Like Father Love Son

My wife is like the Spring. Spring to me is a time of rebirth and each day spent with her is a day I’m reborn. She’s a gust of warm wind washing over me, the only time I comfortably close my eyes and walk on without worry in the dark. She guides the best things about me to the surface and encourages them to interact with all they can. Without her I am nothing. Less than nothing. I’m negative and lost. We met as young adults in what we often describe ‘fortunate’ circumstances for want of a better word. My father, a keen hunter, would often demand my presence as he sought out the unfair contest. He never killed more than one animal on a hunt, often none, not from a lack of intent but a lack of ability. If trees were considered adequate trophies then my father would have been a fine marksman and one requiring a bigger shed. I have to thank the hunt daily however because it was this painfully bad aim that granted me my wife. Having spotted a ‘kill’ running through the distance he lifted his weapon, planted it squarely in his shoulder and unleashed a weapon of mortal destruction that elicited no wound, merely a scream of human fear. Standing catatonic next to my father’s latest arboreal victim was a girl no older than my self, no older due to the fact she was weeks younger. That near death experience that we shared somehow proved to be an incredibly potent aphrodisiac and ensured I never wanted to spend a day away from her again. She was a girl of nature. She respected and appreciated everything that lived and endured torrid arguments with my father throughout our courting. It was only when I finally convinced her to join my father and I on a hunt that she acknowledged natures relative safety in the hands of this grim reaper wielding his blunt scythe.

Together we had a boy that grew to be a fine young man. The last I heard of him he had found his own wife and was enjoying life as the father to a young girl. He doesn’t visit now, he’s gone without word and taken his family with him. I sleep badly wondering if I’d done it wrong, driven him away, I feel responsible and dream bad dreams but each morning as I wake and roll over in bed I see my wife and am reborn.

I never thought it would end up like this, in a lot of ways it’s comfortable. My parent’s bed, mum’s clothes, which are a surprisingly good fit, dad sleeping peacefully on his side of the bed. I don’t go so far as to spoon with him though.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to spoon, it’s just that I prefer to do it with my wife.

Though she’s not reciprocating my affections at the moment. It’s not my fault, it just all came to a head and I had to act decisively or let dad go, and who’s gonna do that? He’d been calling me ‘Sweetheart, Toots, Honey’ for months anyway, putting on her clothes and moving in wasn’t that big of a deal in the end. Had I not, who knows what would’ve happened? He threatened to kill himself for Christ’s sake, because he thought his wife, now me, was leaving him in a lesbian affair with a younger woman, Janet, my actual wife. He doesn’t even know mum’s dead. If I’m honest he hasn’t got long left either so what’s wrong with a bit of role-play in the interim? I do understand why Janet’s upset. She doesn’t come round anymore, I wouldn’t either if an eighty-eight year old man screamed ‘Homewrecker’ until I left. Her beds lonely, her daughter never stops asking ‘when daddy’s back and why is he a girl now?’ But how do you explain this to a seven year old? She’d think it crazy. Her class is doing presentations about what their dad’s do for a job, I wonder what she’s come up with. I’m sick of answering the same question, about the -, our -, his sex -, their sex life. Suffice to say I now know how effective headaches can be. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll be the first to admit there are oddities but when I strip it all back it’s helped me a lot too. On site I find I’m managing the construction lads much better. They never used to respect my authority but now when I’m around they stop chatting and get straight back to work. It’s like they’re scared of me, which is great for efficiency. I’m more relaxed without having to do the school runs every day and prepare dinner every night. Dinner these days is sixty seconds in the microwave. I love it. But the main thing I always tell people is ‘it’s a question of family.’ I want to support my dad who gave me everything and I’ll expect my daughter to do the same if it comes to it. If I go bonkers then yeah, I’d expect her to pretend to be my wife and get me through to the end if it stops me killing myself. Who wouldn’t? It’s easier for her anyway, she’s already a girl.

Sex help...I can do that.

Paul and Yvonne sat idly by and watched without alarm as their sex life drifted down the river of time. They were positioned on a comfortable log by the riverbank quite unaware of one another’s presence.

Paul took the time rather well. He thought of his son’s first school camp. Dropping him off, seeing him onto the bus as other parents did the same but with alternate children. His son sat at the back where he could be seen through the window, he was one of the cooler kids, a fact Paul secretly enjoyed (having been picked on all through his own education), it saved him a lot of time parenting and money counselling. He watched his son disappear into the distance which the bus took him. It turned a corner with a lovely big oak tree standing firm in the wind. He never remembers where camp was but always remembers the oak with its slightly decayed branches.

Yvonne was less content. She struggled to deconstruct her latest recurring dream. As a fish she can see the fisherman’s bait floating deliciously just inches of hydrating H²O from her face. She knows it for what it is. She’s seen fish fall prey before. She doesn’t want it to happen, she does not want to eat this amazingly tantalising piece of worm squirming just for her as if to say ‘hey baby, come check out the taste sensation.’ There’s plenty more worms in the sea she thinks as she bites down, considers the fact that she’ll need a coral pick to get this hook from her mouth, realises she’s made the mistake signing her off to fate.

