There were still echoes from my childhood that I could never quite silence. Growing up, the unspoken rules about sex had been strange and shaming—the idea that a wife might give herself out of duty rather than desire. I had once overheard my mother describe the marital bed as an obligation, not a meeting place. Later, a friend would say the same of her own marriage: “Men don’t really care if their wives enjoy it.”
It was hard to reconcile that bleak inheritance with what I knew of love.
With Lynn, nothing was owed. Every time we made love, I could tell when she reached the crest of pleasure; if I hesitated, she would gasp—breathless, urgent—“Don’t … stop.” It wasn’t command but communion, a moment of complete attunement between us. Her desire met mine without shame or restraint, each of us giving and receiving in equal measure. Passion, at its deepest, was our way of reaching for mutuality.
June 15, 2000
Books are stacked at my bedside- my reading material to figure out better ways to help my clients.
Lynn steps into the doorway with that mischievous smile. “I want sex,” she says—direct, delighted. I take a beat to savor the fact that I’m desired by her. Years into our life together, we still feel like newlyweds. “Me too.”
We undress fast, the way thirst reaches for water. On the bed, Lynn climbs on top and sets the pace—breath steady, eyes bright. I don’t steer. I follow.
Hunger takes the lead. She devours and is devoured; in the taking, we are taken. Our bodies coil and uncoil like two snakes in a single motion— wrapping, loosening, finding each other again. Hands, arms, legs, the press and answer of skin. She moves with that rush of energy I know so well, a wave that carries us.
“I feel like I can’t get close enough,” she gasps, and the words flood me with love and heat.
A breath later she notices, gentle but sure: “You’re too close, sweetie.” We make the quick, practiced shift—the small boundary we always keep so pregnancy never enters the room—and the motion resumes, tender and relentless all at once.
Mouths meet; bodies rock with the same wave-like hunger. A quiet release moves through me. She feels it, smiles—soft, satisfied.
“Shower?” she murmurs. I search her eyes. “But you—” “I’m happy,” she says. “It’s okay.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, still caught between surprise and awe—so unlike every other time when her own climax marked our shared completion. Yet she seems utterly at peace, radiant even, her skin still warm against mine.
Connection—chosen, mutual, more than a tally. We’re years in, and still it feels like a honeymoon: not routine, but alive.
We pause, forehead to forehead. A line loops in my head—“Yes, I love you.” “What?” she asks, smiling. “I was thinking how the song just repeats it.” “Yes, I love you, sweetie,” she says back. “Wow,” I whisper. Peace settles over us.
Her Cousin’s Visit Again
The following week Lynn's cousins arrived from Pennsylvania with their children—two girls full of energy and questions. I don't remember every moment of that visit, but I know we would have spent time at Wrightsville Beach—that was inevitable when family came to town. I can see myself taking the girls into the waves, lifting them over the surf, too energized to even stop for the bathroom. Lynn would have watched from the shore, smiling.
We might have driven to the Fort Fisher Aquarium together, the girls pressing their faces against the glass tanks. Or perhaps one afternoon the girls and I went miniature golfing while Lynn and her cousin caught up over coffee—I let them win, though I tried not to make it obvious.
What I do remember clearly: the girls brought roller skates with them. One afternoon they asked their mom if they could skate, and she likely said, "Ask Bruce if he'll watch you." Our street didn't get much traffic, and the pavement was smooth. I stayed with them on foot, making sure they were safe, cheering when they picked up speed.
On Friday afternoon—before they packed to leave—someone discovered that UNC Wilmington rented roller skates. The girls were thrilled. Lynn looked at me: "Want to try?"
I should have known better.
We all went to the wide sidewalks near campus. I could barely stand, clumsy and tense, ankles wobbling. Lynn laughed, grabbed both my hands, and began pulling me slowly along, her balance sure, her energy contagious. Every few minutes she'd let go, hoping I might find the rhythm on my own. I didn't. After a few wobbly attempts I blurted, "You go—it's too hard for me."
She stopped, still holding one hand. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," I said, catching my breath. "I'll put my shoes on and follow you. I'll watch."
She hesitated, studying my face to see if I meant it, then nodded. "Okay. I'll circle back."
I sat on a low wall lacing up my sneakers, watching her skate away— still turning to make sure I was there. Even at a distance, her presence never wavered. That was Lynn—steady, patient, unwilling to leave me behind.
Reflections
That summer we talked about her future: buying a kiln, maybe applying for a Master of Fine Arts in poetry. We never said my income or her expenses—only ours. Everything we built belonged to both of us. It was ordinary partnership, the kind that made life feel inevitable in the best way.
This was the rhythm of our life together—not just for those weeks, but for years. The passion was still there. We still felt like newlyweds. My private practice was thriving. Lynn's cousins had become my extended family. I was Bruce to the girls, not "uncle"—I wanted to see myself as a young adult, part of their lives in an immediate way.
When I think of that June, what I remember most is the simplicity of it all—sunlight on Lynn's face, the sound of children laughing, the certainty that tomorrow would look just like today. There was nothing in my thoughts that wasn't positive. No worries. No concerns about Lynn's health. No hint that my career might end. Those possibilities didn't exist in my mind.
Everything felt complete. We were exactly who we were meant to be: partners, family, home.
The world felt whole.