Private Loins: an Ash Wednesday Tale

Private Loins

Not just another dating service, but much, much more.

The bright pink billboard glared at Agnes through the windshield as she waited at the stoplight:

“Spouse giving you the cold shoulder?

Call P-R-V-A-T-L-O-I-N-S.

Not just another dating service, but much, much more!”

Yeah, sure it is.

The light turned green. Agnes squeezed the steering wheel and accelerated.

What the hell do marketing agents know about love?

Less than an hour earlier, Agnes had winced at the face in the mirror as she made herself ready for work. Despite expensive creams, facials, and nutrition supplements, aging was inevitable. Perimenopause was just the first faltering step down a dismal road. She felt unattractive. Anxious. Uncertain.

Her husband, Tom, had certainly noticed. No, he hadn’t said anything. But she could tell he had grown tired of her. She was tired of herself. She was tired of what she had become in the years since high school and those days when she made Tom’s heart throb mercilessly. Now, that throb wasn’t even a faint pulse. Agnes clung desperately to memories of youth and romance, and Tom was unsympathetic. Maybe that ridiculous advertisement was his idea. Wouldn’t that just take the cake?

Agnes flipped on the radio hoping to catch a traffic update. Instead, she heard a slick jingle and giddy adult banter:

Make no mistake—love is for lovers. Let love and happiness happen for you with Private Loins. Don’t live with regret. Put the bang back in your love life! Call Private Loins today!

Agnes arrived at the bank and pulled into the employee lot. She took her cell phone from her purse and punched the buttons impulsively.  Then, just as suddenly, she hit “cancel” and put the phone back in her purse.

Not today. Ash Wednesday. Not exactly the way to begin the Lenten Season. She got out of her car and went inside.

Agnes took an early lunch break and drove to her parish church for Mass. The priest, an old, cantankerous sort, preached on death and Hell. Exactly what Agnes didn’t want to hear. She reached in her purse to make sure her phone was in silent mode. Private Loins came to mind. The priest ranted on.

After sucking the good news out of the Gospel, the good Father descended the steps of the sanctuary to distribute the ashes. Pale and unevenly shaven, he seemed in a hurry to get through the ritual. When Agnes reached the front of the line and stepped forward to receive the ashes, he made no eye contact. Instead, he stared into the small brass bowl of soot, pressed his thumb firmly into the grit and lifted it to her forehead. Agnes started to back up, but too late. She felt ashes falling on her face and nose as the priest etched a cross on her forehead. His breath reeked of garlic.

“Remember, thou are dust, and to dust thou shall return.”

Agnes hesitated. The priest raised his eyes only to glance behind her as he motioned with a blackened thumb for her to move on.

“That’s all there is,” he said, not looking at her.

She returned to her pew feeling empty. The priest’s words stung: That’s all there is. 

       After the recitation of the Our Father, Agnes checked her watch. She had enough time to grab a bite. She knew she should stay for Communion. But today was different. Thou art dust and to dust thou shall return . . . That’s all there is. The priest’s words confirmed her fears. Perhaps he was right. What if this is all there is? She picked up her purse and left the church.

Agnes stopped at a fast-food place a few blocks from the bank. As she got out of her car, she saw another billboard for Private Loins. When she stepped inside the restaurant, the familiar Private Loins radio ad was playing over the PA.  Agnes wasn’t superstitious, but this seemed more than coincidental.  She scarfed down a fried fish sandwich with slaw and sucked a diet cola dry. Then she hurried back to her car.  She put the key in the ignition and fastened her seatbelt. She reached for the shift but changed her mind. She took her phone from her purse and dialed.

Agnes knew this was wrong. But she was thirsty for love. Her cycles of ovulation had become irregular. Hormones were ruling her life.  Her gynecologist had warned her that surges of testosterone could cause her libido to spike.  It even makes some women in their forties want younger men—the cougar syndrome. Hell, it had happened to her best friend. After getting a divorce, the woman installed an exercise pole in her house. Exercise for what? It was the kind of thing one would expect to see in one of the local strip clubs such as the Exotic Erotica—not in the living room of a brick bi-level on a cul-de-sac.

