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Tag Archives: love

So, let’s examine the other side of the coin from my last post.

It’s no secret to Tina that my sex life with Ashley has historically been less than satisfying.  In fact, the details of our sexual relationship were one of the first things Tina and I discussed after finally admitting our shared interest in each other: the rarity with which I fuck my wife, her general lack of interest in sexual exploration, and so on.  Tina couldn’t fathom how Ashley could feel that way around me, because she had wanted me for years.  (I can be quite oblivious at times.)  So, she offered to help me relieve some of that tension.  Fast forward to a cold winter’s day reunion, when Tina and I fucked like there was nothing else in the world that mattered.  Our affair was born out of mutual respect, physical attraction, and an acknowledgement that neither of us were even close to living the sexual lifestyle we truly wanted.

When Tina started fucking her new lover, they established that they would tell each other any time they had sex with another person.  This affects him more than her, as he frequently fucks new and random people, and she wants to make informed decisions about her sexual health.  This is an entirely pragmatic arrangement in my mind, and she and I agreed we would be similarly open with one another.  It’s not been much of an issue because I haven’t had any new sexual partners in a while–just her, and Ashley–and she has only slept with him while she’s been away from me.  I understand that she sleeps with him on a regular basis, and I don’t expect her to tell me every time they fuck, but I do expect her to tell me if he sleeps with someone else because I, too, want to be informed about the risks to my sexual health as much as possible.

That’s our arrangement, in a nutshell.  We tell each other if we fuck someone else, share anything that could change our exposure to risk of STIs, and understand that we could be fucking our significant others at any time.

At least, I thought that’s what it was.

It came as a real surprise to me when Ashley suddenly became more sexually active.  For the longest time, literally years, she wasn’t at all interested in sex, and we would go weeks, if not months, at a time without being intimate.  Hence the topic of this blog.  Neither she nor I know what flipped the switch for her, but we now fuck much more regularly than we once did, and she has begun exploring new fantasies and activities with me, including BDSM, pornography, mutual masturbation, female dominance, and other fun and exciting things.  (This is likely the reason I haven’t had any new sexual partners in a long while.  I just haven’t needed them!)  I didn’t share this with Tina because I don’t ask her for similar details of her sexual escapades, and my understanding, as stated above, was that we know the other could be fucking their local partner at any time.

Boy, was that a mistake on my part.

Tina recently asked me who all I had fucked this year.  My answer: just her, and Ashley.  The anger and resentment that followed was truly astounding.

How could you possibly think I wouldn’t want to know if you had sex with Ashley.

What if my lover didn’t tell me he slept with someone else, you would be livid.

I can’t believe you would be so dishonest with me.

I reminded her that I don’t expect her to tell me when she fucks her other lover, and I assumed she felt similarly.  She argued that it was different because she shares a house with him, and she fucks him so regularly it just makes sense that she probably fucked him on any given day.  I countered with, I live in the same house with my wife, and married people fuck sometimes, which I took as a given.  She responded with a bitter comment about the “sanctity of marriage”.

Point is, it was a very, very unpleasant exchange.  She and I are still recovering from the events of that day.  It was a bit of a turning point for us, frankly, and our relationship hasn’t been the same since.  There is an underlying hostility and resentment in her words at times, roiling just under the surface, that she acknowledges because she “is slow to forgive, and never forgets”.  (Her words.)

I wonder, who is at fault here?  Was it unfair of me to assume that we had a mutual understanding?  Or was her response an overreaction to the obvious realities of being in a clandestine relationship?  Admittedly, I could have told her that my sex life with Ashley had been improving, but it seems perfectly reasonable to me that two people in a relationship will occasionally have sex.  I would have told her if I fucked a new person, or if Ashley had fucked someone else and thus exposed me to a new risk (not that that would ever happen, Ashley is depressingly monogamous)… but fucking Ashley is nothing new to me, and doesn’t change my risk exposure.  So I never shared it, because I often didn’t think to, and when I did, I simply didn’t want to chance hurting Tina.

Or, is assigning fault a useless exercise?  Emotions rarely adhere to strict reasonable guidelines.  Tina freely admits that she loves how receptive I am to her being promiscuous, and simultaneously admits that, though she wants me to have that freedom as well, she would probably be terribly hurt by me sleeping with someone else, because she wants me to be hers and hers alone.  So it is entirely plausible that her reaction was born from that jealousy, and thus assigning blame is simply a juvenile response to a natural human inclination.

Really, what it makes me wonder is whether Tina and I are truly compatible.  She is a phenomenal lover, and sex with her is arguably the best I have ever experienced.  She is a gifted professional and a remarkable woman, and I care much more deeply for her than I should.  I wonder whether that depth of feeling and our inability to act on it, and the exposure and vulnerability it brings to our emotional lives, makes us hypersensitive to things that would normally not bother us were we to be together regularly and in a committed fashion.  I’ve no way of knowing, obviously, and there are so many questions and unknowns that I can’t shake this sense of unease I’ve felt for so many weeks.

