I’m a believer in the importance of writing about bad sex. Not naughty-sexy bad. Not violent-disturbing bad. Just awkward, uncomfortable, let’s-just-get-this-over-with bad sex.
Maybe it’s because I’m a realist at heart (albeit wrapped in a tattered blanket of idealism).
The thing is, most books, movies, and TV shows present sex that is either total fantasy perfection or graphically violent. Reality, I’m fairly certain, fluctuates along a spectrum all along that middle.
If every sexually active adult was having the kind of perfect fantasy sex shown in most fiction, the world would be a very different (and much happier!) place. As for the violent or coercive sex, yes I absolutely do know it happens, but it shouldn’t—and that’s a whole other discussion.
What I’ve always loved about Judy Blume is her stark honesty. Her stories ring true because they don’t paint a picture of the world the way we would like it to be, but rather how it is. She looks at how average, “normal” people live their lives and presents a story that captures the good and the bad without judgment.
I decided to give Wifey a try to see if one of her books for grown-ups would deliver the same honest humor and thoughtful examination. And, yes, it did.
The main character in Wifey is by no means perfect. In fact, she’s often very cringe-worthy. But, like the characters in Judy Blume’s books for kids and young adults, she feels like a real person.
The novel was written in the 1970s and follows a suburban housewife as she deals with her hollow marriage, her own sexuality and her utter boredom. There’s a lot of sex in the book, most of which is awkwardly, cringingly hilarious if you’re comfortable with laughing at that sort of thing.
Based on reviews I’ve read, it seems that some readers were appalled by the first chapter and too disgusted to finish the book. I don’t really know what to say about that, though I can’t help but wonder if they may be too repressed themselves to take a frank look at the scenes of sexual frustration, unintentional adultery and awkward couplings that are played out behind all across the country. (Or even on a motorcycle in a stranger’s front yard.)