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I hate hotel rooms.  I like the service, sure, and the water pressure is usually something out of a wet dream (no pun intended).  But I hate how empty they feel.  Hotel managers strive to pack their rooms with all the comforts of home–fresh linens, a television with cable, a writing desk, wireless internet access, and a variety of scented soaps and lotions to make you look and smell as lovely as the room you’re staying in.

But everything feels artificial.  The bed is a little too firm, the linens a bit too abrasive.  The shower is too tight, even with the bow-shaped curtain rod, which is designed to create a sense of space–also artificial.  The television is grainy, the writing desk cramped, the internet too slow.  The soaps and lotions have the same smell across all hotels, clean and soapy, but uninspired, unoriginal.  And no matter how many lights you turn on, it’s never bright enough, always slightly more dim then you’d like wherever you’re working.

And it’s all just a little too cramped.  The desk is always shoved in the corner, out of the way, with a floor lamp above it (the one place in the room where you can get sufficient light, but it’s too bright on the laptop’s screen, causing eye strain).  Clearly defined walkways are narrow, and too angular.  There’s no flow to the space, no feng shui.  In their effort to make the place feel like home, they have stripped it of anything resembling the natural comfort of your personal living space.

And it makes the place feel soulless.  Every hotel is the same, regardless of its position on the star-rating continuum.  And as I sit in my hotel, I can’t help but wonder about the room’s previous occupants.  How many people have come through here?  How many have left their individual mark on the place, only to have it sterilized the next morning by hotel staff?  How many individuals have been homogenized by this place, their stories assimilated by the collective?

I’m just being bitter.  I know I am.  But then again, I have plenty of reason to be bitter at the moment.

My phone chimes, and the screen lights up.  I retrieve it from the desk beside me and half-heartedly activate the screen.  A text message from Ashley.

Please come home.

I consider the words, the implication.  It’s been four days since I saw her.  Since the last time she rebuked my sexual advances.  Since I reminded her that it had been a good month since our last sexual encounter, if not longer.  Since we argued about the role of sex in our marriage, and my need for intimacy.  Since I grabbed my gym bag and stormed out of the house.  Since I booked my hotel room for an unspecified amount of time.

I look at my phone, rereading the message over and over.   I imagine what it would sound like coming from her mouth.  I can hear her voice, straining through pain, struggling to hold back the sobs.  I can see the tears in her eyes.

I know she misses me.  Christ, I miss her too.  Being away from her hurts me at the core of my being, at the most fundamental of levels.  I love her more than I can explain.  I need her in my life, like I need food and water.  She sustains me, supports me.  She centers me.  I want to be close to her.  I want that intimacy, that sexuality, to feel her physically consuming me the way she consumes me emotionally, mentally, and hell, probably spiritually.

Christ, that sounds fucking crazy.  It sounds like an unhealthy infatuation.  Hell, maybe it is.  Ashley is my obsession.    She is the physical representation of everything that is good and wholesome in my world, and I want to be a part of it, in every imaginable way.  And to be constantly denied the sexual intimacy that I want, that I crave, from someone who is otherwise everything I could possibly want and need…

My phone blinks off.  I hastily reignite the screen, rereading the message, over and over, anxiously, obsessively.  Fuck, I’m so angry at her that I can’t think.  Four days later, and I’m still angry.  Does that make me juvenile, I wonder?  Am I a spoiled, immature brat?  Or am I justified, and this is righteous indignation that I’m experiencing?  I don’t have the slightest clue.  All I know is, I’m fucking furious.  I’m frustrated beyond words, beyond any hope of reconciliation.  I need something to change, but I don’t know how to change it, and that just fuels the anger.  It’s probably why I’m still mad, I think.  I’m a published scientist, a researcher, a theoretician, a programmer.  Hell, I’m a fucking genius.  And yet I can’t find a solution to the one thing that I need more than anything else in this world.

What good is intellect if it can’t give you the things you need, if it only makes you dwell on alternate scenarios, how things could be different but never are?

That’s my problem.  I’m dwelling.  I need to stop thinking about things.  I need to stop letting the situation get to me.  I need to immerse myself in infidelity, to find pleasure and satisfaction in my marital indiscretion.  Ashley won’t give me that, for whatever reason, so I should get it elsewhere.

But I don’t want to get it elsewhere.  I want what we used to have, and I’m afraid that in losing it, we’re about to lose everything else.

I don’t think my marriage is over.  I’m sure I’ll go home soon.  But isn’t leaving, for any amount of time, an indicator of what’s to come?  Is the ability to just up and leave for days at a time the litmus test for a failing marriage?  If so, where does mine fall on the scale?  Are we on the cusp of a major failure?  Am I about to become another divorce statistic?  The idea is heartbreaking.

