Another Friday night of not going anywhere, feeling stuck with nowhere to go. My computer is opened to blogger and three porn sites.
I like the amateur stuff. Especially the "art erotica", when I feel that the moment where the actors pretend they are a couple, but they get so far into it that the pretense becomes a little real.
I'm applying a little lube now to the shaft of my throb. I move my hand up and down, watching the smooth nipples going up and down on my screen. It's a tingling sensation that makes it hard for me to stop. It makes me want to moan, perhaps build myself up to a certain feelings of pain.
Okay I'm moving faster now, when the feelings now merging into a coherent temporal whole. When my mind is now going numb. I'm closing my eyes, only hearing the moans in the video and not seeing it, and flashing in front of my eyes are D's beautiful, pink, nipples. Merged with Maya's round, lascivious buttock. As I grab them...
I'm getting close. Real close. I need to slow down. Okay, a bit slower now, just at the edge of that tickle, that torturous pleasure plateau.
Ugh...I can't hold on much longer. I feel like it's going to come out really hard.
Ahhhh.... I feel the warm jet landing, spunkily and sensually, splashing on my belly button, on my shirt, on my guilty pleasure and empty promises. That warm feeling in my groin that doesn't subside easily, that pretends to be a higher calling...
Friday, December 19, 2014
Monday, December 15, 2014
A year later
This year has been extremely eventful, so much so that I have neglected to update my web audience on my (mis)-adventure. D and I have officially separated. Since the last post, we decided to give couples therapy a real shot, and started going to a therapist about twice a week. Nevertheless, our intimacy never improved. D continued to feel that her sexual desire for me continues to be flat, and I still feel that I had a lot left in me.
What ended up being the last straw was what happened in May. I had to go take a business trip in a northern state. D was home with the kids. I eerily remember that I was locked in a stark, Spartan Hilton room, and patiently counted the number of weeks I have not had sexual intercourse with D. It was 13 and half. I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of sadness, and the unbearable sense of wanting to just say "fuck it." In that moment, I felt my strength leaving me, my barriers breaking down. I called a massage therapist. She was Asian, about 25 years old, and had smooth, silky dark skin that I made my heart skip a beat. Initially, I was just expecting an erotic massage. As her warm palm was touch my back and my pulsating erection was rubbing painfully against the towel on the massage table, I felt deeply lonely. I grabbed her soft, supple breast, lied on my side, and asked, "how much is full service?"
I don't know what came to me. I felt that it was an out of the body experience after that. I was lying on my back as she first massaged me...she's trying to make me climax as quickly as possible so the penetration wouldn't take too long--was the thought flashing through my head. Quickly, almost unnoticed, she took off her pantie, and all I saw was a smooth, round breasts and then--me inside of her wetness. It was almost suffocating, and I felt that I couldn't breath as the semen starts to fill my seminal vesicle, with every thrust, as the inevitable contraction starts to edge closer, as I moan deeply in pleasure, regret and anger--unmitigated anger, as I again had a flash of insight--I was not wearing a condom. But as I yielded deeper and deeper into her movements, I grabbed tightly onto her smooth, tiny buttock, and I groaned deeply as I arrived, in her, faster than my usual stamina allowed, helpless, hyperbolic, pathetically vacuuous.
Of course, the minute she left, I became worried about my indiscretion. Unprotected sex. With a prostitute. What the fuck.
I didn't tell D. Of course not. We didn't have sex. I stopped asking for it because I wanted to be sure that nothing would get passed on to her. I went to a local clinic one day after work, and was able to get a clean bill after a few months of dreary waiting. But I was out of patience, anxious and perilously close to disclosing to my wife my past and present dissatisfactions with our relationship and close that chapter of my life.
As our conversations waned, D finally spoke up. Three months ago she decided that it's time for me to take a temporary move somewhere else. She has not yet come up with a decent explanation for the children. My mother has been involved. Work has been crushing. In the past few weeks, it's been difficult for me to sleep, and I've been drinking a lot more--as I'm typing here, I'm sipping a bitter, cheap bottle of gin. I'm living in one of those inner city apartment complexes. All my neighbors are Hispanic and don't speak a lick of English. My apartment has one twin bed and a used TV haphazardly leaning against the peeling wall. My car broke down two days ago -- it's a German car, and ill fitting in a neighborhood like this.
I feel that my sexual impulses also have worsened. I spent almost $2000 this past month on either erotic massages or prostitutes. The rest of the time I jerk off in front of the computer about 2x/day. Sometimes it's difficult for me to get hard with the massage. My therapist thinks I'm depressed and wants me to go on antidepressants. This past couple of days I can't seem to get the prostitute's body out of my head. I haven't seen my children for a week and half.
What ended up being the last straw was what happened in May. I had to go take a business trip in a northern state. D was home with the kids. I eerily remember that I was locked in a stark, Spartan Hilton room, and patiently counted the number of weeks I have not had sexual intercourse with D. It was 13 and half. I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of sadness, and the unbearable sense of wanting to just say "fuck it." In that moment, I felt my strength leaving me, my barriers breaking down. I called a massage therapist. She was Asian, about 25 years old, and had smooth, silky dark skin that I made my heart skip a beat. Initially, I was just expecting an erotic massage. As her warm palm was touch my back and my pulsating erection was rubbing painfully against the towel on the massage table, I felt deeply lonely. I grabbed her soft, supple breast, lied on my side, and asked, "how much is full service?"
