Rest assured, I am not gone and my sex life continues to be nonexistent, as my children grow before my very eyes and my loins fill to the brim every day, with the ineluctable, cataclysmic releases at the end of a long, mesmerizing fog that's our reality. D continues to be noncooperative. Her latest excuse is "I need to work out." Don't get me wrong, I like to have a fit and attractive woman. But what I would like more is a fit and attractive wife who would put out. As I jelqed myself to oblivion last night I cried a little. Seriously. Me, a full grown man. You would never think it would be possible. I look just like the next guy you know in the streets. Regular joe. Something is wrong with me and something is wrong with the way my life is going.
I saw my therapist again yesterday. He told me that the decision would be mine to make, to take up that dreary, figurative ax and chop down the rambling thicket that has been my marriage. Is the sexlessness a symptom or is a curse of a disease that is much greater. As he elaborated and listened in silence, I started to imagine what his life was like, if his sex life was something that he wanted, if he had masturbated on that very day--perhaps he masturbated to me? To the thought of me, and my wife, and perhaps his thoughts were even more unspeakable, untenable thoughts that could be littered even on an Internet anonymous blog.
I think I want to move to New York. Or Portland, Oregon. Or Houston. Somewhere where I can be rid of this life, and start anew. But sex is not the reason to divorce, especially as I pontificated the consequences of my abandon. When I was "free" to do whatever I pleased, I certainly did not get as frequent as that twice monthly allowance that I am bestowed upon these days, and that loneliness, suffocating loneliness that I could not stand when I was young, and single, and pathetically afraid of being effeminate. So I hid it. I lied and torn myself apart in it, and compensated my unfortunate romantic life with tedious, torturous "work", as we call it, that I could only describe it as an addiction. The paradoxical pleasure of the self-flagellating catholic was the model of my early 20s. I was ugly, irrational, damaged by rejection after rejection. Nobody knew about it. Who would I tell? My golf buddies or people I went out and drank with every once a while?
This is how orgasm works. As it comes out a taste of that dreariness leaves you in a few seconds of contractions, as your spirit leaves you, your body becomes a shell of an existence and transparent in time like an empty glass.
My doctor suggested an antidepressant. I eerily fancied that bubbling dull numbness setting in and stuffing my seminal vesicles like cotton balls in a pill bottle, and I would triumphantly wave that magical wand of Prozac at my wife, yelling, "look! I don't need you." But my desire is the only part of me that is still alive, and I need to feel that something of life is still being produced inside of me, as it comes out, evoking yet another episode of uncontrollable spasm, temporarily whitening out my ego and superego.
