Pitiful.

She felt absolutely pitiful as she sat there helplessly succumbing to her husband suservantly rubbing her swollen pregnant feet.

He looked up at her lovingly, pleasantly, dutifully…it was almost too much for her to take. All this attention. All this care. All this energy seemingly centered around her and whatever she, in the moment, needed.

Was he tired?

He had to be tired.

In her pregnant slack, her husband had been running around doing everything: packing, driving 2 days across the country, and making space in and fixing up his parents house for their move.

Yes, she was attending the children’s needs, supervising their schoolwork and their play…oh, and gestating a baby ready to appear any day now…and As she thought about it, it sounded like a lot.

But Still…

she felt bad she couldn’t help him.

She partly desired to help him (and have a bit more control in the whole moving and adjusting process), and she was still trying hard to accept his invitations and advances to serve her and manage her well being.

But her tastes were changing…

It had honestly been nice. It was the fantasy she always wanted in him. But it was awkward for her and new; and wanting, she was evermore learning, was way more sexy sometimes than getting could ever be.

And finally getting was turning into the turn-on of the approaching decade of their still very young marriage.

Between roses and rose petal baths…and jewelry and foot rubs…encouraged and uninterrupted rest…she felt like a woman again: soft and delicate…open, and wet.

She found that her new found spare time and energy left her idle with thoughts of love-making and passionate, college-aged sex.

Where she had once been too sleep, or tired, or just flat out turned off, she now found herself waiting for the cover of night, the warmth of sheets and the sensation of her husband’s unrestricted touch.

Rest…

submission of control…

and the trashing of the idea that vulnerability made her pitiful, pathetic, or absolutely useless had dramatically increased her libido.

It was no wonder so many women disdained the mere thought of sex.

“Just one more thing to do. One more obligation at the end of a day list long of feminine-sucking, secretion-sucking, stamina-sucking, obligatory overwhelming tasks, assignments, and chores.

When he’s sweating during the day…I’m not and it makes me eager to sweat in the cover of night, beneath the warmth of sheets, at the hands of his, my husband’s unrestricted, welcomed, desired and day-long anticipated touch.