Perhaps I should just let it go, let the relationship end, but the thought of not having her in my life is extraordinarily painful.  So ever onward do I trudge through discontent and melodrama.

Perhaps I just need a vacation.

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It’s hard for me to talk to my lover about her lover.

There was a time in my life when I was a decidedly jealous person.  In retrospect, I often feel like that is less a personality flaw of mine, than a product of the specific relationships I was in during my youth.  My first real girlfriend fucked her ex mere hours after having sex with me for the first time, so losing my virginity didn’t quite have that je ne sais quois advertised by word of mouth and media.  I was too great a pushover to end it though, and actually stayed with her (as much as can be said for any high school relationship) for three years after that, during which time she fucked two coworkers, a boss, and the same ex multiple times.  I was insanely jealous because I was too scared to end it, and I knew that she could be fucking someone else if I weren’t on my game.

Then Kelly.  I was still pretty fucked up from the first girl (I should really give her a pseudonym at some point), and I had difficulties trusting anyone.  I don’t know if it was my insecurity that eventually drove her to cheat on me, or if it was the kind of atmosphere fostered by her performance arts department (all those kids fucked like rabbits all the goddamned time), but it happened, and I was insane with jealousy and insecurity any time she was out with that crowd, doing a show, or whatever.  I couldn’t bear the idea of losing her, and simultaneously, hated that I was in another relationship where I cared so much for someone who cared so little for me.

I’ve often said that Kelly was a major milestone in my sexual education.  Aside from giving me the opportunity to explore certain facets of my sexual tastes, she also “drove me” to cheating.  I hate that phrasing, because it implies it was her fault, which is terribly unfair.  It was always in me to be a lecherous bastard.  I just needed an excuse, an opportunity.  Kelly gave me that excuse.  Because of her, I learned how to cheat and get away with it.  It’s a skill that I carry with me to this day.  Not one I’m super proud of, but there it is.

Kelly also taught me to stop caring so much.  After her, I let go.  I stopped trying to control the situation.  I accepted that people are weak and unreliable, and driven by carnal urges that no amount of love and respect can overcome.

Everyone–and I do mean everyone–has it in them to cheat.  And you have to be cool with that, or shit will drive you crazy.

So, in the decade since my relationship with Kelly ended, I have been incredibly mellow and laid back about sex and relationships.  It has caused several women to hate me, not because I cheated on them (I did, but they didn’t know that), but because I was never jealous.  They thought it meant I didn’t care.  They would push me, try to make me jealous, and I just never gave a shit.  I’m not sure why it surprised them.  Perhaps because most guys are inherently jealous and territorial.  But not me, man.  I am cool as a cucumber.  Chill as fuck.  That’s me.  It’s part of why Ashley loves me so much, so it’s served me well.

But, for some reason, talking to Tina about her lover just… gets my hackles up.  I don’t have a high opinion of the guy anyway, for reasons that I can’t go into because those things would be awfully specific.  Suffice to say, he strikes me as an inherently untrustworthy fella.  (Not that I’m the most honest guy around, mind you.  I acknowledge the hypocrisy here.)  But she has real feelings for him, and she likes fucking him, despite his flaws.  So I let it go.

Most of the time, I’m okay with it.  But when she talks about how excited she is to see him after a trip… or how badly she needs him to fuck her… or how she wants to tell him to try this new thing… or how she has developed genuine feelings for him… or how disappointed she is that he doesn’t last as long, and can’t fuck as frequently, as me (take that, asshole)… something in me stirs.  I guarantee you know the tightness, the wrenching in your heart that makes you have to take a deep breath, because it feels like your chest is suddenly too small for your ribcage.  My jaw clenches, my muscles tense, and all I want to do is tell her, “NO.  That is NOT okay.”

Naturally, I don’t say that.  It would be ridiculous.  I fuck Ashley, she fucks The-Guy-Who-Can’t-Fuck-Multiple-Times-A-Day.  I’m married.  She’s not.  I can not possibly impose restrictions on her.  And I want her to feel like she can talk to me about anything, including her sex life, because I care that deeply about her.  But I can’t seem to fight off the tightness.

And yet I never get that way with Ashley.  It’s strange at times, trusting someone as much as I trust her.  But I can’t help but wonder, is the fact that I feel no jealousy toward her, but I do feel it toward Tina, an indication of trust, or apathy?  Do I genuinely trust Ashley, or do I just not care what happens?  I love her, certainly.  But I don’t feel the same sense of excitement, of longing, of absolutely need, that I feel toward Tina.

Do I truly love Ashley?  Or do I just love what we used to be and have?

Do I love Tina, too?  Or am I just experiencing residual anxiety from previous relationships similar to that which I have with her?