Now here was Agnes, the good Catholic girl from St. Dymphna's Parish, calling Private Loins.

“Thank you for calling Private Loins. Your call is very important. Please stay on the line. An operator will be with you soon to make love happen for you.”

A familiar Private Loins radio ad played, with a man and woman finishing each other’s sentences.

Agnes touched up her lipstick and eyeliner in the rearview mirror. Damned crow’s feet. What else did her future hold?  Tufts of facial hair? Psoriasis? Osteoporosis, arthritis, incontinence? Adult diapers? Male pattern baldness?

The recording droned on, and Agnes tuned it out. She heard another voice, a taunting voice from inside herself.

Your husband doesn’t love you. You’re unattractive. No one hits on you any more. No one even looks twice at you. Why should they?

All the feelings of rejection that had pushed her to this point piled on. What was her purpose in life?  Twenty-five years of career dedication took her from the steno pool to the executive suite. But the corner office meant nothing to her now. She was a failure. A jumbled mess of panic attacks, hot flashes, and self-doubt.

My eggs are dying! No wonder you sleep with a stuffed bear. A stuffed bear! You get more comfort from a damned stuffed bear than you do from your husband.

She recalled the night before, when she had gone to bed weeping.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, Tom. I just need you to be more . . . more understanding.”

“Of what?” Tom mumbled into his pillow.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Agnes whimpered.

“No, I guess I don’t,” Tom sighed, fluffing his pillow.

Agnes turned toward him.

“Won’t you just hold me?”  

He sighed again.

“Tom, you only hold me when you want to have sex.”

“I suppose so,” he said, with a slight snicker.

“You men are all the same.”

“Do you want to . . . ?”

“No! Are you stupid?”

“I’m male, so I guess the answer is yes.”

“Can’t you see what’s happening to me? I have no libido. And you only want me when I am ovulating. You men must smell pheromones.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. I saw something about that on TV.”

“Never mind my migraine headaches, bloating, swollen breasts, food cravings, fatigue, and aching joints.”

“I like your breasts.”

“That does it.”

She turned and scooted to the edge of the mattress.

“Just leave me alone.”

Did she really need to tell him that? He hadn’t made love to her in so long . . . 

Thank you for waiting. A Private Loins operator will be with you soon. Love will happen for you.

Agnes wondered how much longer she would have to wait.  No matter. She was in this for good.  She wouldn’t have to do this if Tom would only pay some attention to her. Why doesn’t he? Maybe he has something going with someone else. That would explain things. He’s probably getting his needs met elsewhere. Maybe from the women he works with. Maybe that young one, Maria. Or maybe his sister-in-law’s cousins. Twenty-something hotties. Yes. No wonder he’s been working late and having to go out of town on business. It’s hanky-panky. Well, time for Tom to see who the real hottie is. Time for him to get a taste of . . .

“Private Loins. Love is on your way. This is Heather. Thank you for holding.”

The voice was young, sweet, sexy. 

Agnes tried to speak, but she felt as if her mouth were frozen.

“Hello, this is Private Loins. May I help you?”

“Do you think I’m making the right decision?” Agnes whispered.

Heather waited a moment before answering.

“You tell me.”

“My husband isn’t—he doesn’t seem interested in me anymore.”

“When’s the last time the two of you made love?”

“I really don’t remember.”

Agnes was thinking about an article she had read about the physical changes men and women go through and how it can affect a relationship. For men, a drop in testosterone level can lead to a crisis of identity.  A guy may go out and buy a sports car, quit his job, even leave his family . . . all in an attempt to regain his manhood. 

“Ma’am, are you there?”

Then it dawned on Agnes.

My God, Tom’s been at the advertising agency 20 years with no promotion. He’s lost his creativity, he’s been denied recognition, and he’s continually seeking his father’s approval.

“Oh, it's him, not me,” Agnes said as she took the phone away from her ear and ended the call. She felt a sudden urge to talk to Tom and dialed his mobile number. It rang a dozen times. No answer.

It figures.

