Celibacy Stress Test

"Honey, I heard about this fabulous contest. All you have to do is not have sex for six months and you can win a Corvette Stingray. What do you think? Let's try it!"

"Well, I don't know. We could use the extra car . . . the station wagon is starting to fall apart and when that happens you won't have a car to get around with. You know—to do the shopping, bring Melisa and Angelica to their piano and dancing classes. Although a Stingray wouldn't be useful to a family . . . too small. I could sacrifice my car and drive the Stingray. You could have the Chevy. Yeah, let's enter, Mabel. What are the rules?"

"No sex. You can't even think or dream about sex. That's strange, John. How can I control what I dream or think about? Honestly! It's none of their business anyway! God! I don't even know what I am thinking about most of the time. But we could save some money and win a car. John, are you listening to me?"

"Oh yeah, dear. God! Some women wear their pants so tight you can't help but look."

"Yeah, it's disgusting how her panty lines are showing through those skin-tight pants. John, these contest rules are pretty weird. Talks about great understanding and insight into the nature of power games between male and female. I wonder, what do they mean by that? What do you think, John?"

"I don't know—probably something to do with the woman wanting to be on top. Let's enter, Mabel. I figure, how are they going to know if you are having sex? Are they gonna sleep in the same bed with you or hook you up to some weird machines to see what you are thinking and dreaming about?"

"I don't know, John. I think you are supposed to come up with some kind of greater understanding about your sex life."

"Ah, we can fake it, Mabel! We'll buy a couple of those sex manuals. I'm sure there is a lot of knowledge in those books. We'll study up. Yeah, it'll work, Mabel."

"Okay, John, but only if you let me drive the Corvette once in a while."

"Sure thing."

"Yeah, dear?"

"It's been two weeks since we entered that celibacy contest. I don't know, I don't feel right."

"What do you mean, Mabel?"

"Well since we have been reading all those sex manuals—you know, to prove that we have a greater understanding—well, it has made me more, more . . . "

"Horny?"

"Yeah, you too? Yeah, and all that practice! My lips are getting puckered from sucking on your you know what, so much."

"But, Mabel, your technique has come a long way. You're learning something!"

"Well, dear, I'm glad you're enjoying it but it doesn't feel right. I feel dishonest. You know I don't like lying."

"Yeah, you are a good gal. But we need that car so what can we do?"

"Well, we could follow the contest rules. Maybe we'll learn something more about ourselves than just new techniques . . . AND win a car. What do you think?"

"Well, I don't know. Mabel . . . your techniquen has been improving."

"Well, goodnight. Don't stay up all night reading. You know how bloodshot your eyes will look in the morning. Everyone at the office will think that you have been drinking."

"Okay, okay!"

"John, I've come to a decision. I'm going to do the contest right. I'm going to follow the rules. I'm abstaining from sex for the next five months. I don't know about the dreaming and thinking about sex. I don't think I have any control over that part of myself. I think I can handle being physically celibate for awhile. I could use a break, anyway. Since we've entered the contest we've never had so much sex in our lives. I could use the rest. John, what do you think?"

"Well, Mabel, we don't need a car that much. We could come up with other ways to get a car. I could put in a few extra overtime hours toward the purchase of a car."

"John, it's not really the car anymore. I know we'll manage—we always do. I'm just feeling that if we are going to do something, we should do it right. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, Mabel. But this contest is pretty damn hokey. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, it is strange. I don't understand it, but I still think that we should do it right. We might learn something . . . something more . . . besides more sexual positions and all that stuff."

"Ah, right, Mabel. We'll do it your way, the STRAIGHT way and see what happens."

"God! Honey, it's been two and a half months since we've had you know what. I can't wait to get this over with and perhaps we could read chapter seven and eight in the book, Sex Is For Pleasure. We haven't tried positions forty-nine and fifty yet."

"John! We are not supposed to be TALKING or THINKING about you know what. John, did you ever notice that almost all advertisements are deliberately displaying parts of a woman's anatomy to sell products?"

"It works, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it works. That's what frightens me. It works. It's like women are always on display for a buck or a man's approval. I've been thinking—considering—cutting my hair short and giving up on shaving my legs."

"Mabel, you look good with your hair long. Why would you want to cut it?"

"It's a bother. I don't care about it."

"DO whatever you want to. BUT, I think it's a mistake cutting your hair. I'll be glad when this contest is over and everything is back to normal."

"Me too. I don't know. (Mabel speaks very softly) Maybe I wasn't really happy back when everything was normal."

"What did you say? Three more months to make it through. Where do you want to go to test out our new Corvette?"

"John, I've been having those awful dreams again. You know, the ones where I am being chased by a couple of men who look like my father. They catch me and rape me. John, it's awful."

"It's only a dream, Mabel."

"It's still awful. At the end of the dream the man who looks like my dad always says, 'Honey, you're just my little girl. Now lay down and let daddy love you.' He always ends up laughing with a hideous, cruel shriek."

"John, don't kiss my nipples—remember the contest."

"Yeah, that dumb contest. Honey, I was thinking we could forget this contest. With the tax refund check we could make a down payment on a nice little car."

"We have only another month to go. Let's see this to the end. I have been learning . . . something. I can't quite put the whole picture together yet . . . John?"

"Yeah, Mabel?"

"I don't know how to tell you this, but sometimes in those awful dreams, you turn into the man who looks like my dad. What does it mean?"

"Honey, I think we should drop out of this contest. This is getting too weird for me. You know I love you. It's only a dream—don't take it seriously."

"John?"

"What?"

"I love you, too. Would you get too upset if I wanted to sleep alone for awhile? I could use the sofa bed in the den?"

"What's going on with you? God, the less sex you have the more problems you seem to be having. If you need to be alone I'll take the den but you'll have to explain this to the kids."

"Thanks, John . . . John?"

"What else?"

"I'm going back to school to get my diploma in teaching."

"When will you have time for the kids, the house . . . and ME? I don't think you are being reasonable. You're needed here. If it's about money for a car, don't worry. We are doing okay. I've gone along with cutting your hair, not shaving your legs and even wanting your own space—BUT—I've got to put my foot down on this teaching thing. We all need you here."

"Maybe you're right."

"Honey, maybe you need some kind of help, some counseling."

"You think so?"