This is what I’ve been kicking around the past few days.  I wish I could say I had some kind of answer to it, but typically, I just mull the questions over, then go to the gym or have a glass of scotch and try to forget about it.  I’m really much too passive about the whole thing.  But I don’t know how to be active about it.

I’m not sure I *want* to be active about it.

I said I would eventually finish this memory. It’s a hard one to tell, because I was so absorbed in the moment that there are many gaps in my memories of it. And the things I felt at that time were so strong, and so unfamiliar to me, that they’re difficult to express.

I think this is the moment I truly fell for Tina.

——————————————————————————————————————

I strip my shirt in one fluid motion as I stand, and toss the now soaked garment aside. I lean against Tina and kiss her deeply. She sighs softly against my lips, the sound calm and relaxed, but she grasps at my belt eagerly, almost desperately. I would help her, but I am too fixated on pulling her dress up. She manages to unclasp the belt and jeans just as I slide the hem of her dress up to her arms. She releases me long enough for me to pull the garment over her head and off of her, then her fingers slip into my unzipped front. Cold fingers grasp my cock, and she pulls me toward her, guiding the head, rubbing it along her wetness, eliciting a whimper from her and a gasp from me. I push my jeans past my hips, let them fall to the floor, as I lean harder against her. I glide into her as smoothly as I have ever felt, with no resistance whatsoever, and am immediately amazed by her readiness despite the incredible tightness of her. The height of my desk is seemingly designed explicitly to allow her to sit at the edge while I stand, and I touch my forehead and nose to hers as I rock my hips gently, mindful of her comfort.

I am suddenly aware that she’s holding her breath, and her eyes are closed tight. I pause and stroke her cheek with my thumb. “Hey… are you okay?”

She blinks and looks at me. She releases her breath. “Yeah… it’s just been so long since I had a guy in me.”

“Am I hurting you?”

She shakes her head. “Oh fuck no. Nooooo no no.” She smiles shakily. “The desk is a little uncomfortable on my ass but I don’t care.” She wraps her arms and legs around me, pulling my torso to hers and driving me more deeply into her. We gasp simultaneously, and she kisses my jaw. “Please fuck me harder.”

That’s all I need to hear.

I grasp her hips and hold her steady, and drive myself against her with an audible slap. She jumps and cries out, loudly enough that the conscientious part of me is happy the department is deserted for the holiday, but mostly my libido screams in approval. I fuck her hard, with no further regard to comfort or positioning, and every thrust produces another moan or gasp or shout from my lover. She clutches at me, grabbing my shoulders, squeezing my upper arms, pulling my hips, digging her fingers into my back, in a manner that I have never experienced. It is arousing, certainly, and passionate, but there is more to it. It feels so… engaged. As though this isn’t just about fucking me, but about connecting with me, about being with me and around me and near me. As though there is absolutely nothing in the world she wants or needs more than me. And in that moment, there is nothing I want and need more than her. I lose track of everything–our location, the time, the entire world–and am completely absorbed in making love to her, experiencing her. I don’t know how many times she cums. I don’t know how many times I kiss her, or how many times we laugh drunkenly despite ourselves. But when my orgasm hits me, filling her and releasing me, it is quite literally the most incredible sensation I have ever felt.

Our foreheads are pressed together again, and we are breathing heavily. Sweat drips down our bodies, pooling on my desk. I am still hard, buried completely in her. I kiss her again, and we hold each other desperately. I don’t want to let her go. Ever.

Then I notice my clock and burst out laughing. “Holy shit. We just fucked for three straight hours on my desk.”

She turns her head to the clock, then giggles. She presses her cheek to my chest. “Well… I don’t know about you, but I’ve wanted to do exactly this for over a year now, so it makes sense.” She looks up at me and kisses me again. I see tears in her eyes.

“Are you okay, my darling?” I kiss her eyes, taste the saltiness.

She nods and wipes her eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine…” Her voice is shaky, and she wipes again. “I just… can’t believe this is real. That you’re real.”

I nod and kiss her cheek, and her jaw. “I’m real. I’m yours.”

“As much as you can be,” she says, finishing what I had left unspoken. She holds me tighter. “I’m okay with that. As long as I have you in some capacity, I’m okay with it.”

I hold her just as tightly. I can’t describe what I feel in that moment. But I am certain that I never want to let her go.

Taking a few minutes out of my day to continue the story from yesterday. Sure, I could be working up a manuscript or cranking on a new analysis, but this is more exciting right now.

You may gather from reading this that I was rather unimpressed by Hank’s fucking, and you would be right. He really takes the jack rabbit approach to fucking–get in, hump fast and hard, and get out. I find that terribly boring. But, he had great abs, a tight butt, and a not unimpressive package, so I can’t really complain.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Hanks climbs onto the bed and shuffles toward us on his knees. Kelly watches him eagerly, her body quivering and jerking in rhythm with each slow thrust of the toy. I lean back a bit, opening Kelly’s body to him. He lies beside her, cozying up against her comfortably, grinding his semi-erect cock into her hip. I hear her whimper, and watch as she turns her head, kissing Hank with parted lips.