When Agnes arrived at home that evening, Tom was sitting in the family room, watching television. 

 “I called your cell phone three times today, but you didn’t answer. What’s up with that?”

“I lost my phone. I think it might be at the office.”

“Uh huh. Did you go to Mass?”

Agnes approached Tom’s chair, but he had yet to look at her.

“No, I didn’t have time,” he answered, focused on the TV.

“I didn’t think so. I don’t see any ashes on your forehead.”

“Oh, yeah, guess so.” He looked at Agnes. “You have enough for the both of us. Did he dump the bowl on your head?”

“No, but for all I care, he could have.”

“You okay?” Tom turned his gaze back to the TV. “You look tired.”

“What do you care?” Agnes raised her voice.

“I’m watching the news here. That damned war in Iraq was one big mistake.”

“Yeah, well, so was marrying you,” Agnes snapped.

“What in the hell does that mean?”

Tom squeezed the TV remote to mute the volume. He glared at Agnes.

“You were working late with that Maria chick,” Agnes said, with a lump in her throat.

“What?” Tom laughed. He turned his eyes back to the television.

“You heard me. I’ve seen how you ogle her sickly figure and I've heard that ridiculous little giggle of hers. She laughs at all your jokes.” Agnes exhaled loudly through her nostrils. “She’s infatuated with you, you know.”

“That’s not true,” Tom laughed.

“Well, then, you’re infatuated with her.”

“She’s twenty years old!” Tom turned toward Agnes again. “And she’s engaged.”

“So? She’s young and sweet. It wouldn’t be the first time an engagement was broken.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tom pointed the remote at the television and clicked it off.

“You’re not implying—”

“You are so good.”

“What? What are you saying?” Tom sat up straight in the recliner.

“You tell me.”

Agnes’ hands were on her hips at this point.

“What’d I do?” Tom shrugged and raised his hands.

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“I told you, I’ve misplaced it or lost it.”

“Then I guess you and your mistress, Maria, were carrying on.” Agnes turned and walked to the kitchen. She shuffled some mail on the kitchen counter.

“Mistress?” Tom stood. “One woman is enough!”

“Well, I suppose it’s Maria, isn’t it?  I remember those three days she picked you up for work and brought you home. You were giddy as a school boy.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “My car was in the shop and you needed the van to drive the kids. Remember?”

“Oh, that was all too convenient, wasn’t it?”

Agnes leaned against the counter and Tom shook his head.

“Agnes, I have no idea what the hell you are getting at.”

“Your car was not in the shop for three days. Just tell me the truth and get it over with.”

“Tell you what?” Tom stepped towards her.

“Why didn’t you answer your cell phone?”

“I told you. I misplaced it. I had it this morning, but I couldn’t find it after lunch.”

“Well, just maybe, if I call it, Maria will answer.”

“Very funny.”

“Just watch your TV,” Agnes carped.

Tom turned the television on again and sat.

Agnes snatched the home phone from its cradle on the kitchen counter and dialed Tom’s mobile number. It rang three times. A woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” Agnes replied, narrowing her eyes as she glared at her husband. “Is this Tom?”

“No, this is Tom’s phone. Who is this?”

“This is Agnes. Tom’s wife.”

“Oh, hi, Agnes. I should have recognized the number. This is Maria at the agency. Believe it or not, I was about to call Tom to tell him I found his cell phone.”

“Well, how’s that for a coincidence?”

Maria laughed.

“Who is it?” Tom asked from his easy chair.

“It’s Maria,” Agnes sang, pulling the phone away from her face. “She has your phone.”

“Oh, good. See, I told you I left it at work. Just ask Maria to leave it on my desk and I’ll get it in the morning.”

“Here,” Agnes harrumphed, handing the phone to him like it was a dead mouse. “You tell her yourself. I have things to do.”

Tom took the phone. “Maria, I'm sorry. My wife’s going through the change or something.”

Agnes climbed the stairs and walked to the bathroom at the end of the hall. She wetted a washcloth and wiped the ashes from her face. The she went into the bedroom, locked the door behind her, and took out her cell phone.

P-R-V-A-T-L. . . .