Dirty Wedding

But having nine months to hone my craft, followed by three months traveling the world with my husband, four years in a row—

It was exactly the freedom I needed. The chance to take up space, figure out exactly what I wanted, breathe.

I needed that time to feel like I had a choice. To miss taking care of Sienna. To miss loving someone that way.

Even so, I took a year. I spent a year hustling, promoting my music, recording as a session musician, hanging out with my sister, my friends, my husband.

Then I asked Ty again.

I asked if he was ready to be a father.

He was, but he wasn't ready for me to put someone else first.

I tried to explain it to him. After four years of school, seeing what life was like for full-time musicians, I had a new dream.

I didn't want my life to revolve around the hustle.

I didn't want to live and die by other people's tastes.

I wanted to make music, my music, but I didn't want the demands that came with pursuing A-list status. Or even B-list status.

There were too many strings.

I wanted to be independent. To make music on my terms. To live my life on my terms.

So we negotiated.

Another year.

If I felt the same way after two years pursuing my career, he'd agree.

I insisted we stay here, in Manhattan.

No big house on Long Island.

No gated neighborhood in Jersey.

No career connections in Los Angeles.

He agreed instantly. He wanted to stay in Manhattan too. I should have held out for more. Demanded something else.

But then I didn't mind waiting.

I wanted this. Badly. But I was scared too.

I am scared.

This changes everything. And I don't want to be one of those women who puts herself last.

Most of the women I know are younger. Still pursuing their careers. Not beginning to think about marriage or children.

Some are older. Some have families. A lot of them sacrificed their marriage or their career or their well-being for their kids. They thought they were doing the right thing. Maybe they were.

But I don't want that for my family. I don't want my daughter to grow up thinking women need to be martyrs.

I want her to see how hard I fight for myself. My needs. My desires.

Not the ones Ty is about to fill… well, not yet.

Maybe, one day, when she's older, and I forget to turn down the volume on You Oughta Know and she asks what it means to fuck someone…

I'm not going to tell her what her father and I do. But I'm going to sit her down, explain sex, make sure she's not ashamed of her desires.

No matter how strange they seem.

I want to be a role model for her.

But it's hard. It's scary. I understand how my mother felt now. Why grief drowned her. If something happened to Ty—

I don't know if I could do it. Stay present with Amy.

I hate to think about it.

I love him so much.

We've both lost parents. We both know how terrifying it is. We're both scared.

But that's part of being a parent. The world is as terrifying as it is beautiful.

I try to focus on the latter. So I can show Amy how to live without fear.

It's hard, but I try.

I want her to see that. To see the world as a big, beautiful place she can conquer.

I close my eyes. Run my fingers through my hair. It's short now. A pixie cut.

It needs trimming every six weeks, just like my old hairstyle, but it's wash and go. It was that or a Mom bob, and I'm not going there.

Not yet, at least.

I shampoo. Condition. Rinse.

Towel dry. Don my purple robe. Step into the bedroom.

The lights are off. The door is locked.

And my husband is standing in front of the bed, in his suit, his eyes filled with demand.

He doesn't wait. He moves toward me. Backs me into the wall.

He doesn't slam me the way he usually does. I'll have to wait another few months for that. Physical roughness is off the table. As are most of our favorite positions.

But Ty is creative. He works around restrictions to keep me satisfied.

He motions to the mirror across from the bed. "Watch."

"Watch?"

He nods as he pushes the robe off my shoulders and slips his hand between my legs. "Watch yourself come."

Fuck, I'm already wound so close. The friction of his index finger is enough to wind me tight.

Then he brings his hand to my throat. He places it there. No pressure. Barely the hint of a threat.

But the sight of his hand on my neck is enough.

I watch him work me.

He winds me tightly, quickly.

A few strokes of his fingers and I'm there. I groan as I come on his hand.

Pleasure overtakes my senses. Makes my legs weak and my breath heavy.

But he keeps me steady as he works me through my orgasm.