Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (Knitting in the City) (24 page)

We kissed every day—but never for very long and never very deeply—and we started wearing pajamas to bed
, whereas before, we’d slept naked.

I was in tank tops and shorts.

He was in black t-shirts and draw-string cotton pants, Hanes brand. I knew they were Hanes brand since I checked the tag. I don’t know why I checked the tag; maybe because his pajamas felt like my adversary. Regardless, I was a little surprised by his simple choice in PJ’s since he was in the top point zero five percent of the wealth distribution curve.

Admittedly, I began to feel a measure of spite for the Hanes clothing company. The loss of his nudity was a travesty and part of me—the completely irrational, needing-someone-to-blame part—held them accountable.

He was also touching me less in general. Fewer hugs, fewer incidental caresses, no more cuddling or spooning in bed.

Another byproduct of the big wedding was that we seemed to talk about nothing
but
the wedding. Certainly, at work we talked about work. At home however, we talked about ferns, appetizers, and ribbons.

Ribbons!

Before Quinn, the lack of
engaging conversation wouldn’t have affected me much.

But now, I
’d grown used to sharing my random facts with him, having him ask me questions, discussing the broader ramifications of the information and how it might be applied to future situations and the interpretation of data.

Maybe I wasn
’t sex-deprived as much as Quinn-deprived, and the lack of quality Quinn time—or Quinnime, which is Quinn + time—was messing with my head.

After
we made the bet, the first two weeks were terrible. We talked often, but I began to feel lonely.

Marie called me one day out of the blue and offered her services
for whatever I needed. She actually helped a great deal. As an artist, she had an eye for color and design that I lacked. She almost made me want to have an opinion about centerpieces, cake toppers, and chair covers.

I
assembled a list of vendors in the Chicago area and left messages for photographers, videographers, caterers, venues, jazz quartets, DJs, and fireworks display professionals.

Unfortunately, the bad news rolled in immediately.

My dad didn’t think a visit was a good idea. He said he’d think about coming to the wedding as long as it didn’t interfere with any other plans. This was disheartening, but not a surprise. As well, he said he hadn’t spoken to June, my older sister, since she jumped bail for her latest conviction. Like me, he didn’t know where she was or how to reach her.

My dad
…goodness, I didn’t know what to think about him.

He wasn
’t a bad guy.

Really, I think about my childhood in terms of my mother. There was never a time where she wasn
’t the focus of my dad’s life or ours. Before she died and after she died, she was the alpha and omega, the zeta and tri-delta.

Actually, she was literally a tri-delta. She was in the sorority when
she met my father, and he was a humble mechanical engineering student. I’m pretty convinced that my oldest sister, June, and my youngest sister, Jem, both have a different father. There’s also a high chance that my father is some anonymous, unknown sperm donor.

Regardless, my dad never turned my mother away. He paid for our daycare, dropped us off
, and picked us up every day. He may not have tucked us in at night or made any attempt to calm us when we had nightmares, but he did put a roof over our heads and food in our mouths.

W
hen we weren’t spending weekends with my mother’s mother, a pill-popping head case as well as a former beauty queen, we were running amuck around the neighborhood.

Now my relationship with my dad consist
s of him sending me email forwards, mostly jokes or chain mail or both, along with fifty other people on the To: line. The few times each year that I call him, he seems confused at first as to who I am. Then he seems confused as to why I’ve called.

Therefore,
the call I made to him went accordingly.

The other bad news
about the wedding was that almost every place in Chicago was already booked; I was forced to move down the lists to my third, sixth, and tenth choices. It was extremely stressful—which was satisfying as an outcome—and I spent a good amount of time with Quinn lamenting my inability to secure any meaningful part of the event.

Compounding matters, I couldn
’t send out the invitations because I couldn’t finalize the reception location. This meant I would have to find a printer for the invitations who would be able to turn them around in two days or less, which was basically impossible.

Therefore, when Sandra insisted on taking over all activities relating to my bachelorette party, I gave in immediately and allowed her to do so. I then promptly forgot about it, figured she was bossy enough that I could trust her to tell me what to do, where to go, and when
to be there.

Additionally, I wasn
’t sure how to feel about Quinn’s parents. I did feel a good deal of guilt that I’d pushed him into the visit. My mind didn’t like feeling guilt, so it wandered to less uncomfortable topics—like what class of plastics corresponded to each recycling number.

Katherine continued to be lovely and gracious
and even funny during our phone conversations. Desmond Sr., Quinn’s dad and his brother’s namesake, surprised me by joining our third call. He said almost nothing while Katherine and I discussed the difference between plastics denoted with the number 1 (PET—Polyethylene Terephthalate) and plastics denoted with the number 2 (HDPE—High Density Polyethylene).

But then, at the very end of the call, he said in a voice that sounded eerily similar to Quinn
’s, but with a much thicker Boston accent, “We’re really looking forward to seeing you Saturday.”

I hung up feeling dazed and confused and maybe a little overwhelmed by what I
’d initiated.

Everything was set and scheduled for our trip to Boston
. But as the time approached, I couldn’t help but wonder if my insistence on meeting his parents had more to do with my wanting non-ambivalent parental figures in my life—most especially a maternal figure—or that I honestly wanted what was best for Quinn.

Signs of my distractedness and physical
-and-intellectual-intimacy-Quinn-starved-addled-brain-disease presented at knit night just a few days before we were set to leave for Boston.

We were all gathered at the apartment I te
chnically shared with Elizabeth, but she hadn’t arrived yet.

