THE DYING EMBER

Fabiola is sleeping with her back to me. I want to grab her shoulder and pull her towards me. She is a vigilant mother. She never likes to be disturbed while she is sleeping. Marcos emits the slightest sound and she leaps out of bed and sprints to his side. Sadly, her sterling efforts as a mother have diminished her zest as a lover. I can be crying for attention, but she ignores me even though I need her panocha more than Marcos ever needed her chichis. With Rudy and the gringo having ravished Fabiola, I'm biting at the bit for my turn. I haven't screwed her since last week. Yesterday morning I ran my fingers along her legs. When she stirred, I pulled her into me, but she pushed me away complaining that my breath smelled. "As long as your fire burns for me, I'll come to you to warm my hands," I would wax in a half-joking, half-serious tone to her. I ask for only two things from Fabiola: Fuck me in the morning and fuck me in the evening. I request or require little more. No woman made me happier. I couldn't wait to walk through the door and encounter her smiling face. Now, I don't want to come home anymore. I hate it when I start feeling sorry for myself. The turning point with Iliama came when I realized that I could never make her happy. My cheating may have sentenced her to an inescapable pessimism, but I had convinced myself with the exception of one defect, I had innumerable assets. "But that one weakness is a big one," Estanislao opined. But I am of the opinion that my 99 pluses more than compensate for my one minus. Being a Catholic, however, I should never forget: One mortal sin is sufficiently grievous to sentence an individual to everlasting damnation. I shake off Fabiola's anticipated rejection. I'll collect my revenge later in the day. I am becoming angry as I recall last Saturday's concerted effort that resulted in failure and the ongoing losing streak. I prepared pancakes in the morning for the children. I took them to the park before noon so Fabiola could exercise on the treadmill. On the way home I bought ground beef, buns, potato chips and dip. At home I lit the barbecue and fashioned a classic picnic lunch. Fabiola and Adriana went to the beauty shop in the afternoon while the boys and I splashed in the wading pool. In the evening we went to for pizza and spaghetti. Fabiola and I finished a bottle of wine and she seemed to be relaxing. I wanted to fuck her bad. At home I pinched and tickled her each time we passed in the hall. After I put the kids to bed, I joined her in the sack. She had closed her eyes and pulled a blanket up to her chin. I stroked her hair and moved my hands under the sheets, which she pushed away. "I'm not in the mood," she said. "Let me rest. I'm tired." I nudged her again and her eyes popped open. "What is wrong with you? I'm not in the mood. It's my body. Why can't you respect me?" I was livid. The Apostles were thumbing their noses at me. I could read their lips: "When we wrapped our arms around her, she was in the mood." I had been a stellar husband all day and I was looking forward to my reward with great anticipation. Nothing! Fucking nothing! Why has her libido diminished so dramatically? She has little lust for me. During her four years as a single mother she would meet with her lovers two or three times a week and those encounters would satisfy her. She had grown comfortable with that pace. With me it had been two and three times a day. There were occasions when she would demand her space. My grumpy reactions educated her to the symbiotic link between sexual satisfaction and emotional stability. Fabiola would rediscover her rhythm and we would find our familiar beat again. Since Marcos' birth, with the exception of short interludes when our sex has equalled the quality and quantity of our inaugural days, our passion has steadily declined. I am too lascivious to accept her lethargic behavior. Why would any man want to be with a woman who didn't fuck him? I am growing more and more impatient with her excuses that send me to the edge of the precipice: "My hormones are out of whack." "I'm pre-menstrual." "I'm on my period." "I'm post-menstrual." "I'm tired." "We just did it last night." "I have to clean the kitchen." "I never get a chance to relax and watch television." "I'm not through with my magazine." "I have a blister. Do you have herpes? I'm too sore to do anything." I'm wrestling with both Rudy and the gringo who have commenced my day with a gang-bang. Fabiola wants me to wake her at six. She needs time to shower, put on her make-up, dress, wake the children in order to feed and dress them, gobble down cereal and gulp coffee before she loads the brood into the car, dropping off Marcos at day-care and taking Adriana to high school and Adrian to the school where she teaches. They will enter together to the sound of the eight o'clock bell, thus commencing her day with 25 third-graders. I appreciate her challenge, but she must take care of me if she doesn't want this family to implode. I'll wake her at 5:45 and cajole a quickie out of her. She won't offer anything else. After telling her "I want to fuck", I'll crawl on top and she'll tug mechanically on my nipples while she leans her head to one side. I'll conjure up her McAllen lawyer who, besides having the distinction of pouring wine over her pussy the first time they made love, collected another first. "I surprised him at his office," Fabiola told me after I had begged her to excite me with another story. "He had a large window that overlooked the city. I locked the door and walked over to his desk and fondled him. I had this fantasy of getting fucked on someone's desk. He pulled off my panties and pushed me back on his desk. He was so nervous and excited that he came right away." If all goes well, I will slide my dick into Fabiola and follow the lawyer's lead. Straddling her, I will try to please her by coming as fast as I can. I have to squeeze the poison out of my system.