Porn for Men

My husband and I have the worst fights of our marriage over his fantasy life. Before my saintly mother-in-law clutches her heart and topples over, let me explain: Glenn’s fantasies revolves around a trip to Home Depot, where he clutches an empty cart and embarks upon an endless tour of the sultry aisles of home improvement.

“See that drywall?” Glenn will muse, his index finger thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “I could install that.”

No you could not, I want to shriek, but I can’t start a fight, not yet. Not when we’ve walked barely ten feet into Home Depot and there are still endless miles to traverse before we collapse, dehydrated and bedraggled, at the safety of the checkout counter.

“Sure you could,” I’ll say instead, and Glenn will reluctantly inch ahead to scrutinize light bulbs (now those, he can install). But we do not need light bulbs. We do not need drywall. We need nothing at Home Depot except for a box of nails and a tank of gas for the grill. Yet my husband’s eyes are glazed and I can almost hear him panting. In his mind, he is donning a tool belt and building something dangerous and manly, possibly involving electrical sparks and chain saws. There is no room for reason in the male Home Depot fantasy.

Six hours later, we’ve staggered into the second aisle. Our cart is empty. Glenn is joyous, I am sullen, and the children have invented a game that involves hurling their Crocs at each other’s heads.

“Can we just go?” I hiss, fake-smiling for the benefit of the salespeople, who are eager to eavesdrop on a good fight but become as elusive as smoke at the precise moment we need them.

“Already?” Glenn asks as I ignore the glares from the shoppers who are dodging flying Crocs. “But we need… a… a…. drill bit.”

I start to answer him, but I’m distracted by a mouse scurrying by. Then a bird flaps overhead. (Home Depot could become a destination for hunters of small vermin; it’s a good thing employees wear those bright orange vests in case Dick Cheney loads up his shotgun and pops by).

“We don’t need a drill bit,” I remind Glenn. “We have ten billion drill bits.”

“Why don’t you just wait in the car,” he suggests, as his eyes are drawn helplessly back to the seductive aisle of sink faucets.

“Five more minutes,” he lies as the children lie down on the floor and promptly disappear under a mountain of dust. “I can stop any time I want.”

The thing is, I understand how Glenn feels. I get it because I’m addicted to an equally compelling form of porn for women: Chocolate. I can rhapsodize about the seductive quality of a bar of gourmet dark chocolate with a hint of orange peel, but even the cheap stuff sends me into spasms of delight.

After we recovered from our fateful trip to Home Depot (fluids, rest, and marital counseling) we went to Hershey Park along with my older brother and his family. Normally, a swelteringly hot, crowded amusement park would not be the destination of choice for an obscenely pregnant woman, but those thoughtfully-placed machines that vend all things Hershey made the trip positively delightful.

The only low moment came when we toured the Hershey factory, and somehow—through no fault of my own – I found myself perilously close to the stacks of chocolate they use as props to torture visitors. I’m pretty sure my eyes were glazed over and my breathing was labored.

Then my brother Robert’s voice cut through the crowd: “Get back, Augustus Gloop! You’ll fall in!”

The crowd cackled while I hung my head and waddled back to safety. But later, at the most spectacular gift shop in the world, which offers every Hershey product ever invented, I lost both of my children and – here’s the bad part -- I didn’t notice. (To my credit, I didn’t lose the one in my womb). Nor did I remember that Glenn had left to bring around the car and was waiting out front. I’m not sure how long I stood staring slack-jawed at the endless aisles of lovely, seductive products.

“How could this happen?” Glenn wondered once we’d rounded up the kids.  I couldn’t stop stuffing my mouth long enough to answer. But I did have a thought: Merge Home Depot and Hershey Park. And maybe – just maybe -- the marriage you save could be my own.

Sarah Pekkanen's website for her upcoming novel is www.sarahpekkanen.com