At the Feet of Betty Draper

Since we agreed to divorce my wife and I have fucked six days straight so I asked my friend Chloe what was up and she sighed.

Chloe has early Betty Draper skin. I like to watch her go.

She pulled at her miniature cigarette and said, I’ve spent too much of my life making love when I should have been fucking.

I’m 33, OK? And bad at long-term relationships where lots of love is made. All I want now is to do a little fucking and come home and be softer.

I wasn’t sure what she meant so I lit a cigarette off hers and settled in. She said, Don’t look at me like that. But let me tell you something.

I had lunch yesterday with an old friend. He stopped in town to see me en route from Calgary to his new home in New Zealand. Chelsea is not on the way from Calgary to New Zealand, is it?

I arched an eyebrow. Chloe is married, four years.

We were once fuckers. Fuckers who when we were not fucking would caress a back, an arm, a face, with no hint of sex. That’s what I call making love.

I thought of Betty Draper’s feet, entwined with Don’s on the marital bed. She was saying how she cannot wait for Don to get home, how sometimes she thinks she hears his car pull up in the driveway so she gets the kids to bed early and selects a teddy, pours a long drink in a pretty colored glass. I was thinking about Betty and thinking of my own child bride but it was Chloe who was talking and this was my normal now.

We had a beautiful balance like that, Chloe said. It’s hard to forget. No separation, fully connected. Making love to him was resting my ear on his chest, or grabbing his hand and breathing into it to keep it warm. Staring into his eyes for no reason, deep, deep in. And those moments didn’t lead to fucking. They just were.

But when we fucked, out came the anal plugs and dildos. 

Do you follow?

I had to admit I wasn’t sure.

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