It’s an interesting thing, watching two people kiss with the passion of new lovers. There is an awkwardness there, as she is obviously unsure how best to kiss someone other than me, but Hank is oblivious to it. He places his hand on the back of her head and kisses her deeply and fully, but with a degree of… ineptitude, maybe? Clumsiness? I can’t place it. But it seems very forceful, lacking in tact. I can see his tongue in her mouth, and she clearly enjoys it, but I don’t see how, given the sloppy, slobbery noises he produces. I would be turned off by it, but Kelly reaches for his groin and grasps his cock firmly, coaxing it to full attention.

That certainly does it for me. Whatever Hank may lack in kissing ability, at least he has a nice package.

I lean in and kiss, then bite at, Kelly’s collarbone. “How about I get out of the way for a minute?”

Hank breaks away from Kelly’s lips and grins. Kelly, eyes half-lidded, her jaw slack, nods and whispers, “Yeah…”

I pull the toy back, careful not to move too quickly. There is a feint *pop* as it withdraws from her, and her hips buck slightly. I  roll off the bed and stand, turning to face them and deftly removing my shirt. I tug at my belt and watch Hank rise to his knees again and grab Kelly under her knees, easily maneuvering her into position. She squeals and laughs at the sudden movement, and says something I can’t distinguish, as I’m already splitting my focus between the show at hand, and getting my pants off (this goddamned belt….). I manage to open my jeans and give them a push down and off my hips just as Kelly grabs Hank’s length again, guiding him toward her. My body tingles with excitement as Hank, still on his knees, pulls her toward him.

I think we both gasp as he enters her.

I am suddenly keenly aware of a number of things, watching Hank begin to fuck my beloved Kelly. I find myself comparing his fucking to his kissing; he drives into her with abandon, like most porn stars I’ve ever seen, slapping his groin into hers at a fast and steady pace. As before, it seems to lack tact, or any consideration for his partner. It’s a decidedly different style from mine–whereas I try to be simultaneously gentle and intense, rarely ever banging away at my partner in favor of taking my time, Hank fucks Kelly as though his only goal is to get off as fast as possible.

Kelly doesn’t seem to mind, though. Her head is pressed back into the pillow, her back arched, her eyes tightly closed. She is pulling at the sheets, her knuckles white, her skin flushed. She makes no sound but for the occasional gasp, and I can tell she is having a fairly intense orgasm.

There is a slight pang of jealousy, perhaps, but it is overwhelmed by the incredibly licentious nature of the entire affair. And I admit, I thoroughly enjoy watching his cock slide in and out of her.

Kelly finally catches her breath, and her eyes snap open. She puts her hands on Hank’s chest and pushes, laughing drunkenly, and says, “Oooookay, okay, slow down there. I need you to last.” Hank looks at her rather stupidly, I think, but he shrugs and slows his pace accordingly. She turns her head to me and smiles broadly.

“I love you,” she says to me.

I smile back. “I love you too.”

Hank laughs. “What, no love for me?”

Kelly practically purrs, and rocks her hips against him, taking his cock a bit deeper into her than before. “You’ll get plenty of love.” He grunts and grasps her hips, hoisting them slightly off the bed, presumably to improve his angle. Kelly looks back to me, and stares pointedly at my cock. I’m slowly jerking off, watching them.

…when did I start doing that?

“Would you like something?” I ask, intentionally coy.

Kelly nods and points to my groin. “That. In my mouth. Right now.”

I’m having coffee with Ashley tonight.

That’s such a strange thing to say.  “I’m having coffee with Ashley tonight.”  A perfectly unremarkable statement, carrying with it some weighty implications, as though it were an event that required planning, that having coffee with her should somehow be out of the ordinary.  It’s normal for married couples to have coffee together.  I see it all the time on television (and we all know anything on television must be normal).  But it becomes weird when you’ve been estranged from your spouse for over a week.

I haven’t seen her in ten days now, not since June 8, when we had our argument.  We’ve barely been in communication since then.  Presumably, she realized that I wasn’t just going to come home with nothing resolved, so there were a few days with no communication whatsoever.  Then today, I got an e-mail from her, asking if I wanted to have coffee at our favorite cafe.  I hem-hawed about it for a while, before finally texting her my assent.

So, after ten days of separation, I’m meeting Ashley tonight, to have coffee and catch up, and, I assume, to discuss the state of our marriage, why I left, and what it means for our future.  It’s not like we haven’t had this conversation a dozen times before.  We’re not breaking new ground here.  But, given the circumstances leading up to our meeting tonight, I have no idea how this is going to go.

