Copyright 2011 by Ernest Winchester
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Bette Anderson’s seven-year marriage had grown dull. She sat at her kitchen table trying to remember the last time she and her husband had had really good, really exciting sex. The kind of sex that made her toes curl and caused her to walk funny for a day after. Sure, they had sex. Maybe once a week, often less, but it certainly wasn’t what it used to be.
Her coffee became cold as she thought about her situation. Facing the big three-o the next winter didn’t help. Was life going to be all down hill from there? Maybe she needed another baby? Little Johnny was in school and the house was extremely empty all day as she finished house keeping or laundry by mid morning and there was nothing to do until it was time to begin preparing supper for the family. But she knew another child wasn’t the answer to her sex blues. On the contrary, she recalled how drastic a change in their lives having an infant in the house had been. She was three months pregnant when she and John married, much the chagrin of both sets of their parents. That didn’t leave much time for an extended honeymoon before the two AM and five AM feedings had drained her energy to the point that sex then was even less than the recent years she was complaining about to herself. But the sex had recovered after that, becoming good again until—yeah, when did it drop off? It was so gradual that she couldn’t put a year to it. No, changing diapers wasn’t the answer. The pill guaranteed that.