It does, indeed, rain in the desert. And when it does, the animals come from far and near, ignoring prey/predator relationships, gathering…reveling.
Last night, when I came home (sports practice cancelled – due to rain – which makes my opening metaphor a little ironic), child in tow, we both looked at each other in disappointment. He was cooking dinner as I walked in (child obviously out of earshot), and He said, “Well, I guess that ruins my plans of fucking you while he was at practice.” I replied, “I had the same plan.” And He said, “I know.”
We both knew that in order to get things going again, we just had to stop talking about it and get things going again as soon as possible.
“I was going to have this in the oven by the time you got home and be ready to fuck.”
“All you’re missing is the pearls and heels. Your the perfect wife. A better wife than me.” I said it with a lilt of sarcasm, and a tinge of truth.
“I know.” He rolled his eyes.
I poured Him a glass of wine, He put the casserole in the oven, and I took His boots and socks off. We ate dinner, did our family evening thing, and finally fell into bed around 10:30.
“Do you want me to turn your lamp on?” was His code for Do you want to stay up and have sex? And there we were…naked by lamplight, both of us with sexual intentions…finally.
He spent several minutes just kissing and touching me, telling me He wanted me, loved me, needed me. And I drank it in…my skin thirsty. He spread me wide, His tongue making contact with my clit, and inserted two fingers, quickly bringing me to my first very wet orgasm. I’m foggy on the details, but the important thing is He knows exactly what to do. Our sheets were a soggy mess by the time He was done.
But…He didn’t come.
It always disappoints me when He doesn’t. In some ways, it feels like my failure, even though I know, really, that it isn’t. He’ll come…eventually. And when He does…it will be a flood of warmth inside of me, a summation that always brings a huge smile to my face (and a rush of oxytocin to my body).
It’s okay. It’s like a bookmark, saving our place in the middle of chapter, as if we were interrupted during the climax of the story. No one leaves a book in that condition for long, and neither will we leave this situation to neglect.
This is how a drought ends.