…you know, I say that.  But it’s not entirely true.

I know that I’ll arrive fifteen minutes early, because that’s what I do.  I know I’ll be done with my first cup of coffee, likely with a shot of Bailey’s in it, by the time she shows up, perfectly punctual, as always.  I know she’ll look beautiful in her summer attire.  When I see her, my heart will skip a beat, my throat will catch, my stomach will turn in knots, the same as always when I see her the first time after any extended period apart.  And I know, despite how happy I will be to see her, I won’t hug her, or shake her hand, or anything, because I’m stubborn.  I’ll stand up while she sits, because that’s what a gentleman does, and I’ll ask how her day was.  She’ll tell me some brief anecdote about the day’s events, then ask me the same, and I’ll do the same.

By the time her first, my second, coffee arrives, we’ll have run out of pleasantries.  We will be silent for a little while.  I’ll ask her why she wanted to have coffee.  She’ll say she missed me, that she wanted to talk.  I’ll tell her there’s nothing to be said that hasn’t been said before.  She’ll agree, and her voice will catch, and she’ll try not to cry.  She will tell me she loves me, that she wants to be there for me sexually, but she doesn’t know how to change herself.  I will tell her that I love her too, that not a single day goes by that I don’t thank God for bringing her into my life, but unrequited physical intimacy is sufficient to destroy any relationship.  She’ll tell me she knows this, but she just can’t bring herself to be physically intimate as often as I’d like.  So I’ll ask her what she wants to do about this, the same problem we’ve had for years now, because something has to be done, because even though I thank God for her every day, there is also not a day that I don’t feel some level of resentment toward her for refusing to be intimate with me.

And this is where the future becomes cloudy.  It’s unlikely that she’s going to tell me that a permanent separation is in order, but given the state of things, I doesn’t strike me as totally impossible, either.  It’s just really improbable, because we still love each other as much as we ever have.  Ashley feels like she’s not enough for me (and let’s call it like it is–she isn’t), which scares and upsets her, but she won’t do enough to amend the situation.  However, that’s not enough to drive her away from me.  She wants me for the rest of her life, as she so often reminds me, in the most romantic, if still asexual, manner possible.

That means, if things go badly tonight, it will most likely be my doing.  And for all our problems, and despite my indiscretions, I’m not ready to say goodbye.  Being away from her always reminds me just how much I need her.  I acknowledge it frequently, but it’s her absence in my daily life that makes the need more palpable.  When we’re together, I crave her physical touch.  When we’re apart, I just crave her.

Anyhow.  This was intended as more of an update, and instead evolved into some kind of inner monologue about the state of my marriage.  My apologies.  Also, please forgive my absence in the past couple of weeks.  I just… haven’t felt up to responding to emails, comments, etc., which I hope is understandable.  I’ll be back soon, hopefully with something more positive to report.

Regards,
BimodalTendancies

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.

The following post was inspired by TerriblyTorn13.  If you aren’t familiar with her blog, I highly recommend it.

For many years, Ashley and I have talked, on occasion, about what works well and what doesn’t in our relationship.  We tend to come to the same conclusion each time.  In most every respect, we have what most couples dream about and never achieve.  We’re best friends, and coming home to each other is the best part of our day.  We share equal financial responsibility for our household, and an equal share of the housework.  We talk about our work and lives outside of our marriage, and we take an active interest in what has happened to each other when we’re apart.  Sure, there are a couple of things here and there that we could do differently, but this usually amounts to little more than whether the dishes are done every night or every other night, or who will scoop the litter box.  Our marriage really is a partnership in most every respect.

That is, until you get to the sex issue.

I’ve mentioned it before, but it bears further discussion.  For the past three-plus years, Ashley has been decidedly asexual.  This wasn’t always the case, but her once dynamic, sexually curious side seems to have disappeared.  We usually make love only once a month, if that.  This may not seem that bad when some couples have sex once a year, but for a young couple married less than five years, this is a very bad sign, an indicator that you may end up in that once a year category.  This is the last thing I want, because I wouldn’t remain in a relationship wherein I can’t be physically intimate with my wife.  It would be like being married to my sister, someone I love but with whom I could never, ever be intimate.  I know it would spell the end of my marriage.

And today, I told her so.

It’s hard on both of us, me leaving for weeks at a time to go on research trips, and we make it a point to talk via Skype as frequently as we can.  During our conversation today, I cracked a joke about her showing me a little webcam skin.  Her response, coupled to an exasperated sigh and a roll of her eyes, was, “God, don’t be so gross.”

