I took him out for a steak dinner last night. Ribeyes, cooked medium, with baked potato and salad, for two, please. We almost always order alike. Except he prefers ranch, and I blue cheese.
I ate only half as I intended to have dessert, too: an epically large brownie covered by a mostly melted Hershey’s bar. Two spoons, please, we’ll share.
The evening flowed. We talked mostly about our recent experiences at work. I’m being trusted and tapped for business decisions. I’ve slowed my pace at work, I’m intentionally being more thoughtful, aware, and pushing back on perceived ’emergencies.’ His ’emergencies’ however, are emergencies indeed, and require a faster-paced, sometimes frenetic handling. And there’s been several more lately.
He talked at length about this new dynamic to his work day, appeasing management and other powers-that-be, recent staffing changes, billing procedures, how to coax unwilling subcontractors into actually doing their jobs, and how these new responsibilities heaped upon his shoulders is the fault of an employee who didn’t heed his advice, lingering at the shop for hours each morning, failing to look busy, and inviting the additional–really, huge–workload addition.
I blame him, he said. This is his fault and I’ve told him that.
I’ve never heard him talk more during one our dinner conversations. A few times, he’d stop himself and openly say, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” As we left the restaurant, he seemed to become conscious of how much he was talking and when thanking me for dinner, added an apology for talking so much.
I didn’t entirely mind.
It was nice to not be the one pushing the conversation along.
But when our conversation finally fell away into a peaceful silence after our return home, I read quietly in bed while he watched TV.
I didn’t know if he was expecting anything to follow. And if he was, it was likely because it was March 14–the tongue-in-cheek male Valentine’s Day: Steak and a Blow Job Day. He’s not one to keep up with Internet-driven “holidays,” but I had sent him an invitation to dinner two days prior, with “Steak and…?” across the top. He smiled when he read it.
Is this what I think it is, he asked.
But he received no blow job last night. Not because I don’t enjoy giving them–I do, but because I didn’t want to. My throat was a bit sore. I was relaxed from the meal. When his TV show ended, we turned off the light and went to sleep.
If it was on his mind, he never said a word.
And perhaps it wasn’t. He fell asleep within minutes.
I do miss our sex life, though. As of tomorrow morning, it will have been two weeks since we’ve had sex of any good measure. He’s had two blow jobs in that time.
I’ve tried to initiate. Nothing. When he tried to initiate out of guilt, neither of us were into it and quit. I’ve suggested watching porn. Since he’s waved sex off for being too tired, I’ve taken to occasionally asking him if he feels up to do ‘anything’. Do you have any leftover energy you’d like to work out?
Nope, nope, and never.
He’s just not up to it, he says.
I’ve let my insecurities show through. Have I done something wrong? Are you mad at me? You are still attracted to me, aren’t you?
Two nights ago, I brought up that sex in our relationship is something I really enjoy. He agreed. And then he went to sleep.
I’ve considered not asking anymore. I’ve considered letting it go.
But I have needs, too.
Even now, I feel like dramatically falling over in bed with frustration over this dry spell that not even the promise of porn, or conversations about fantasized threesomes can break.
I’ve just texted him: Want to have some fun between the sheets tonight?
No response for 10 minutes and then…Sure!