"Wherever I can get a good fuck," I blurted out naughtily, with a mischievous grin. It was a flashback of our earlier years of incessant tickling flirtations.
She rolled her eyes, of course. She went on to talk about getting the kids to take skiing lessons. All I could think about was how I need to bring up this conversation because I could not stand it any longer. Yet words invariably escape me.
The fact of the matter is, my wife and I have problems that run much deeper than our lack of sex, I think. I think she wants things that I cannot offer her, and she sees the world differently than I do. As our twenties rolled by, her talent mitigated her insatiable desire to roll over everybody and everything, including my admittedly fragile ego. We have less and less to talk about, and the meals are full of silences, dark, enigmatic silences. Five years ago I was make substantially more money than she did, and that streak didn't continue. I felt the traditional gender roles collapsing onto me, and yet she sneered and stayed utterly oblivious to my constant insecurity and self-scrutiny.
When I bring up these topics of conversation, she dismisses them.
I am a shell of a human being, stuck in a cliche that is as old as time itself. Of course, I can try to escape, but since there's nowhere to break out to, there is no where to go. I'm an ant trapped on a sphere, or a Mobius strip, and the faster I run the more I determined to leave the sooner I return to where I started. What I do know is that I love my kids and I can't leave. At least, not now. If I can't leave then I can't have the heart to put my words into action, and D would be able defeat me so easily.
Last night D fell asleep next to me, and I had a monumental hard-on. Drops of pre-cum oozed out of the orifice, and I used my thumb and index finger to make circular, tortuous motions, and it erupted embarrassingly and silently into the blanket as I held my breath. I need to think about this, I think.