Where's Brenda?

Those in long-term relationships have a lifelong challenge to keep their love for, and sexual interest in, one another flourishing. These are the very same forces that brought them together in the first place, a couple now committed to sharing an uncertain future.

Without adequate nurturing, once strong emotional bonds will wither as fruit on the vine during a long drought. Key to maintaining these bonds is dialogue and a sustained, robust and open-minded approach to the sex act, along with all that may be mutually interesting and sexually stimulating.

The reawakening of Bob and Brenda's mutual desire and allegiance as related here is a phenomenon hardly unknown to many married couples. But this couple's story is told in the event it may be of more than passing interest to some, and inspirational to others. Their sensual exploits and experiences may not be entirely mainstream but they are plausible and illustrative of the binding forces that could be furthered by a simple rewrite of a long-heralded vow: "Do you Bob and Brenda promise always to talk, listen, and act upon your desires in complete reverence for each others' needs, from this day forward, 'til death do you part? I now declare you husband and wife."

****

Bob once told his long-time spouse, Brenda, that he had lost her to the vagaries and challenges of, well, making a life together. Understandably, she had no idea what the hell he was talking about. And that is exactly what she told him.

So Bob went on to try and explain himself, thoughts that had defined his state of mind for a good many years. No easy task for a lettered man of many words but one who nevertheless still seemed to have a great deal of difficulty making himself understood. So his inclination was to keep it simple. "I'm married. I'm lonely," he summarized. When he seemed reluctant to elaborate further Brenda gave him one of her looks normally reserved for misbehaving children and this was enough to make him think better of leaving the subject hanging in limbo.

"Well, see, here's the thing," he continued tentatively. "Way I have it figured, I've not just lost my wife. I've also lost my best friend, confidante and lover. I lost my wife when the kids came along. They demanded and got all of your attention. So in effect I became a bachelor once more, but without all the privileges." He smiled broadly but there was something in his demeanor that told Brenda he was not entirely trying to be humorous.

"Go on," she encouraged, feeling more amused than chastised.

Bob knew he could speak frankly. They had gone to brother-sister high schools in the days when the sexes were still segregated. They had known each other for several years prior to marrying, though they had never gone 'steady'. When Bob returned from his studies overseas they met again through a mutual friend. The courtship began and the wedding followed 18 months later.

Over the years, each had become quite adept at reading the other's mind. Bob found that to be a pretty scarey proposition but he had learned to accept it because it often saved time or, more accurately, Brenda's time. She was already tracking with him as he responded to her invitation to continue airing his grievances.

"Well, even a bachelor needs someone to hang and I think it's great when his best friend is his wife. But when I looked for her, you weren't there," continued Bob. "Remember how we always said best friends often end up married and make good partners? And we did. But the children and then your career just kinda took over your life and you chose to spend all your time with the kids, other parents and your customers," he explained further. "You've always been the pragmatist in the family. Hands on. Practical. Predictable."

"Go on," said Brenda once more. She just had to hear the ending to this quandary he was in, knowing already what was coming. Bob the philosopher. The humorist.

Bob hesitated a long moment. Then, throwing all caution to the wind because frankly the sex thing had to be put out into the open once more, he said quietly: "And then the sex stopped, too. At first we were always so comfortable with each other. Now all that seems to be gone. Or at least somehow we've managed to put what I think is an incredibly important part of any marriage slap bang on the back burner, so to speak. Excuse the sexual connotation. The slap and tickle part."

Stopping to draw breath Bob inclined his head and mumbled almost inaudibly that he wanted to go back in time, to return to those care-free days when nothing else mattered much except taking care of one another. Brenda listened patiently, then agreed that given his feeling of alienation something ought to be done. She just didn't know what, exactly. Besides, she lamented, this was not the time to tackle such broad ranging and emotional issues. Maybe later. Yes, later they would find the opportunity, she felt certain.

****

'Later' became several years later with no resolution to the emotional and physical void that had developed between them. Instead, they deliberately and conscientiously plodded along the path that life seemed to carve for them, valiantly staying the course and valuing (but not relishing) the routine demanded of a responsible, professional working couple.