And I realize now, I’m not bitter.  I’m just sad.

I reread the message.  I consider the words, the implication.  And I have no idea what to do.

For now, I put the phone to sleep.


I recently received a message from a reader asking me for any insight I could provide on the nature of our shared sexual compulsions.  Unfortunately, I was unable to provide anything more than the usual directionless rants I often place here (I am, after all, not the greatest source of wisdom), but it got me thinking a bit about the choices I make regarding my extramarital affairs.

I seem to have two distinct “types” of women I pursue.  I use the term “type” loosely (hence the quoties), as I find the notion of shoehorning anyone into a category distasteful, but there seems to be a distinct dichotomy in the personalities of the women I find attractive  I describe the differences between them as follows:

  1. The Rebel.  This woman typically captures my interest by first displaying a complete disregard for social niceties.  She doesn’t worry about what people think.  We all do this, but she takes it to extremes of which most people are incapable.  She has her own thing, and if you don’t like it, you can fuck off.  Or not, because she couldn’t care less either way.
  2. The Good Girl.  This woman intrigues me by being genuinely kind.  She worries about what others think and feel, maybe too much at times.  She may judge other people, but not openly, and not to other people–it’s her own internal monologue, and she doesn’t let it stop her from being kind to the people she dislikes.  She tries to be considerate and understanding of the rights of others to choose and do as they wish.

These may sound like common personality types, but I assure you, they’re not.  I find that people that think of themselves as “rebels” tend to do so out of a strong urge to be different, which, in so doing, makes them just like every other rebel.  They often claim to not care what you think, but only because they want you to believe they’re unique and/or misunderstood.  And the “good girls”, well, I’m sure most of you can think of any number of high school stereotypes to refute that one.

I realize that this probably makes me sound like a biased prick.  Well, perhaps I am, but that’s not my intent.  My point is, most people have a personal agenda, especially when it comes to being perceived by others.  Truly having no concern for others’ negative opinions is a rare quality, as is the type of kindness that you can immediately sense is born of a sincere interest in you and your happiness.  And it is the genuine nature of these two personality extremes that suck me in.

Actually, you know what?  I’m going to retract that previous statement.  It’s not the genuine nature I find so appealing.  It’s the rarity.

Hell, let’s go back a bit more.  I suddenly wonder if my “types” are actually a byproduct of selecting for rarity.  Because, now that I truly consider it, I can remember a single thing about each woman I have ever loved–hell, every woman I have ever fucked–that first caught my attention.  A shaved head.  A laugh that moves in musical scales.  An exceptionally petite frame.  Characteristics that by most standards are uncommon.  That’s what piques my interest.  The intellect, the capacity to maintain a conversation, is what usually keeps it and defines whether I will pursue a relationship with a person.

Well, that just completely dashed my thesis statement.  My type is not defined by social consideration.  It’s defined by intellect combined with rarity.

See, this is why I don’t like shoehorning people into categories, because upon inspection, such categories inevitably fail.  I feel like I should go back and delete everything I just wrote.  But damn, that’s a lot of writing.

This post has become my blog’s Leaning Tower.  It’s the Challenger.  A perfect example of what can happen as a result of poor planning and implementation, even in writing.

Perhaps there’s a way to salvage this shipwreck.

…………………………………nope, nothing comes to mind.

My original goal was to end at this point:  Maintaining clandestine relationships is exciting.  Can you see how I was going to get there?

That’s okay, neither do I.

I apologize, dear readers, for unintentionally dragging you through the disorganized clutter that is my thought process.  As recompense, I will have another post up tomorrow afternoon.  But you deserve some immediate reward for your patience.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Conway Twitty.

Wow, what a hectic week this has been.  Sorry I’ve been away for a few days, but I had to play catch-up with the backlog of work and research while keeping up with Ashley’s newfound sexual appetite.  (I swear, it’s like being married to a whole new person.)  But I’ve finally caught up, so regular posts should resume this coming week!

By request, the following is a retelling of my one failed experience with anything resembling BDSM.  Not my best ending, but this is just the way it happened.


I walk through the door to my apartment and hang my backpack on the coatrack.  The apartment is dark and quiet, but as I begin removing my outer layers, I notice the pungent aroma of sandalwood and catch the distinct flickering of candlelight from the slightly cracked door to my and Kelly’s bedroom.  It’s a clear indicator that she has something special planned for us this evening.  I grin and lock the door behind me.

“Kelly?”  I move across the living room to the hall.

“In here…”  Her tone is deep, sultry, and possessed of a certain quality that I can neither describe nor replicate.  It’s an inviting sound mingled with her own arousal and anticipation, something she’s perfected over the years we’ve been together, and she knows its effect on me.  My breath immediately quickens as my body responds exactly how she’s conditioned it to.  I push the door open and step into the bedroom, eager to see what she has planned for us.