I thought I was covering pretty well. I even
made margaritas for everyone, and they were good margaritas. I credited the addition of Limoncello and agave nectar.

Marie was discussing the wedding plans and lamenting our inability to secure a venue.

“Can’t Quinn help?” Sandra asked, “He does security for all those fancy places, like that club where he rescued you.”

I smoothed out the wrinkles of the Wonder Woman apron I was wearing.
“I didn’t want to ask him to do that.”

“
Why not? It’s his wedding too,” Fiona pointed out and sipped her margarita. “You should ask him to help. Men like to help.”

I thought about how his eyes glazed over every time I asked him
for an opinion on floral arrangements or main course options. It was a mere three weeks since our engagement, and I dreaded every discussion he and I had to make about the wedding.

I sighed.
“I don’t know….”

“
You can do it, Janie!” Sandra shouted before gulping some of Kat’s drink. Kat was distracted, but I noticed. “Start this way—here, watch me—pretend I’m you.” She cleared her throat and fluttered her lashes. “Oh, Quinn, I am existentially flubbered.”

“
I don’t think flubbered is a word,” Ashley interjected.

“
Yes it is. It’s flustered and befuddled.”

“
Wouldn’t that be fluddled?”

“
Shh, you’re messing me up.” Sandra frowned at Ashley’s interference and turned her attention back to me. “What do you call each other? What are your pet names? Dearest? Turtledove? Thor? Herr Handsome of my heart? Lizard of my labia? Captain of my clitoris?”

I rolled m
y lips between my teeth, but it was no good. We all burst out laughing.

“
Lizard of my labia? What the heck?” Kat chuckled and reached for her drink. Still, she didn’t notice that one third of it was depleted let alone that Sandra was the culprit.

“
You know, lizards and their tongues flicking.” Sandra glanced around the room. “I think it’s a nice term of endearment.”

“
No.” I shook my head. “No, I do not call him that. Other than Sir McHotpants, which I rarely use and only to illustrate a modification in his mood, I don’t have a pet name for him.”

Sandra frowned.
“Not even in bed? Not even when the two of you are going at it? Not even
baby
?”

To be certain, I thought back over our times of physical intimacy.
“No. We don’t talk much during sex.”

Sandra
’s mouth fell open. “You don’t talk during sex? You don’t dirty talk? Like, at all?”

I shook my head.
“No. Not really. Before, during foreplay, I might quote a few interesting and relevant studies relating to arousal or stamina. But we’re both mostly silent during the act.” I nibbled my top lip. “Sometimes he’ll say
move
or
bend over
or some other instruction regarding the placement of my body, but nothing like a term of endearment. Recently he told me what to say while we were engaged in the act—or rather, he made requests.”

“
Like what?” Sandra looked confused. “Like dirty requests? A la, ‘Tell me how much you want my big co….’”

“
Sandra! I think we all get your point.” Fiona exchanged a look with Sandra then peered at me before speaking. “You don’t have to answer her questions, Janie.”

“
No, it’s ok. Quinn said stuff like, ‘Tell me you love me.’”

“
Aw…that’s sweet.” Fiona smiled at me approvingly. “That’s not dirty talk, that’s lovely bedroom talk.”

“
Thanks.” I returned her smile. “I have limited experience so, to be honest, I’m not sure what is considered normal. This conversation is actually quite helpful and—if all of you are comfortable with the topic—will allow me to gather data on what kinds of things are said in the bedroom between normal, well-adjusted adults.”

“
I don’t mind,” Ashley chimed in. “I’m ok with dirty talk in the bedroom—to a point. For example,” she glanced upward, setting her knitting on her knee and seemed to search the bookshelf behind Fiona for the right memory. “This one time, in college, my boyfriend started calling me a whore while I was…well, you know, fellatiating.”

“
Fellatiating?” Sandra made a confused face.

“
The art of administering fellatio,” Ashley clarified.

“
Ah…continue.”

“
And it was a complete turn-off. I feel like, with that kind of stuff, the girl has to invite it. Like, I need to be the one to say, ‘Call me a ho!’ or else it feels degrading.”

“
I agree.” Sandra nodded. “I mean, I’d never say to a guy while he’s savoring my goods, ‘You’re a slut!’ Right? That’s not okay.”

“
What else do people say during sex that’s considered dirty talk?” I asked. “Other than calling each other names, I mean.” I wondered if they’d think it was very strange of me to take out a piece of paper and jot down some notes.

There was a pause while they all considered the question.

Surprisingly, Marie was the first to respond. “I don’t have much experience either. But the guy I was with before David was always asking me if I liked what he was doing, but not as though he really wanted to know—not a survey—more like,” she paused, then lowered her voice to imitate a man, “You like that, dontcha? You like it when I do that, dontcha? You want it all the time, dontcha?”

“
Hmm….” Sandra nodded thoughtfully. “I was with a guy who did that. He seemed to need a lot of praise to sustain an erection, so I figured out quickly that it was a good idea to say, “Yes! Yes! God, yes! Don’t stop!”

We all chuckled a little at Sandra
’s theatrics, and Fiona turned her smiling eyes to me. “Dirty talk in the bedroom can be fun, especially if you’re with someone you love and who loves you. Don’t be afraid of sounding weird or turning him off. Believe me, anything you say or do—as long as it’s unselfish and about bringing pleasure to
both
of you—is good.”

“
Look at you, Ms. Sex Therapist.” Marie winked at Fiona. “You and Greg are the cutest coupled; of course you guys have everything figured out.”

Fiona turned her attention to her work in progress.
“No one has
everything
figured out.”