In time they bought a small clothing retail business in a rural setting highly dependent on seasonal traffic. Set on a large property, surrounded by mature trees and park lands, the business was also idyllically located close to public beaches and facilities which drew large summer crowds to the area. The quaint building with a small apartment attached seemed like the perfect opportunity to leave the corporate world and stresses of big city life behind. This was their time to prepare for retirement. Best of all the kids had completed their post-secondary education, left home and were finally pursuing careers of their own.

Bob's ulterior motive when he agreed to buy the business was that Brenda's promise of "later" might become sooner, rather than later. The off-season months would give them all the time they needed to rebuild their relationship. As it turned out they were too successful in their work. Having completely renovated both the interior and exterior of the building and introduced an expanded clothing line to cater to the tourism market, the business grew in leaps and bounds. Suddenly, they were working 80-hour weeks year-round. And he felt more isolated from her than ever.

The emptiness he felt was more acute because he still loved Brenda deeply. Of late, along with her many other qualities, he had come to admire her hard-nosed approach to business, sweating the details as they say. Yet she counter-balanced that micro-management style by taking an honest interest in the customers, spending time with them to discuss family matters and local issues all the while preparing to make the final sale. Her business acumen and personal charm won customers over in droves and they never failed to return for more of her personalized attention.

When Bob thought about his wife, which he did often as he watched her at work interacting with others, she never failed to excite him even after all these years together. He told her that, quite often in fact. A bit of a 'plain Jane', perhaps. A little heavy on the tummy and thighs. But the overall package was easy on the eye. She was well-toned with shapely hips, long legs and an ample "come hither" butt to which he was particularly partial.

By contrast, Bob knew he was a bit of a recluse. A molded, anonymous corporate professional who had been left unmarked for elevation to the elite ranks of executive management. A very private man, he remained an enigma to the staff and, sometimes, also to those inclined to call him family or friend. He liked to think others saw him as a complex individual. Quiet. Reserved. Phlegmatic. A deep thinker.

He took pride in his physical appearance, working out regularly on his home exercise equipment. When he scrutinized himself in the mirror, he wasn't displeased with what he saw. He was quite aware of the fact, however, that his 53 year-old body now mimicked that of a "Generation X Batman" whose suit desperately needed starch and ironing.

He had considered himself quite a stud as a young man in those heady days when everything seemed possible, and most things were if you just put your mind to it. Still, two decades on, he hoped others had some appreciation for his unremarkable features and quiet demeanor. And, possibly, his quick witted humor although he didn't think of himself as especially entertaining.

In reality people didn't bother analyzing Bob too closely at all. He was, simply, Bob. Nice enough to have around but otherwise quite forgettable if the truth be told. They might have thought differently had they been able to rummage around in his mind, even for a short time. He still dreamed the dreams of someone half his age. Only the body told him how foolish he was being. He was also willing to share his memories and boyish impulses that were confined to storage in the attic perched above his shoulders. Unfortunately no-one seemed the slightest bit interested in his treasured wisdom and proclivities, least of all Brenda and least of all over breakfast.

"I'm reminded of that line from Camelot," began Bob one Sunday morning. "You remember the film with Richard Harris and Vanessa Redgrave? I forget who the director was. Someone famous. Anyway, it's not important."

"Sorta," replied Brenda, sounding somewhat disinterested and concentrating on her bran cereal.

"Well," continued Bob, "there's a part in soliloquy, addressing Queen Guinevere, where King Arthur says something like 'Where are you these days, Jenny?' I think it's just before he sings 'How to Handle a Woman'. Brave man, that King Arthur. Even Merlin couldn't help the king help himself in the end. Anyway, so I'm asking, "Where are you, Brenda?"

Brenda looked up from her cereal bowl and studied Bob's face for a long moment. "I'm here," she said simply.

"That's not what I mean," pressed Bob. "I mean, we're still not talking about anything except our business and sometimes the kids. Especially when they need something. We work together, live together. But we don't talk about us ... plans, hopes, dreams, needs, whatever. Like we used to when we first got married. That was, what, 28 years ago? We could talk for hours back then about everything under the sun, whether or not it was important to us. It's been a very long time since I felt really connected to you in that way."

