Marissa #2
“It’s a family company. Jesse, his brother, and his sister-in-law.”
“Jessssse.” Pooja teases out the word slowly. “That’s a name that begs to be moaned. You should bang him.”
“I’m not going to ‘bang’ him,” I say, curling my fingers into air quotes even though I know she can’t see me. “Also, I find it disturbing that you’d recommend sex with a complete stranger based on zero identifying information.”
“And yet, he’s the only one you identified by name. Doesn’t seem like a stranger to me.”
My cheeks go hot. She’s got me there.
“Please tell me what the issue is here,” she continues. “Are there any glaring signs that this man is a psychopath? Does he have a handlebar mustache? Have you witnessed him harming animals? Does he peel bananas from the bottom?”
“Not a psycho. I’ve never seen him eat fruit. And no mustache, though he does have some heavy scruff.” Artful, sexy scruff that lines a square jaw and frames dark pink lips. I wonder what it would feel like to bite down on that bottom lip and feel the scratch of his beard against my chin.
Pooja releases a muffled noise that sounds like she’s screaming behind a closed fist. For a moment, I’m worried the sound came out of me.
“Marissa, on behalf of your vagina, I am begging you. You haven’t been with a man since Rocky, and we both know that wasn’t anything to write home about.”
I close my eyes. It wasn’t that sex with Rocky was bad.
It just … wasn’t notable. Sure, I was able to get off most of the time.
But I didn’t see stars or black out or anything dramatic like that.
I never experienced the type of life-altering orgasms described in my favorite books.
Being with him was solidly Just Okay. I don’t know what else I expected: Sex with Rocky was sex for Rocky.
My pleasure was never his central focus.
And while I may fantasize about being with someone who would prioritize my needs for once, this is hardly the right time to start auditioning a new bedfellow.
“Let it go, Pooja. We came here for the summer to escape the drama, not create new drama. The last thing I need is more instability.”
She sighs. “Fine. Well, if you’re not going to take care of your sexual needs, the least you can do is tend to your career. Seriously, you’re way too talented to become a has-been.”
“And they say people in this industry are cold.”
I can practically hear my best friend grinning through the phone.
“I’ll let you get to bed. But Marissa?”
“Yeah?”
“Just think about it, okay? You deserve to be happy.”
Before bed, I take a long, hot shower. It’s the first time all day that I’ve been completely alone with my thoughts, and I find them drifting back to my handsome carpenter. Jesse. It is a name that begs to be moaned. And truth be told, I wouldn’t mind testing it out for myself.
There have been a lot of good-looking men in my line of work, but there’s something about Jesse that’s different, more authentic than the ones who grace the silver screen.
Maybe it’s the fact that I know those muscles aren’t just for show but rather to build and create something new and beautiful.
Maybe it’s the juxtaposition of those soft curls and warm eyes against a rough beard and calloused hands.
Or maybe it’s just the fact that he was so kind to my children, without expecting anything in return.
Whatever it is, he’s starting to occupy space in my brain, poking at a need I usually keep buried. An itch that’s begging to be scratched. Would it really be so terrible if he were the one to do it?
Pooja is right—my sex life has been nonexistent. It’s not that I don’t want to date again, to be touched again. I know that I put myself last. It’s just that I’m afraid. Afraid of trusting someone again. Afraid of getting hurt. And maybe most of all, afraid of being rejected.
I wipe a hand across the bathroom mirror, clearing away the fog to study my reflection.
Leaning closer to the glass, I examine the lines on my forehead.
Since my face is no longer stretched across a movie screen, I’ve seen no reason to keep up with Botox, and creases are slowly returning, no matter how diligently I apply tretinoin each night.
There are dark crescents under my eyes, and I’m certain my jawline is starting to droop.
I turn to the side and inhale a deep breath, sucking in my stomach.
Then I blow it out and allow my body to return to its natural shape.
A shape that is still not entirely familiar.
Some days, I barely recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror. It’s not that I’ve struggled to accept my body after becoming a mom. I love my body. This body carried two beautiful, healthy babies, and for that, I am grateful. It’s just … different than it used to be.
I’ve lost the baby weight and I’m only one size larger than I was before kids.
But everything sits differently now. My breasts hang lower; my waist and hips are wider.
My stomach doesn’t lie flat anymore and there are ripples of cellulite on the backs of my legs.
It’s the body of a mother who loves her kids more than anything on earth.
But is it still my body? The body of the person I was before, when I wasn’t a mother but just a woman?
It’s certainly not the same body I had when I last appeared on-screen.
Or shared a first kiss. Or fell in love.
Part of me is ready to date again. But there’s another part of me that’s riddled with self-consciousness.
I’ve always been a self-assured person. You have to be to survive in my industry.
But over the past few years, I’ve felt less than confident in my own skin.
Blame it on the conditioning of my generation, blame it on the internet, but it’s deep in there.
That little voice whispering that I could look better.
It’s been ages since I was naked in front of a man.
How would one react to the sight of my bare skin?
Would he still find me desirable? Because while I may be out of practice, I haven’t lost an ounce of interest. If anything, my sex drive has only increased as I’ve gotten older.
My unintended celibacy has swelled my craving to be desired by a man.
Not just any man, my subconscious whispers. My cheeks heat and I know it’s not the humidity of the bathroom that’s warming them. I reach upward to cup my breast, pretending it’s the rough, calloused touch of my carpenter. A man who is most certainly skilled with his hands.
My eyes flutter shut as my fingers brush over my nipple, and I begin to lose myself in a daydream.
I imagine his other hand on my waist, pulling me against him.
The way my name sounds in his low voice as he exhales hot breath against me.
The sensation of his stubble scratching my skin as he dips his head lower to take me into his mouth. The way he would—
The sound of coughing startles me out of the daydream. I grab a towel off the rack and wrap it tightly around myself just as the bathroom door opens slightly, a tiny face appearing through the crack.
“Mommy,” Levi whispers, “I need water.”
My skin is still blazing, but now it’s more from mortification than excitement.
This is exactly why I’ve been out of the dating scene for so long.
I am never alone. Being a mom is a twenty-four-seven gig.
And yes, maybe I’ve lost a part of myself along the way.
But doesn’t that happen to everyone when they become a parent?
Under the stark beam of reality, the thought of dating is almost laughable. How could I fold another person into this balancing act? I’m barely managing as it is.
After getting Levi a glass of water and tucking him back into bed, I follow suit, tucking myself in and pulling the covers up to my chin. Closing my eyes, I force myself to clear my mind, banishing all thoughts of handsome contractors and their skilled hands.
Outside, a summer rain thumps against the windowpane, eventually lulling me into a deep, dreamless sleep.