Do You Love Me?

Woe to the unfulfilled man who who shares a bed with a neglected lover.

Title: Do You Love Me

Word count: 2,034

Author: Tim Wilkinson

 

 

Do You Love Me

 

Tim Wilkinson

 

The night hung low in the heavens, the air damp and cool, heady with the first tastes of a floral scented spring while contesting with the cleaving grip of winter's jealous embrace. The rattling chant of the eager raindrops striking the single pane glass of the second story windows beat a harried toccata to the wailing, swirling lament of the wild and restless winds; the heavens completing each measure by a defining crescendo of flashing brilliance followed immediately by a booming bass percussion that marked the end of each stanza like the exclamation marks at the end of a sentence within a dueling, lovers quarrel.

Within the large room silence rested, the stillness broken only by the sounds from without, as if these, clambering for notice, found offense in the muted, dimly lit comfort of the placid scene within. Two lounging figures shared the wide and spacious bed within the space; one, feigning sleep, her long, trim, and lovely form lying on its side facing away from the other, her cheeks shimmering with the trails of silent, private tears as she struggled to stay her trembling lips, her eyes wide, distant, and glazed.

He, the other reposing form, supine, book in hand, lay motionless aside from the occasional flipping of the page as he read beneath the soft, whitish glow of a tall brass lamp set to his right on a small bedside table. When suddenly a meek, unsteady voice broke the weighty silence as without turning, her voice full of pent up emotion, Vickie asked.

"Charles, do you love me?"

Receiving no answer, she spoke again.

"Charles? Are you awake?"

Raising his head from the text before him while lowering the book to his chest, Charles Moore tentative answered.

"Yes, I'm sorry. Did you say something pet?"

"I did," she replied, rolling over to face him. "I said, do you love me?"

"Do I love you? What an odd thing to ask. You Okay?"

"I am---yes, okay."

Moments passed as neither spoke, each gazing ahead, lost in private reflection until Vickie spoke again.

"No Charles, I mean, do you love me, really love me? After all, it's such an easy thing to say. It’s much harder to actually feel and to know. Don't you think?"

With this, Charles deposited the open book in the space between them, pages down so as not to lose his place before making a quarter roll in her direction to better see her face.

"Yes, you’re right of course. But why do you say that. Is there---something dear? Something bothering you?"

"No, not really. I mean…"

"Then why would you ask me that?"

"Must there be something bothering me to ask if you love me?"

"No, I suppose not, but I can't help but wonder."

"Neither can I."

"Vickie, you know how I feel about you?"

"I know what I know Charles. I want to know what you know."

"Fair enough. I know that I'm here, with you. I know that I have been for a good many years now, and that God willing, I'll be here with you for a good many more."

"But do you love me?"

Pausing thoughtfully, Charles replied. "Vickie, remember when we were younger and had just gotten married? I used to ask you why you never, or at least seldom told me that you loved me. Do you remember what you said?"

"No, not at this second I don't."

"Well, I do. I’ve never forgotten it, I guess because up until then it simply hadn’t occurred to me. And because you were right. You told me to judge your love not by what you said, but by what you did. And that that was how I was to know that you loved me. Is there not still some truth in that?  Does that not give some credence to what I said about me being here for all of these years, and that I'm still here, now, with you? And doesn’t that then provide the answer to your question."

"Maybe. But I still want to know. Do you love me?"

"Vickie, I am here. I will be always. Doesn't that say or mean anything?"

"Then why Charles? Why do we never make love? Can you tell me that?"

Thinking carefully before answering, Charles answered. "Yes, I believe I can. Is that what this is about? Is that what you want me to do?"

"Yes, it is. And yes I do."

"Okay," he said, closing the book before returning it to the table and facing her once more. But I think it won't be so easy, for either of us. And there may be, no, there will be things said that you will not like, that may even hurt your feelings, embarrass, or anger you, and me as well. And I know how uncomfortable you are about talking about these things. So---are you sure you want me to do this, us to do this?"

"I'm not completely sure of anything right now. So do it anyway."

Then taking her hand he began. "First, let's talk a bit about me. It might make some of the other things that need to be said seem less harsh, and cruel. To begin with, you know I'm not the world's greatest lover. I never have been, and I never will be. You also know that---I mean, hell you know I don't, or can't, or whatever---last very long when we are---together. But then there's no real way that you can't know this, is there. So that's one issue I have to accept and deal with that affects our intimacy, and not in a positive way. And to be honest, that really bothers me. It always has. And it's sure as hell not what I would choose had I any choice in the matter. So I guess what I am trying to say is that I have a lot of anxiety about this. I mean anything like that is going to affect a man's---well a man's performance."