When she said that, I suddenly thought about all of the things I’ve been putting here.  Pouring my thoughts and memories and exploits into an anonymous, honest venue.  Hearing the feedback from my readers.  Reading the hatemail.  Forcing myself to dwell on what I do, why I do it, and why I can’t be more honest with her.  I realized, on some emotional level, that I hold so much resentment and frustration because of her refusal to help with my sexual urges.  In that instant, her words just made me so fucking angry.  And I never get angry at anyone, much less her.  Why the hell is that gross?  What the fuck is wrong with wanting to find sexual pleasure in the woman I love?  I wanted to scream at her, tell her everything I’ve done, and what I planned on doing at that moment just to spite her.  But instead, I just closed my laptop without a word and walked away.

An hour passed before I finally came back to my computer.  She immediately called me, and I could tell she had been crying, a lot.  She’s an emotional girl and tears up frequently, but when she cries out of grief or fear, her face takes on a drawn quality.  Not sickly, but drained, emptied.  It broke my heart to see it, because I had caused that, by losing my temper and letting myself get caught up in my emotions.

She asked me if I was mad at her.  I told her, yes, I am, and I have been for a very long time.  She asked why I was mad.  I told her because I have tried to be a good husband.  I have tried so hard to change who and what I am to make myself worthy of someone like her.  I told her I fail a lot, and that I have let her down, whether she knows it or not, but I struggle every day to overcome my own issues.  But I need her to be more than a partner.  I need someone who will do more than put her head in my lap to watch a movie.  I need a lover.  I need her to be the one and only thing I think of when my body is screaming for release.  But she can’t be that thing for me if she always refuses to be involved with me sexually.  And if that doesn’t change, as much as I love her, as badly as the very thought makes me ache down to my bones… I will eventually leave her.  And when it happens, I won’t feel guilty about it, because I will have become so bitter and angry that loneliness will be a better alternative than suffering through a failed marriage.

That’s not verbatim, but it’s damn close to what poured out of my mouth.  When I was done, Ashley stared me, mouth agape.  I suddenly felt very self-conscious, and I waited for her to start crying.  But she never did.  Instead, she wiped her eyes and asked me how long I’d felt like this.  I told her years, and didn’t she remember all the times we talked about how upset I was because we no longer had sex?  She did, but thought it was an immediate thing, like “I’m not getting sexed up right now, so I’m mad!”  I was just as shocked as she was.  We’d had dozens of conversations about it, and she had never understood what I was saying.  It had never registered to her that our marriage could be in real danger if we didn’t find a solution to this.  Today, it did, and it scared the hell out of her.  So she asked me, “What can I do to fix this for us?”

We talked for a couple of hours about it.  During our discussion, I learned that sex has never stopped hurting her.  She experiences physical pain before and after, and it makes her not want to be intimate even when her body is really feeling it.  I asked her why she never told me.  She said, “Because I love having sex with you, and I didn’t want you to think you had to change something.  You’re just too big for me.”

Makes me feel like a bit of an asshole, but there it is.

Anyway.  We don’t know what the best solution is, but we have agreed, when I get home from this trip, we’re going to sit down and talk about this, try to figure out what she is willing to give, and what I am willing to concede.  Ashley doesn’t want our marriage to fail, and neither do I.  We’re going to see if we can make it work better for both of us.

I think writing this blog has been therapeutic in some respects.  I don’t know if your stories and feedback gave me the push I needed to really confront Ashley about our problems, or if forcing myself to be honest here made me want to be honest with her, too.  Hell, maybe I just snapped.  But I feel that I have begun to look at myself a bit differently over the couple of weeks I’ve been working on this.  And I now have real hope for what may change in my marriage.

Thanks for keeping up with me, folks.  Psychiatrists are quacks, but you people are not.

And no, I’m not leaving.  I have a hell of a lot more to say and share.  I just like the way that last sentence sounds.

I realized today that I have written fourteen posts in this blog. Some of them have touched on my sexual compulsions, or justification for my behavior. Others have chronicled my sexual exploits. But none of them have really focused on Ashley as more than a mostly asexual being, or my feelings for her. This strikes me as incredibly unfair.

When I first met her, Ashley was sitting at a table in a local bar with a couple of other girls, listening while they chattered away with random passers by. With her toned athletic figure, naturally golden blonde curls, piercing blue eyes, and flawless skin, she could easily have been a model for any skimpy lingerie poster. Or an athletic shoe commercial. Or one of those perfume ads that just show beautiful women sitting in awkward poses. She seemed to steal the light out of the rest of the room, the way she naturally drew the attention of every prowling male and scowling female. She didn’t make any effort to cause this. It was in the way she smiled, honest and vibrant. The way she leaned toward whomever she was talking to, engaging them completely. The way she sincerely thanked the half dozen men who bought her drinks, but just as sincerely apologized to them because she wasn’t “that kind of girl”. She was entirely unaware that she was the center of all activity in that building.