I am immediately struck by the sight of Kelly sitting up on the bed, completely nude, her back against the headboard, her legs spread wide open, her knees up and feet planted on the bed.  The candlelight makes her already pale flesh seem almost porceline.  Her left hand slides up her bare thigh, across her stomach, to her small breasts, which are barely half of a handful, but lovely and soft to the touch.  The fingers of her right glide lovingly across her clit, and I can clearly tell how aroused she is by the glistening moisture around her open lips.  She has clearly been doing this for a while, waiting for me to come home and find her like this.  She gives me the slightest of smiles and nods to the rest of the room.  “You like what I’ve done with the place?”

I have been so caught up in Kelly’s inviting posture that all I have noticed about the room is the candlelight and thin wisps of incense hovering in the air.  Now I take in my surroundings fully.  And I am more than mildly surprised.  The candles and incense rest on several tables that have been set up around the room.  They seem out of place surrounded by more sexual accessories than I’ve ever seen outside of an adult toy store.  One table holds a selection of restraining devices–handcuffs, iron shackles with soft felt padding, a cloth gag, various clamps, and two braids of rope of different thickness and consistency.  Another holds a set of dildos ranging from large to monstrous, anal beads, and a plug.  Still another displays a collection of riding crops, paddles, and even a cat o’ nine tails.

Holy hell.  I’ve always known Kelly had a kinky streak, but I am overwhelmed by the vast array of bondage-and-discipline equipment littering the room.  I laugh nervously.  “Wow, this is quite the setup you have here.”

“I borrowed it from Megan,” Kelly says softly.

“I didn’t know Megan was into this kind of thing.”  I examine the padded shackles absently, but Kelly steals my focus as she slides off the bed and walks toward me, her steps slow and measured and possessed of a dancer’s grace.  She stops in front of me and lifts the shackles with her left hand, smiling down at them briefly before looking back up at me.  Her eyes shine, whether from the candlelight or sheer desire, I can’t tell.  When she speaks again, her voice is little more than a whisper.

“I want you to abuse me.”

I know I look absolutely shocked.  “Uh… what?”

“I want you to abuse me,” she repeats.  “I am giving you the authority to do whatever you want to my body.  Put whatever you want inside me, wherever you want.  Tie me up.  Hit me.  I don’t care.”  Kelly steps back and picks up a riding crop.  She puts it in my hand, and I’m surprised by how light it is.  She guides my hand, making the short stick draw circles around her nipple.  “I want to be your victim.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

She turns and walks back to the bed.  She lies face down, her lower torso hanging off the bed, and reaches behind her to spread herself open.  “This is yours to do whatever you want.”

I stare stupidly at her for a moment before my brain finally catches up with the situation.  She has given me permission to do anything I want.  To use her body in whatever manner is most pleasing to me.  But I know this isn’t just about me.  She wants to derive pleasure from her total submission to me.  She wants me to control her, to dominate her.  To hurt her.  The thought makes me feel queasy, and dizzy.  But I don’t want to disappoint her.

I walk toward her numbly, holding the riding crop in my hand.  Kelly moves her hands above her head, gripping the bars of the headboard in anticipation.  Tenderly I rub the tip of the riding crop across her bare bottom.  Her hips wiggle a little in response, so I let the tip trail down lower, across the backs of her thighs, then her moist center.  I hear her breath catch, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

Maybe I can do this after all.

I give the crop a quick flick against her bottom.  But I underestimated the flexibility of the thing, and that one flick bends the crop deeply and sends it snapping back against her ass with a loud pop.  Kelly cries out in pain.

Holy fuck no I can’t.

I practically throw the thing across the room, distancing myself from it as much as possible, and fall down beside her.  “Are you okay??  Oh fuck, did I hurt you??”

Kelly looks at at me with wide eyes, her confusion obvious.  “What the fuck?  Why did you stop?”

“I’m sorry, I thought I had really hurt you!”

“No!  Well, yes, but that’s okay, it’s what I want!”

I sit on the floor beside the bed in total bewilderment.  I look around at the tables, then back at her.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do this!”

She sighs in exasperation and stands up.  “Christ, don’t be such a pussy!”  She storms out of the bedroom, and I hear the bathroom door slam shut.  She continues to rant, though I can’t understand a bit of her tirade.  I’m too focused on the riding crop, which is propped up against the corner of the room, almost proudly.  I am again overwhelmed by the sheer number of bizarre and intimidating devices around me.

“Fuck this,” I mutter to myself.  I return to the living room and collect my coat and backpack.  I can still vaguely hear Kelly griping to no one in particular through the closed bathroom door as I exit the apartment.