I pulled the bundle of mail from the mailbox and flipped through the stack.
Nothing out of the ordinary — bill, junk, bill, Psychology Today magazine, and a renewal notice for my membership in AASECT, the American Association of Sexuality Educators, Counselors and Therapists.
To me, AASECT has always sounded like some insect name, not a pleasant acronym of a professional organization for sex therapists.
But “out of the ordinary” and insects describes more than my mail, it describes my current life, where everything is far away from my norm and quite frankly, bugging me.
I’m Dr. Telaine Patricia Cohen, your basic Rosalind “Roz” Focker, Barbara Streisand-portrayed Sex Therapist. I moved to Nashville, Tennessee — AKA Music City — after falling in love with it while visiting my niece, Jules Lichtenstien, who you probably already know, is Music City’s new cupcake boutique queen and also a caterer to the stars.
But I didn’t just fall in love with the city. I also fell hard for one of its letter carriers.
For the past four months, I’ve been living with Jules’ prosthetic-eared mailman, Ben. And although I adore the guy, I’m still trying to remember why I agreed to move in with him.
Our relationship could definitely use a match to re-ignite the spark that originally attracted us.
Ben’s spark had been his penchant for fun. He may not be able to hear very well, but the guy’s got the Midas Touch when it comes to over-the-top spectacular, seeing stars in the bedroom moves.
But after glancing at the deer on the cover of his latest sportsman’s catalog, I had a revelation. Fun with your live-in was evidently out of season. Hunting, however, was in-season, meaning girlfriends and/or wives were out.
I know what you all are thinking. And yes, I’m a “therapist”. A therapist who now needs a therapist. Why? Because, let me tell you something. At Yale, they don’t teach you how to deal with becoming a hunting widow.
My cell phone rang and temporarily shook me out of my life funk.
I glanced at the display. No surprise.
I’d actually taken the phone with me to the mailbox because it was time for Ben to be fighting interstate traffic on his way home from the post office. He always called me to estimate his arrival for dinner.
Evidently, hunting season didn’t rob a man of his appetite for food…just his appetite for love.
“Hey, baby.” Ben’s voice sounded muffled from the hands-free system in his SUV. “I should be home in about half an hour.”
“Sounds good.”
“Do we have any plans for tomorrow?”
In Ben-speak that meant he did.
I took a deep breath and forced a pleasant response. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, a couple of the guys want to head to the woods because deer season starts tomorrow. Is it okay if I go?”
“Fine with me,” I said, with a bit more zip to my voice than I’d originally intended.
I normally deplored Ben’s little-boy way of asking for a kitchen pass. But his request to hunt, coupled with the catalog cover had given me an idea.
Maybe I hadn’t lost my multiple-award-winning therapist’s touch. Suddenly, I had an epiphany and knew just what to do to shake up our waaay too cozy — and boring — love nest.
So it was big-game season, huh?
Well, too bad.
I wasn’t about to spend our four-month anniversary — the fruit and flowers one — alone. Ben would be hunting, all right, but not the prey he planned on. The only permit he was about to be issued was his live-in’s license for love.
I’d teach him that the fifth anniversary we’d be celebrating next month, one I’m sure he planned to live to talk about, wasn’t the only one with “wood” involved.
And yes, I know that technically, you count anniversaries in years, not months. But I’ve always coached my patients to celebrate every day, every week, and every month of their relationships. I’d simply forgotten to make good on my own therapeutic recommendations.
With only half an hour to work, I had to move fast.
Ben’s favorite meal always got his attention, so I’d start with that. Luckily, I was one of those wives-in-the-making who always had extras on-hand, ready to defrost and nuke.
Pulling packages of bison meatloaf and fried corn fritters out of the freezer with one hand, I grabbed a box of instant mashed potatoes from the cabinet with the other.
With the microwave on high and the stove’s right front burner turning bright red, I hurried into the pantry to grab tonight’s aphrodisiac treats.
What the hell, I thought, grabbing a couple avocados and a handful of asparagus too. You can never go wrong with the fruit of the testicle tree, or the phallic-shaped bliss of fresh steamed asparagus.
And now that, in my retirement, I had invested in Jules’ and her boyfriend Cody’s aphrodisiac produce market, I always had plenty of these love veggies to rely on. As the principle owner and financier of Weiss’ Produce and Penis Foods, I was on it. Or as our slogan said: We’ve got a passion for produce and a heads-up on the competition.