Once we started seeing each other, I discovered that she wasn’t just trying to be polite to the guys in the bar. She was a virgin, and she intended to save herself until she met the man she was going to marry. Not until marriage–that’s a different issue–but until she fell so deeply in love that she could barely breathe. It was a conviction she stuck by despite my best efforts to the contrary. So, being the horrible human being that I am, I made it my goal to make her fall in love with me. I had no interest in her beyond fucking her. I didn’t care about her ideals. I just wanted to be inside her.

Five months later, I succeeded. Ashley gave herself to me in every way possible. I won. But imagine my surprise when I realized that I had somehow fallen just as hard for her. The revelation hit me hard in the middle of the night, when I woke up beside her and saw her sleeping, curled up beside me. In that moment, at four in the morning, I knew that this woman was something more than just a good lay. She had somehow become my reason for… well, everything. Everything I did was for her, not because she asked it of me, but because I had never known anyone like her, someone who gives all of herself to take care of the people in her life, whose mere presence can monopolize the attention of a crowd and make you believe everything is going to be okay. She was pure. And I was deeply, deliriously, in love with her, more intensely than I had ever loved anyone or anything before her. When she woke, she smiled and looked at me through sleepy eyes.

“Ashley, will you marry me?”

“…Of course I will.”

It was like she’d been waiting for me to ask her for years, as though our marriage was an inevitability that I somehow hadn’t yet acknowledged.

This is the way I remember her. The years have gone by, and her appearance has changed in minor ways associated with maturity and professionality. But these images have stayed with me, burned into my memory, as clear now as they were at that moment in time. Ashley is, without a doubt, the single most beautiful person I have ever known, inside and out. I sometimes think her whole purpose in life is to make other people happy, and to make them feel beautiful. It is a purpose to which she is particularly well-suited.

Sorry I took a little time off there.  I needed to think about a few things.

I received an e-mail from someone who read The Mile High Club Has a Secret Knock.  I won’t copy and paste the whole thing, but rest assured, it was a nasty piece of work.  To summarize, she is a 24-year-old woman who just found out that her new husband of two years has been cheating on her.  Thus, speaking from experience, she told me that I am a horrible human being (as I have long suspected) for doing the things that I do, then “bragging” about them on a blog, because I will never know what it’s like to be betrayed so deeply by the person you love.  Yours truly, Angry Woman.

Well.  Allow me to retort.

Point the first.  To suggest that I don’t know betrayal is a ridiculous assumption.  I haven’t written about it yet (though I’m sure I will), but I’ve long believed that the source of my pseudo-addiction is having been betrayed by every girl I thought I loved (except Ashley, who redefines what it means to be a good person).  That sort of thing can really fuck a kid up.  I have been betrayed, Angry Woman, and I have betrayed, as I’m sure you have at some point.  Maybe not by cheating, but by lying, by gossiping, by ridiculing.  I don’t know anyone who hasn’t betrayed someone at some point, and I’ve known people who were one miracle away from sainthood.  So please, although I recognize that I may be a horrible example of a human being, don’t assume it’s because I know nothing about betrayal, and don’t assuage your anger at your husband by accusing me of being a stereotypical scumbag.  I may be a scumbag, but I am anything but stereotypical.  (Does that make sense?  I think it does.)

Point the second.  If you think this blog is about “bragging”, then you haven’t been reading.  You’ve been selectively scanning the entries looking for something to be angry about.  This blog has never, and will never, be a chronicle of my conquests, because they will never be conquests.  Well, maybe the events that happened within a relationship or that were otherwise not cheating.  But every one of my affairs–past, present, and future–is a mistake.  I won’t deny that they were (usually) exciting and intensely pleasurable, but I don’t look upon them with a sense of accomplishment.  I (usually) remember them, as I described in one comment, bittersweetly.  Something that should not have happened, but that now defines my history and makes me who I am today.  I like who I am, but not what I have done, and I would never brag about hurting people the way I have.  That’s the mark of a sociopath.

No, this blog is about me telling the goddamn truth for once in my life.  It’s almost a confessional, except that it’s not intended to absolve me in any  way.  It’s just a place for me to put my stories.  Why do I write so many of them as prose?  So that I can read them later and see the experience from another vantage.  Why do I post them?  Well, that I don’t know.  I get a little thrill every time I see a new comment, whether it’s the usual contributors or new readers, compliments on my writing or someone calling me out on the liberties I took in the story, a casual remark or a deeper analysis.  I do love that people read this, and I find the compliments, and occasional insults, give me a new kind of high.  The honesty I put into this blog has attracted more followers than I had ever thought (again, thank you all), and it makes me want to write more, to tell every story I have, the good and the bad, to completely recount the sexual rollercoaster that is my life.

(Oh yeah, that reminds me of getting a handjob on the Superman coaster at Six Flags.  Wow, I totally forgot that one.  See what I mean about “usually” remembering?  Okay, moving on.)

