![]() CATEGORIES: BiologyChemistryConstructionCultureEcologyEconomyElectronicsFinanceGeographyHistoryInformaticsLawMathematicsMechanicsMedicineOtherPedagogyPhilosophyPhysicsPolicyPsychologySociologySportTourism |
We must contain this genetic mistake at allCosts! I told him we would think about it, and with our new supply of mood-altering drugs in hand, we headed home. It was at this same time, as we debated slicing away Marley’s manhood, that Jenny was placing unprecedented demands on mine. Dr. Sherman had cleared her to try to get pregnant again. She accepted the challenge with the single- mindedness of an Olympic athlete. The days of simply putting away the birth control pills and let- ting whatever might happen happen were behind us. In the insemination wars, Jenny was going on the offensive. For that, she needed me, a key ally John Grogan who controlled the flow of ammunition. Like most males, I had spent every waking moment from the age of fifteen trying to convince the op- posite sex that I was a worthy mating partner. Fi- nally, I had found someone who agreed. I should have been thrilled. For the first time in my life, a woman wanted me more than I wanted her. This was guy heaven. No more begging, no more grov- eling. Like the best stud dogs, I was at last in de- mand. I should have been ecstatic. But suddenly it all just seemed like work, and stressful work at that. It was not a rollicking good romp that Jenny craved from me; it was a baby. And that meant I had a job to perform. This was serious business. That most joyous of acts overnight became a clin- ical drill involving basal-temperature checks, menstrual calendars, and ovulation charts. I felt like I was in service to the queen. It was all about as arousing as a tax audit. Jenny was used to me being game to go at the slightest hint of an invitation, and she assumed the old rules still applied. I would be, let’s say, fixing the garbage disposal and she would walk in with her calendar in hand and say, “I had my last period on the seventeenth, which means”—and she would pause to count ahead from that date—“that we need to do it—NOW!” The Grogan men have never handled pressure Marley & Me well, and I was no exception. It was only a matter of time before I suffered the ultimate male humil- iation: performance failure. And once that hap- pened, the game was over. My confidence was shot, my nerve gone. If it happened once, I knew it could happen again. Failure evolved into a self- fulfilling prophecy. The more I worried about per- forming my husbandly duty, the less I was able to relax and do what had always come naturally. I quashed all signs of physical affection lest I put ideas in Jenny’s head. I began to live in mortal fear that my wife would, God forbid, ask me to rip her clothes off and have my way with her. I began thinking that perhaps a life of celibacy in a remote monastery wouldn’t be such a bad future after all. Jenny was not about to give up so easily. She was the hunter; I was the prey. One morning when I was working in my newspaper’s West Palm Beach bureau, just ten minutes from home, Jenny called from work. Did I want to meet her at home for lunch? You mean alone? Without a chaperone? “Or we could meet at a restaurant somewhere,” I countered. A very crowded restaurant. Prefer- ably with several of our coworkers along. And both mothers-in-law. “Oh, c’mon,” she said. “It’ll be fun.” Then her voice lowered to a whisper and she added, “To- day’s a good day. I . . . think . . . I’m . . . ovulat- John Grogan ing.” A wave of dread washed over me. Oh God, no. Not the O word.The pressure was on. It was time to perform or perish. To, quite literally, rise or fall. Please don’t make me,I wanted to plead into the phone. Instead I said as coolly as I could, “Sure. Does twelve-thirty work?” When I opened the front door, Marley, as always, was there to greet me, but Jenny was nowhere to be found. I called out to her. “In the bathroom,” she answered. “Out in a sec.” I sorted through the mail, killing time, a general sense of doom hover- ing over me, the way I imagined it hovered over people waiting for their biopsy results. “Hey there, sailor,” a voice behind me said, and when I turned around, Jenny was standing there in a little silky two-piece thing. Her flat stomach peeked out from below the top, which hung precariously from her shoulders by two impossibly thin straps. Her legs had never looked longer. “How do I look?” she said, holding her hands out at her sides. She looked incredible, that’s how she looked. When it comes to sleepwear, Jenny is squarely in the baggy T-shirt camp, and I could tell she felt silly in this seductive getup. But it was having the intended effect. She scampered into the bedroom with me in Marley & Me pursuit. Soon we were on top of the sheets in each other’s arms. I closed my eyes and could feel that old lost friend of mine stirring. The magic was re- turning. You can do this, John.I tried to conjure up the most impure thoughts I could. This was going to work!My fingers fumbled for those flimsy shoulder straps. Roll with it, John. No pressure.I could feel her breath now, hot and moist on my face. And heavy. Hot, moist, heavy breath. Mmmm, sexy. But wait. What was that smell? Something on her breath. Something at once familiar and for- eign, not exactly unpleasant but not quite entic- ing, either. I knew that smell, but I couldn’t place it. I hesitated. What are you doing, you idiot? Forget the smell. Focus, man. Focus!But that smell—I could not get it out of my head. You’re Date: 2015-12-17; view: 932
|