I just had a big fight with D. I'm in the living room now and she's in the bedroom. I don't even know what this is all about. The kids are asleep. I don't know what I'm going to do. It's only 10:30PM and it sure looks like I'm not gonna get any tonight.
I guess I just didn't want to see her parents this weekend. It's a long weekend and I wanted to rest and be at home, writing long and barely comprehensible run-on sentences on my blog, instead of spending hours bantering with her pretentious father and neurotic mother. Is this really so out of ordinary? I needed to hide this diary from her. Yesterday she saw me typing into my iPhone and asked me, "what are you writing?" Maybe she saw the "sex" in the title in big letters. I lied to her. I said it was for work. Why did I lie to her? Why can't I just tell her straight: I am not getting enough from you so I am venting to the web, because at least I have an audience there, listening to me masturbating to practically everything.
Whenever we fight she just says "I don't really want to talk right now." She storms into the bathroom, puts on her bathrobe and ignores me. We never raise our voices to each other--look at us, a nice, college educated, well employed couple who have lots of friends in the area and barbecue on weekends. It is Memorial Day after-all. Two cute little kids, well-behaved, no trouble whatsoever at day care. And look at us, our sex life, twice in the past two months. Sometimes, like right now, I am so angry, and I look at myself, my aging, wrinkling body and I feel so alone. Nobody understands because I drive an Infinity and have a 4 bedroom house. I smile and I watch sports. People just assume that I don't have feelings because I have a beer gut even though I go to the gym and I work on my Powerpoint whenever I have time off. I have feelings. I have lots of feelings. I really want to yell at someone all the time but I can't--I am Mr. Nice Guy. I am a reasonable, quality husband and father. I am your next door neighbor. I don't gamble. I don't have a gun. I shoot some hoops in the backyard. That's all I get to do these days. I haven't even bought a decent pair of sneakers for years. And my own wife would not appreciate me because I dared showing some hesitation driving 5 hours to see my decrepit yet self-aggrandizing in-laws.
So I beat off. I abuse myself. I do it over and over and watching every kind of ridiculous porn I can get my hands on. Because what else can I do? I suppose I will have to apologize to her a little later and crawl pathetically back into our bed, because she would want me to and she would want a warm body next to her. I can't yell at her. She's the only thing I've got and I'm terrified of losing her. Absolutely positively petrified.
I have that vision of myself, 50 lbs heavier, sitting in a pile of my own excrement, inside a dirty, dingy apartment--no, a motel room, divorced. A dirty canvas couch, grime on the wall, stained carpeting. Nothing would be left. Maybe I would just beat off, eat a slice of pizza, beat off some more, vomit... and that would be my life.
I am gonna grab a glass of Bourbon.