‘Yvonne’.

She’s ripped from her thoughts (and the safety of the water) by a voice her husband acquired some time after birth.

‘Yvonne I was thinking, where was his first camp?’

‘We need help’ comes her distracted reply.

‘Can’t you remember it either?’

‘I’m talking about our sex life’.

Paul realises that maybe he and his wife aren’t so distant; after all they’re thinking about sex at the same time. ‘Oh’ he says, wishing Fabio had written a ‘how to’ on women.

‘When was the last time we had sex?’

‘I gave up remembering’ comes his all too honest reply, Fabio would hang his head in shame.

‘Do you care? I care. I want sex. Come with me.’

Her commanding tone leads Paul from the house into the passenger seat and on a journey that only Yvonne knows the destination of. In Yvonne’s mind the car’s amphibious, hurtling down the river in pursuit of that sex life so nearly submerged.

The only attempt at conversation, ‘Well look at that, in our rush I forgot to change out of my pyjama pants’ is not met with response.

They arrive at Doctor Larry’s Sex Help Clinic.

Doctor Larry being a personal friend of Yvonne’s makes time to see the couple without delay.

‘I don’t care about your appointed time, I’ve just been met with a sexual emergency, now get out!’ provides the cue for Yvonne and Paul to make their way into Larry’s office, squeezing past the potent glares aimed squarely from the couple so recently ripped-off.

In the office sits a desk housing the front end of a chair, the walls adorned with what science calls ‘anatomy’ and the porn industry calls ‘soft’. Along the wall lies a bed, you can smell the clean sheets.

‘Yvonne, Darling, what’s the problem? Who’s this?’

‘This is my husband.’

‘Hi.’

‘Hello.’

‘Larry, Sweetie, we’ve come because we need help.’

‘You’re not having sex’ Larry asks expertly assessing the problem.

‘That’s exactly right’ she replies, unable to hide her marvel at his almost psychic abilities.

‘Isn’t that why everyone comes here’ Paul asks cutting a swathe through the indulgence.

‘No it’s not. But by looking at you and knowing Yvonne I managed to diagnose the problem directly. I’m going to help you love each others bits again’ Larry reassures.

The indulgence cuts back.

‘But it’s going to take a whole heap of trust. I’ll see you both individually.’

In the waiting room Paul’s focus wanders unrestrained. Easily done at a sex clinic. The décor stinks of meticulous planning. Magazines alphabetically arranged. Various colours fighting to distinguish themselves on every other surface. Mirrors emblazoned with the text, ‘WHAT IS IT YOU FORGOT TO LOVE?’

‘I’m not sure’ Paul responds in thought, ‘I used to like grapes.’

The female secretary’s bust line, teetering on the edge of inappropriateness and at times slipping over the edge before being recovered with the aid of her adjustments, screams for attention. She wears thick-rimmed jet-black spectacles that lack lenses. A bleach blonde head of hair compliments her fantastic good looks. Any man would argue that an attractive secretary is the last thing you need in a sex-clinic, it leads to impure thoughts, in Paul’s case those thoughts eventually give way to his newfound acknowledgement of the chandelier. As he begins to consider its relevance the door to Larry’s office glides open on freshly greased hinges, Yvonne’s ruffled appearance comes into view.

‘I totally trust him Honey’ she manages as she slumps in a chair attempting to corral her emotions.

Larry’s arm appears around the door loaded with a long investigative finger that points directly at Paul and begins curling in action. Once he’s bridged the door’s threshold Paul realises that his Doctor is standing stark naked, balls and all exposed without remorse. Clothes lay strewn about the office, most notably the underwear suffocating a desk lamp.

‘Now Paul, remember we talked about trust? I’ve just mated with your wife and expect to do the same with you, that way I can better understand what needs fixing.’

It felt good making an impulse decision for what seemed to be the first time in his life. It was refreshing to throw random belongings in a suitcase and that, in turn, into the back of the very same car he’d been a passenger only hours earlier. Now he sat in the drivers seat, pyjama bottoms comforting him in some unprofound way. He was unaware how his wife would get home, Larry owed her a favour he figured, maybe she could score a lift from him.

Whilst without solution to his marital problems his sexual dignity remained intact, which, in turn, uncovered a dormant libido gasping for expression. Was it because of jealously? A boiling over of repressed sexual frustration? Or possibly just because he’d had a naked doctor wanting to ‘mate’ with him. Whatever it was didn’t really matter. All that mattered now was whether the intended girl (whom he’d so recently developed a romantic interest in) might act on a similar impulse. He pulled to the side of the road and dialled.

‘Doctor Larry’s Sex Help Clinic, Lucy speaking.’

‘Hi Lucy, I’m Paul’ he began…