"Secondly, and yes there's more. I think you also know that for me it's very easy to, or very difficult not to, I mean if I get overheated, or am under-stimulated, or any number of things, to lose my---my---well, my…"

"Erection?"

"Exactly. And that causes me even more anxiety and concern. Maybe you can understand this, maybe not. I know few women do. Either way, for a man that's a big deal, huge even. And both of these problems or conditions are very disheartening, disappointing, and yes, extremely embarrassing to me; and only fuel my anxiety about my ability to perform."

"Thirdly, well this one is the most obvious of all. I'm not so young anymore Vickie. And age causes, or at least increases the likelihood, frequency, and severity of both of these issues. And it seems that the older I get the more I fear these, these consequences. And yes, that puts me off and makes it less---less likely for me to instigate, more fearful, less confident of the outcome, and less willing to make a fool of myself. It's, it's humiliating for a man to fail like that Vickie. It just is."

"So, because of this you are---hesitant sometimes?"

"More like all the time."

"So you're saying that performance anxiety is a big factor for you, and the reason why we so seldom make love?"

"Yes, and no. Yes, it is a reason, for sure, at least for me. But, no it’s certainly not the only one."

"Okay, I get it. Go on please."

"Now here's the difficult part. Are you really sure you want me to go on? This won't be comfortable or easy, for either of us."

"Yes, I think so."

"Well then Vickie, I don't know any way to say this without just doing it outright, cold and harsh as it is. So---to be blunt. It's---I mean---Oh hell Vickie, the plain truth is that you suck in bed. You don't even know how to kiss properly and you're embarrassed by anything and everything beyond that. During the act you say absolutely nothing. In fact, you make no sounds whatsoever, no sighs, no moans, no whispered sweet nothings---nada. You won't even look at me. In fact you keep your eyes closed the whole time. I've never once had you look me in the eyes and say, ‘I love you,’ while we were…you know. In truth, you give me nothing, nothing to encourage or sustain, nothing to excite, entice, or rouse. Making love to you is no more exciting than screwing a limp pillow for all that you contribute."

"As for the rest, you haven't a clue how to touch a man, how to give or prolong his excitement or enjoyment. Your touch is awkward, repetitive, without tenderness or desire. It's more like that of a clumsy child than a full grown woman. In general, Vickie, you make love about like you cook a fried egg, and we both know you’ve yet to get the hang of that. When we make love you act as if you're in a race or something. Your only goal, as far as I can tell, is to get it over with as soon as possible. You're passionless, void of romance, lacking the capacity to share intimacy or sexual pleasure. You don't like to be touched, stroked, fondled, or caressed, not where it counts at least. And as for oral sex, there's not enough Chinese junk in all the Walmart stores in America to get you to even try such a thing, much less to actually enjoy it. The only sexual release I ever get, Vickie, aside from the two or three yearly encounters I somehow manage to get through, is the ole five on one, which by the way I do almost daily---and alone! Lastly, and most importantly, you don't accept that women can actually experience orgasm, and honestly believe in your heart of hearts that the three to four billion woman on the planet who profess to have experienced them are all lying in order to please their men. Well guess what? Because of that very mindset, you can't---or won't ever have one youself. In fact you're so hung up on it all that you can't even touch yourself, and learn how. So tell me, dear, as I have no freaking idea, how can someone please you when you don't even know how to please yourself. What's more, how does a man please a woman who believes that women can't be pleased? Tell me this Vickie, please. So, I find no surprise in the fact that it's difficult, often impossible for me to get it up under the given circumstances, forget sustaining it towards any expected or hoped for result. My God Vickie, you don't even know, and apparently have no interest in learning how to provide a basic hand…"

"Enough Charles. I get the picture."

"Do you! Really! But you would ask me such a question. Hell, after what I just described, the very fact that I am here at all should be evidence enough of how I feel about you. And if that doesn't prove it, then you tell me Vickie---what the f**k does?"

“Are you angry?”

“Angry? Why shouldn’t I be? What greater pleasure is there for a man than that of pleasing the one he cares most about? And you’ve deprived me of that Vickie, denied me of one of the greatest joys life has to offer, that of giving, seeing, and hearing what men most desire, a woman’s pleasure. No Vickie, angry does no justice to how I feel, none.”

* * *

Charles died messily, drowning in a flood of his own blood, his last few words gurgling upwards through a red and bubbling fount as Vickie drew the razor sharply across the breadth of his exposed neck, pressing down hard and slicing deeply while repeating softly as she smiled, "But do you love me?"

 

The Very End

 

© 2018, Tim Wilkinson

Author's Note

Useful and helpful comments and suggestions welcome