Brenda looked at him intently but said nothing more. She knew he wanted her to open up but she couldn't think how to start, let alone what to say. The pattern of all their previous attempts to address Bob's concerns was once again about to repeat itself. He would do most of the talking. She would offer little in return except agree at the end that something needed to be done. But later.

Bob knew what to expect as well but this time he felt himself getting a little angry, unable to fully control the frustrations he felt driving his impulse to tackle once and for all the ever-present, consuming void he felt his life.

Intending to shock her into playing ball, he said: "We've lost our way. I don't think we know each other anymore. I'm not sure we even love each other. Do we?" His question was by design. He had lobbed the ball into her court. Now let her return it with whatever stroke and vigor she chose. He didn't have high expectations though. She had never been very good at ball games, including tennis.

Brenda sat silent, fidgeting now with her coffee cup. Bob was determined not to give her an out. So he let the seconds tick by, focusing his stare on her hands. The silence was awkward for them both.

"I do," said Brenda finally.

"You do what?"

"Love you, of course," she replied more quickly.

"I'm not understanding the 'of course' part," offered Bob. "I mean, it's entirely possible that a couple could be together as long as we have and no longer love each other, isn't it?"

"I suppose," replied Brenda. "But that's not us. I know what you're saying about not talking and all but that doesn't mean we don't care for one another. Do you still care about me?"

"Yes," replied Bob with authority. "But we're getting hung up here on semantics. Care. Love. Whatever. I'm really afraid that if we don't make an effort to talk about us, we'll grow further and further apart. And then who knows what state our marriage will be in when we retire a few short years from now. We'll be virtual strangers. Think of it. Two people, married for decades, with nothing in common now that they have all the time in the world on their hands. How frightening is that? Aren't you just a little concerned about it too?"

Brenda leaned against the back of her chair. As she did so the front of her housecoat pulled to one side, exposing just a suggestion of the swell and shape of her right breast. Though the move was not intentional she noted that Bob's eyes had shifted to take in the teasing cleavage. She made no effort to cover up. Instead, she kept her eye on the ball and returned a smashing volley aimed right at where he did most of his thinking.

"This is really about sex isn't it Bob? With you, it's always about sex," offered Brenda. She could tell from the change in his facial expression and how his shoulders tightened up under his shirt that her return was good for the point. Something – Love, if she was going to keep score.

Bob knew an Ace return when he saw one. "You know me too well. And yes, it is. About sex. You wearing your canary-yellow cat suit at the disco when we were first dating. I relish that memory and I miss that person. I miss the girl I married with her flare for life, driven to live every experience to its fullest.

"But this isn't only about sex," he continued in earnest. "I think they go hand in hand. Sex and talking I mean. Not just talking, really conversing. It's how humans connect. But since you raised the subject, damn Brenda, I didn't get married to become a monk. We make love what, maybe once every month or two. Or three. We're always running too hard. Too tired. We never have time for each other or even ourselves for that matter. It's been the same thing playing itself out over and over, year after year."

Brenda shifted so that she was sitting sideways on the kitchen chair, almost as though in this new position she would be a smaller target, better able to deflect the stinging barbs she felt were soon to follow in their conversation. If Bob wanted to start pressing the sex button, well maybe they should just get on with it and have it out. It wouldn't be the first time. But she knew it wasn't going to be pretty and it was high time they tried to find a way to get past their frustrations.

"What do you want from me, Bob?" she asked.

"I dunno, exactly," he replied. "I think I'd like to know whether you're even interested in me anymore. I mean sexually. You never say or do anything to suggest you are. So what am I to make of that?"

"I don't refuse your advances, do I?"

"No, and I've given up making them. Sex is not a game for one player. If I have to make all the moves, I don't feel wanted. You can see that, can't you? I need for you to come onto me once in a while. To show that you still want me. Talk to me about your fantasies. You do have fantasies, don't you? Do you think about making out at all anymore?"