Angry Woman, I am truly sorry for your experience.  I am sorry that you gave so much of yourself to your husband, only to have him betray you.  I know what that pain feels like, and I would never wish it on anyone.  I hope you and your husband can find a way to resolve this, to repair the damage and come through stronger than ever.  If not, I hope your anger doesn’t consume you.  But, when you focus your anger on me as a surrogate for “men everywhere”, you really leave me no choice but to tell you to take your shit elsewhere.  Constructive criticism, and even harsh rebukes, I can take.  Accusations, not so much.

I’m working on another My Life As Fiction entry (a really good one, I think) and hope to have it up by tomorrow.  Spoiler alert: It’s about sex.  Best wishes to you all, readers.

Before I met Ashley, before I ever dreamed of following the paths that have led me to where I am today, there was Maria.

Maria was my third love, my second real one, and, I once thought, my last.  She was a latina girl I met while studying abroad in Mexico.  I met her at a party that I never intended to attend but was forced into, because I was a bit devastated after my relationship with Kelly finally ended.  I didn’t speak enough Spanish to communicate and was very uncomfortable, so I went to the balcony to have a cigarette and admire the city.  She was there, shivering in her down jacket even though it was probably 60 degrees, trying to get her cigarette lit.  I wordlessly offered her mine, and to my surprise, she said, “Thank you.”

“Oh, you speak English?”

“What, you don’t?”

She was a cheeky little bitch.  I was instantly hooked.

Our relationship was… god, it was passionate.  Crazy passionate.  Dramatically passionate.  Full of the kinds of stories you usually only see in cheap soap operas and dimestore romance novels.  I even had to fight for her honor when someone called her a “malinchista” (think of it as “blood traitor”) for dating a white guy.  I mean, it was absolute insanity sometimes.  Our fights were epic affairs, yelling, pushing, swearing, cursing, crying… but Christ was I in love with her.  I would have given anything, done anything, gone anywhere and sacrificed everything I had, for one more day with her.

When I inevitably had to return to the States to finish school, I offered to quit, to move to her country and finish school there.  But she promised to come with me.  I filled out paperwork with the State Department to help her get her visa approved.  I sent her hundreds of dollars to buy her visa, and her plane ticket.  Then, a few months after my return, she changed her mind, and she left me.  Just like that.  No warning.  Nothing to suggest she was doing anything but planning her move.  Just… done.  A quick phone call while I was between classes.

I saw her one other time after that, after I met Ashley, but before we got married, before I was sure I wanted to commit myself to her.  It was my first trip for my new career, and it had me going through Maria’s city.  So I e-mailed her and told her I would be in town.  I told her I was in a relationship and wasn’t interested in anything more, but I wanted to see her, to catch up.  And I meant it at the time.  But the moment I stepped into the terminal and saw Maria standing there… fuck me to tears.  It was like we had never separated.  The moment we were alone, it was just like it was before.  The laughter.  The pain.  And god, the fucking.  Lovemaking so intense and fierce that Casanova himself would have been ashamed.  The sort of lovemaking that lasts for hours and leaves you breathless, exhausted, aching in every joint and muscle, but immediately starved for more.  You can’t write stories about that sort of thing.  You can’t take pictures of it.  There is no human descriptor that can adequately depict it.  It was pure, mindless, whole-hearted, passion.

After our intense affair ended and I went back to the States again, Maria told me she wished that I had never left the first time, and letting me go a second time was even harder.  She didn’t know what she wanted when she left me.  She claimed she didn’t want to ruin my life, though I don’t see how marrying me would have done that, so she left me.  Now she wanted me back in her life, but she wasn’t willing to be the reason I ended it with Ashley.  So Maria stopped talking to me.  I forced myself to move on, eventually fell in love with Ashley, and married her.

The day after my wedding, Maria called me and congratulated me on marrying Ashley.  I thanked her, and we hung up.  We chatted a few times after that, mostly about work and our families, but eventually, she confessed that she still loved me, and she severed all ties with me for several years.  Until today.

She messaged me on a social networking site and asked if we could Skype.  The moment I saw her… again, there are no words.  I didn’t think I could ever feel that again.  That same sick excitement, the urgency, the knotting in my gut that threatens to tear me apart from the inside.  We talked for hours, about everything and nothing, about the mistakes we’ve made, people we’ve seen, our relationships with others, and with each other.  About how much we miss each other.

I thought I was over her.  She’s thousands of miles away.  We haven’t spoken more than six times in over five years.  I moved on.  I got married for Chrissake.  Then one video call, and it’s like I’m back on that balcony, sharing a cigarette with this exotic woman whose mere presence is enough to make me dizzy with desire and rage and lust so intense that it consumes me.  There’s no way I can still be in love with her.  I love her memory, what she was and what we were.  But fuck, it feels so strong, so real.  I’ve honestly never felt this consumed by it, and so conflicted.

Fuck me to tears, man.