Jewish boy’s ‘fro; I loved to run my fingers through his curls. He was raised to be a suburban gentleman in the conservative 1950’s and went to college in the liberated 70’s—which may explain why he wasn’t bitch-slapping me while pretending he was a pimp and I was his hooker, or playing the principal punishing the naughty schoolgirl sent to his office, or acting like a kidnapper tying up his naked, quivering victim. Instead, he put his ardor into his work while making sweet, calm, comfortable love to his wife once every week or two. Or three. Okay, a few years into our marriage, we sometimes went an entire month without even a quickie.

This was a far cry from our lewd long-distance courtship, where I’d fly to L.A. in tight jeans, braless under my T-shirt, and he’d throw me to the carpet as soon as I walked into his apartment, or take me in the hot tub on his roof (where we once got caught by the building’s manager). The West Coast earthquakes we lived through were an apt metaphor for how I’d initially felt fooling around with him, as in “Oh, baby, the earth moved.” The first year he was aggressive, and I was happy to be tamed.

Of course, we couldn’t maintain the thrill of our bi-coastal relationship forever. Eventually, we got engaged, married, and moved in together. At 35, I was pleasantly shocked that a strong, intense, career-driven woman like me could actually get a great husband. Soon paying off an expensive mortgage, dealing with infertility, and mourning the death of a few close relatives intruded on our fun escapades. So when the sexual status quo became less-than-hot-and-salacious, I cut us some slack.

While my mate was working late and away on business trips, I’d get my rocks off by imagining a mysterious naked couple acting out semi-violent fetishes. Once the aggressive male I was envisioning turned into the British film star Clive Own (around the time of Closer, where he stole every scene by playing an angry manipulative scoundrel). The disobedient French maid he was disciplining became the tennis player Anna Kournikova, whose cheesecake bikini pictures I’d seen in the National Inquirer. I’d also paged through Penthouse and surf porn sites on the web. When Aaron got home, I offered to enact any lascivious scenario that might appeal to him: a private wet T-shirt contest with me as the only contestant and him as the judge? Hand job with scented motion lotion? Trying it doggy style? Titty f**king? I even asked if he was interested in giving me a “pearl necklace.” So he didn’t think I wanted him to buy me jewelry, I explained I’d read online that the phrase was a euphemism for a man ejaculating onto a woman’s neck. “Great, now I’m married to a porn addict,” he said, going into his den to check email.