Keeping the Home Fires Burning

Since the dawn of civilization, men have been waging war, traveling thousands of miles from home and leaving their beloved spouses behind for months at a time. Shortly thereafter, these mighty warriors began begging their wives (via papyrus, I suppose) to send “romantic” letters to get them through the long, lonely nights. My husband, who deployed to Iraq last year, was no different. As a caring, modern male who was looking at a long year of abstinence, he felt that we could use this time apart to learn more about each other, sharing our deepest desires and our secret fantasies using the intimate medium of e-mail.

Given that this would surely strengthen the bonds of our marriage and allow us to feel close to each other during this grueling separation, my answer was immediate.

“Yuck. Must we?”

My problem with sharing my fantasies (not that I am for one second admitting that I have any) stems from my repressed Catholic upbringing. Although I was allowed to participate in sex education at school, my only instruction at home came during a frank and sensitive conversation with my father while we bathed the family dog. I was washing Bear’s hind legs, when my Dad, carefully avoiding any eye contact, grunted, “Be careful. He’s sensitive down there.” In his mind, it was all I needed to know until my wedding night, so he left it at that.

I also received several years of sex education from the catechism teachers at church. Each year, we discussed the following important rules of Catholic purity: 1) Sex before marriage is a Sin; 2) Thinking about sex is a Sin; and 3) Touching your body while thinking about sex is a Big Sin (at this point, the teacher winked at the boys, although I’ve never figured out why).

Sex education in the classroom wasn’t a whole lot more enlightening. In fifth grade, the teacher sent all of the boys to the playground, and then showed the girls a horrifying filmstrip starring Susan, who had just had her First Period, and Susan’s mother, who was Happy to Answer Any Questions that Susan Might Have. Of course, Susan never actually asked about anything that we girls actually wanted to know, such as “Yeah, but what’s any of this have to do with sex?” and “If cramps are so uncomfortable, why do the women in commercials always look so delighted to get their periods?”

In addition to my natural prudishness, my ability to share my fantasies with my husband is hampered by the fact that I am raising three young children on my own. Hence, my fantasies tend to revolve around clubbing the marketing executive who decided that all diaper wipes should be packaged in “One-Up” dispensers. These containers are similar to tissue boxes; however, when you pull on a tissue, it will actually come out, whereas pulling on a wipe results in a wipe that is stuck in a cumbersome plastic container. Therefore, one must hold the wriggling child with the left hand (it is usually helpful to chant “Not on the carpet! Not on the carpet!” at this point) while using the right hand to wildly swing the container overhead in a desperate attempt to dislodge the wipe. This maneuver eventually releases the wipe, but sends the container hurling across the room, smashing it into the monitor of the computer that I am supposed to be using to record my deepest and darkest fantasies.

So after I wash my hands, I decide to give it a shot. I throw the kids in front of the television and sit at the computer. I close my eyes, and the incredibly erotic theme song to “Dora the Explorer” floats through the air. I start to type…

I imagine that I am reclining in a beautiful, mahogany sleigh bed in the middle of a verdant, wildflower-covered meadow. A tall, handsome man appears. His long black hair is blowing in the wind, revealing deep brown eyes under slashing eyebrows. He is shirtless, and the warm afternoon sun caresses his bronzed, heavily muscled chest. He turns to the side, and I gasp. In his hand is something so powerful that I am instantly aroused. It is a can of Pledge, and he’s here to get all of the pollen off the headboard.

Suddenly, my husband appears. He is incensed. “What are you doing? I meant a fantasy about me!” I open my eyes, and decide I’d rather go and watch Dora.

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