Faking It

 

"Faking it?"

Her meaning was in no way unclear.

But I couldn't help repeating what she had said.

She didn't answer; she just kept her eyes fixed on mine-more calm and patient than angry or irritated.

Faking it.

For the five years that we had been married-and, I assume, for the two previous years we had been dating-Jan had been faking it.

I thought she'd been having orgasms-the result of things that I did to her; it had certainly looked (and sounded) like that to me.

Turns out?

This had been a Show.

And . . . I'd bought it.

Hook, line, and sinker.

Okay . . .

The immediate question, of course, was: Why?

And that's a Part A and Part B question, right?

How and why had I been failing her sexually?

And . . . why had she waited seven years to tell me this?

She hadn't cum-just a few minutes before; that had been obvious.

I had "held back" for as long as I could-which meant something like: actual intercourse lasted closer to six minutes, rather than four-but there had clearly been no "culmination" for her, what I, perhaps selfishly, thought of as a "reward for my efforts," evidence that I had "done my job."

I liked to think of myself as sensitive.

I liked to think of myself as "aware."

I liked to think of myself-I'll confess, given how things have "evolved," with some mortification-I liked to think of myself as something approaching a sexual artist; like a musician, well attuned to his instrument.

But . . .

No.

Not really.

Just . . . obviously.

The death of that illusion was less the pricking-pun intended-of a balloon, and more the spectacular flameout of the Hindenburg: The hydrogen-filled blimp that caught fire, in the 1930s, over some part of New Jersey.

Oh, the humanity!

Yes, I am comparing my sexual failings to the loss of some thirty-five lives.

An argument that I skew in the direction of self-important-or did, anyway-can be made.

A good deal of "air" has been let out of me in the past few months; hard for me to picture that I am ever going to inflate again to my original size-pun intended-in just so many ways.

"Mickey," my wife said, face going a little sad, "I just can't pretend anymore. I . . ." it felt like she was on the cusp of saying she was sorry about that; she didn't. "I just . . . can't."

I don't think I had cried since my mother's funeral-some three years before.

Felt like I was flush up against the brink of breaking down; I didn't know how to respond: what to say, what to feel, what to think-whether there was any "solution" I could propose.

I felt like I had just been run over by a freight train, and that I was trying to determine whether or not I was dead.

Clearly, I was injured-or just inadequate.

No arguing about that.

I managed a single word: "And?"

Clearly, this was a question for which she had prepared.

There was still another long pause.

The clause she started with was chilling.

"If you want to stay married . . ." she began.