Snuggled up on a sofa in the coffee shop, I tell my friend about NYC, about the part of the trip that included being naked, about my disappointment on one hand, but a certain amount of relief on the other to have the first post-marital tryst done. I don’t want to make light of it, but there was a certain relief.

I tell her, too, that it just wasn’t that good.

“You have to ask for what you want,” she says. I wrinkle up my nose.

“I’ve never had to do that. I mean when I was really learning what I wanted, I was with Alex. We learned it together. I never had to direct anyone.”

“Think of what you’d want for your daughter. You wouldn’t want her to go along with something that’s not good for her.”

I nod. Right. So right.

“You had this adventure – I’m proud of you – you didn’t build sex into some insurmountable wall that you avoid for years. But now you know better what you want and need. So next time, don’t settle. That might mean that you only go so far. Take it back to junior high speed — kiss. stop. touch. stop. — if you need to. But don’t let yourself down.”

Next time. There will be a next time, right? And I’ll be more ready, right? And maybe I’ll manage to not wear the giant cotton undies and my legs will be shaved!

p.s. I don’t know the backstory of this image, but I think it captures something of that morning-after feeling when you’re somewhat on display, sensing an omniscient narrator watching you and commenting on the post-coital mood, on the rightness or wrongness of the situation. But then again, I’m a writer; I go through much of my imagining an omniscient narrator.