The Sun and the Moon [Wattys 2015 winner]

Chapter 1: Not All Accountants Drive Harleys

He's panting over me, sweat beading on his forehead, his veins straining in his neck. I grasp his smooth naked back down low as he thrusts into me. I fake a moan and kiss his ear. He groans and I let go of his ass and run my hands up through his soft, light brown hair.

I'm just not into this. I have a better chance of getting an orgasm in the NARS aisle at Sephora. There, an "orgasm" is a certainty after I hand over my credit card for an overpriced powdered blush named "ORGASM." Here, it's a crap shoot. But I decided to try this tonight, after putting him off for three months, hoping that it would be worth it. He was really sweet at dinner. It was a good dinner. The champagne was nice. I thought the sex would be good.

It's not. Goddamn it. Goddamn him. Goddamn me. Goddamn the antidepressants. I am entitled to an orgasm. But the pills make it hard for me to come. I didn't think it was impossible though. Dr. Google and Dr. WebMD didn't seem to think it was impossible. So now I'm pissed and blaming him and me for not doing this better but I decide to hide my anger with a gasp, which he interprets, incorrectly, as something like pleasure or enthusiasm.

He grips my ass and thrusts faster and harder. Harder is okay with me, but it's not hitting the right spots and I am not sure I could even guide him to the right spots, if he asked. I make the decision that it's best to just get this over with. And I mean not only the sex but also the relationship. It's a relationship with a little "r" anyway, not a big "R." I could kick him out right now, but that's kind of a shit maneuver. I mean, I did invite him to do this. I wanted to try it. This isn't my first rodeo. I know a few things about good sex. And how to do it right. But right now I don't even have the energy to talk with him and tell him what I want. I don't want to explore. I don't want to communicate. I just want to be over and done with this. So, carry on and hang in there until it's over.

My mind wanders. I'm bored and distracted. I know I'm supposed to be into it--all consumed, all lust and climaxing and shit like that. But no. I look at the white plaster ceiling of my 1927 Santa Barbara adobe, darkening in the dusky sky. I notice patterns in the plaster and I notice that it's getting really dark. I never have sex in full light. I don't want any questions about my scars. Yet another reason why I put this off.

I wonder what's on tv later? I think one of the channels is having a Harry Potter marathon.

I wish I had gone to Hogwarts instead of law school.

Wait. Focus. Sex. We're having sex. I'm doing it. With Paul. He's cute. He's nice. He has lovely, soft skin and a shy smile. And he's an accountant.

Okay, so he's bad in bed.

Really bad.

And I don't think that I can fix this into good, or even slightly pleasant sex, nor do I want to, at this point.

This is all my fault for being a closet romantic.

I had this impression that accountants were really bad boys who secretly rode Harleys on weekends, with, well, a naughty side that would be unleashed once they got an erection. Not Paul. He's sweet, but not passionate. He's kind, but socially and emotionally clueless. He seems genuinely perplexed by me and my sense of humor. I have caught him looking at me like he can't figure me out. He's good looking, but bland. Not particularly big but not particularly small -- in every way you could imagine. He dresses well but not flashy. He has a nice car, but not too nice. He listens. He's polite. He treats me nicely. But there's no spark. My heart doesn't beat harder when I see him. And I think I've finally figured out that he's not hard to figure out. There's no romantic, secret, passionate side to Paul the accountant.