Once I’d made the fresh guacamole and prepared the asparagus for the microwave, I hurried into the laundry room, which now doubled as my scrapbooking studio.
Three sheets of cardstock, one pair of edging scissors, a tube of puffy, metallic glow-in-the-dark fabric paint, along with a couple of markers, and I was almost ready to roll with part two of my plan.
One last-minute trip to Ben’s shed in the corner of the backyard, and I had everything I needed to make my heart and nether regions Ben’s primary targets.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Three bites into his meatloaf, and I had Ben lined-up in the sights of my scope. My love scope, that is, and I was ready for the kill.
“Great dinner, honey.”
He stuffed another corn fritter into his mouth. Then he shoveled potatoes onto his spoon, followed soon by a fork-severed spear of asparagus.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Well, since I’m about to become a hunting widow, I thought it would be nice to have a last supper together.”
His head came up slowly, like a big buck catching a hunter’s scent in the passing breeze, determining whether to bolt back into the woods or carry-on.
Steady girl, I coached myself. Be patient. Wait till you get a clear shot.
“That reminds me, I need to go to the store and get my hunting license and tags tonight,” Ben announced with his head back down, grazing from his plate.
“Speaking of which, here you go. I picked this up for you today.”
I slid a plain manila envelope across the table.
“What’s this?”
Judging by the clueless look on his face, if I hadn’t shoved our anniversary in his face, I’d for sure have been spending it alone.
He slit open the envelope with his untouched dinner knife and pulled out the contents.
At first, he seemed to be a deer gazing into blinding headlights. But as he browsed through the items, a wicked smile formed across his lips.
“Baby, I’m sorry I forgot our anniversary,” he said, wearing that pathetic, but frustratingly endearing, ‘uh-oh, I blew it’ expression.
And damn he wore the look well. It turned me to mush every time.
He held up one of the pieces of stock paper.
“Is this thing good all season?”
As he admired the “License for Love” I’d designed and the tags to go with it, I laughed and nodded my head. I’d even found one of his old permits in his junk drawer and precisely copied its format.
“There is a three tag limit this year, you know,” he said.
“Hmm. I’ll have to check with the conservation officer about that.”
He opened his arms and motioned for me to come sit on his lap.
“Not so fast, Daniel Boone. I’m the outfitter on this expedition. Give me five minutes and then meet me in the bedroom.”
Without so much as a wink, I left him to finish his meatloaf and veggies.
While I prepared our evening campsite with the gear I’d dug out of the shed — a lantern, a sleeping bag for two, and two chocolate bars for a midnight snack — I overheard Ben on the phone, canceling his hunting date with the guys.
I couldn’t wait to find out from the other wives what his excuse had been.
But in the mean time, I added my own gear to our campsite — my well-worn, illustrated copy of the Kama Sutra, as well as much more than just oil for our lantern. Think love potions and lotions with their very own feather duster applicators.
When Ben appeared in the doorway of our bedroom, I could tell by the sparkle in his eyes that he was more than enjoying my efforts.
Wearing the puffy, metallic bulls-eye I’d painted onto one of my nightshirts, I handed him another tag entitling him to the only doe he was going to get this weekend, then kissed him on the cheek.
“So my limit has been raised?” He asked, while pulling me close to his hard body and wrapping his arms tightly around me. “You’re amazing. And I’ll never forget that.”
“That’s my plan.”
He kissed the side of my neck and whispered in my ear, “I’ll never think of my favorite field sport in quite the same way.”
Until I’d gamely reminded him, I’d feared he’d forgotten his favorite sport was me.
“Wait ‘til you turn out the lights,” I said, hardly able to stand it until the glow-in-the-dark, puffy paint lit-up the bulls-eyes on my nightshirt.
“You’re not gonna off me are you?” Ben asked while feeling out his targets.
“Depends on your definition of getting someone off.”
Not many people knew I was more than a retired sex therapist and aphrodisiac produce queen. I was also a Mom Squad Member whose specialty happened to be that of a Bond Girl femme fatale.
“That said, I do have a few new techniques I’d like to explore. Let’s just call it research,” I teased.
“Oh boy,” Ben said, and laughed.
As the last bulls-eye lit-up on my nightshirt, I giggled. I had a feeling this wasn’t the kind of bush Ben thought he’d be in this weekend.
THE END