Brenda took a moment to compose her answer. Her response, if honest, would not be easy for Bob to hear. "I told you I still love you," she began. "But, no. Sex is not something I think about very much. I don't know why. Somehow it doesn't make it on to my priority list. It's not on my radar, as you would say."

"And I know why," offered Bob. "I think it's because your so selfless. Think about it. I mean when we do make love, even though it's always kinda ... what should I say ... well, kinda ordinary and routine, you seem to enjoy it well enough. But you're always focused on pleasing everyone else and never yourself. The staff. Our customers. Our kids. A neighbor. They always come first. Never us. There's never time for you and that translates directly into there being no time for us either. So, if I ask you to share a fantasy with me, your mind's no doubt a complete blank."

"I did tell you once," rejoined Brenda, now feeling a little on the defensive. She needed to return a good backhand in order to keep the advantage.

"What?" asked Bob.

"A fantasy. Don't you remember?"

"Vaguely. As I recall it was to make love on a beach. Or in an elevator. But nothing more detailed than that."

"Compared to yours, my fantasies are rather dull I'll admit," said Brenda. "Yours always include other people. I don't get that at all."

"Probably because it's so not you," replied Bob, with a drawn-out emphasis on the words 'so not'. "You know. The more improbable, the more intriguing. Truth is, if you made love to somebody else I might just punch him out. Assuming he's a him. By the way, if you had sex outside of our marriage who would it be with, a man or a woman?"

"I could never do that!"

"C'mon hon. Work with me here. It's a fantasy, right? Man or woman?"

"A man I guess," replied Brenda somewhat hesitantly. "I couldn't see myself making it with a woman. Anyway, I don't see what that's got to do with anything."

"See, there you go," Bob almost shouted, raising both hands straight in the air to lend emphasis to what he hoped were weighty words. "Always closing the door. Can't you just for a moment put your head in a different space and let your imagination run free? Run wild? See yourself as a flower-child, dancing care-free in tie-and-dye clothing, in the rain and the mud, at Woodstock. Or something."

Without warning, Brenda stood up and pulled the housecoat closely about her body. "I can't do anything right now except get ready for work. Have you forgotten we work seven days a week, Bob? And I still have to get dressed, put on a bit of make-up and what have you."

"Better you left a few items of clothing off and spent the day providing old farts around here with some eye candy," said Bob with a wicked grin as he rose to walk her to the bedroom. "You still have it, you know. You're eminently fuckable."

"Geez, do you ever stop?", asked Brenda, looking at him over her shoulder. "Your fantasies can wait 'til later."

"Yeah, till later. It's always later," mumbled Bob as he stepped into the bathroom, closing the door heavily behind him.

Later that day while both he and Brenda were in the stock room he stopped what he was doing, deliberately came to her side and said: "Let's go away for a dirty weekend somewhere."

"Bob," exclaimed Brenda, "It's early Fall. We're still way too busy to leave the store."

"Nonsense," he replied in earnest and with just a touch of desperation. "George and Emma can run the place. I do think we need to get away. Even if it's just for a couple of days."

"We'll talk about it later. I'm trying to get this order ready," said Brenda simply, hoping to put an end to the discussion. Bob, however, had good reason to persist. He did so in a curt, directive manner.

"Well, it's too bad because there is no more 'later' this time. I've already made the reservations. So, it's you and me at the end of this month, or me and..."

Brenda turned quickly on her heel to face him. "And?" she inquired.

"'My shadow', of course," smiled Bob while doing a quick, improvised vaudeville shuffle to emphasize the musical connection. "Seriously, though. The reservations are non-refundable so we have to go. I'm going and you're coming with me. I'll tell you more over dinner."

With that he picked up two large empty cartons, sang the words 'Where do you go to my lovely', and promptly exited the stock room leaving Brenda, mouth agape, to contemplate this new complication in her life. The idea of a weekend away was appealing. No doubt about it. What was a little worrying was Bob's decisiveness in taking control and making the decision for her. Not like him at all and not just a little disconcerting, she thought. And then she got back to her stock-taking.