I don't know what came to me. I felt that it was an out of the body experience after that. I was lying on my back as she first massaged me...she's trying to make me climax as quickly as possible so the penetration wouldn't take too long--was the thought flashing through my head. Quickly, almost unnoticed, she took off her pantie, and all I saw was a smooth, round breasts and then--me inside of her wetness. It was almost suffocating, and I felt that I couldn't breath as the semen starts to fill my seminal vesicle, with every thrust, as the inevitable contraction starts to edge closer, as I moan deeply in pleasure, regret and anger--unmitigated anger, as I again had a flash of insight--I was not wearing a condom. But as I yielded deeper and deeper into her movements, I grabbed tightly onto her smooth, tiny buttock, and I groaned deeply as I arrived, in her, faster than my usual stamina allowed, helpless, hyperbolic, pathetically vacuuous.
Of course, the minute she left, I became worried about my indiscretion. Unprotected sex. With a prostitute. What the fuck.
I didn't tell D. Of course not. We didn't have sex. I stopped asking for it because I wanted to be sure that nothing would get passed on to her. I went to a local clinic one day after work, and was able to get a clean bill after a few months of dreary waiting. But I was out of patience, anxious and perilously close to disclosing to my wife my past and present dissatisfactions with our relationship and close that chapter of my life.
As our conversations waned, D finally spoke up. Three months ago she decided that it's time for me to take a temporary move somewhere else. She has not yet come up with a decent explanation for the children. My mother has been involved. Work has been crushing. In the past few weeks, it's been difficult for me to sleep, and I've been drinking a lot more--as I'm typing here, I'm sipping a bitter, cheap bottle of gin. I'm living in one of those inner city apartment complexes. All my neighbors are Hispanic and don't speak a lick of English. My apartment has one twin bed and a used TV haphazardly leaning against the peeling wall. My car broke down two days ago -- it's a German car, and ill fitting in a neighborhood like this.
I feel that my sexual impulses also have worsened. I spent almost $2000 this past month on either erotic massages or prostitutes. The rest of the time I jerk off in front of the computer about 2x/day. Sometimes it's difficult for me to get hard with the massage. My therapist thinks I'm depressed and wants me to go on antidepressants. This past couple of days I can't seem to get the prostitute's body out of my head. I haven't seen my children for a week and half.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Just FYI
I haven't been updating regularly lately, mostly because D started to come home earlier... and this whole child rearing business is taking a toll on me. Nevertheless, D is back on her usual late night job extravaganza again after the vacation and traveling incessantly, and hopefully in the next couple of months I'll have more time to share my little dillies here.
Beach vacation
D and I decided to take a vacation at the beach. We dropped the kids at our in-laws--they are getting older now and don't really need their doting parents around at all times. Lately D has been more forthcoming about trying to satisfy me, which I suppose is a good sign.
We rented a bungalow near the beach, and in the morning I woke up before the crack of dawn, and could hear the noisy ocean waves patting the sandy beach rhythmically, as if the water was gently fucking the rocks, the squeaking gulls, murmuring bubbles lubricating their passionless coitus. I got up, naked, walked quietly out, and D's soft, steady breathing was in the background. I languished in the golden sunrise, stretching my aging body in a state of dreary pontification, an innocent, smothering awareness of the immediacy of death that would come, like it or not.
That night D tried to have sex with me, and I had trouble performing again. It occurred to me that perhaps I could use my newly acquired nipple sensitivity to get myself hard. And it worked. I squeezed my nipples hard and my cock became thoroughly engorged as I entered her. Still a bit weary, I tried my best to stay in control. She jumped on top of me, with her eyes piercing directly into mine, and I was frightened. Whenever she's on top I often have the fear that I would lose it, and she would then "not feel anything", and that would be the end of our night. That night wasn't different. My heart started pounding as I worried that my fresh, fragile throb would disengage in a panic frenzy. I started rubbing my nipples again--I told my wife that I liked her to do that. For a moment she looked at me strangely, and slapped my hands..."What's wrong?"
"I don't like you doing it."
A thousand fleeting thoughts went through my head as she thrusted her luxuriant tush against my puny, self-aggrandizing member. Did she think this whole nipple thing was gay? Did she think that I needed to do some weird thing to get aroused--and she couldn't satisfy me in some way? Did she hate rubbing my nipples during sex because I couldn't sufficiently pleasure her? Was I making it too much of everything?
I started to feel my penis becoming more and more anxious as my thoughts quivered. Sometimes I felt like my penis had a mind of its own, and it danced this rambunctious dance without my control, laughing evilly as I tried to make it behave. I noticed that D was getting close, and my mind went blank as the seminal fluid inevitably pushed against my urethra...I was losing my erection, but my aching semen haplessly erupted nevertheless, without my control and pulsating as I groaned again, as pathetically as the thousand times before. Luckily this time D came around the same time as well, writhing and screaming in her usual state of ecstasy. I'm not sure how long this is going to last, but it's been another year. Another frightful, hissing, automaton year.
We rented a bungalow near the beach, and in the morning I woke up before the crack of dawn, and could hear the noisy ocean waves patting the sandy beach rhythmically, as if the water was gently fucking the rocks, the squeaking gulls, murmuring bubbles lubricating their passionless coitus. I got up, naked, walked quietly out, and D's soft, steady breathing was in the background. I languished in the golden sunrise, stretching my aging body in a state of dreary pontification, an innocent, smothering awareness of the immediacy of death that would come, like it or not.
That night D tried to have sex with me, and I had trouble performing again. It occurred to me that perhaps I could use my newly acquired nipple sensitivity to get myself hard. And it worked. I squeezed my nipples hard and my cock became thoroughly engorged as I entered her. Still a bit weary, I tried my best to stay in control. She jumped on top of me, with her eyes piercing directly into mine, and I was frightened. Whenever she's on top I often have the fear that I would lose it, and she would then "not feel anything", and that would be the end of our night. That night wasn't different. My heart started pounding as I worried that my fresh, fragile throb would disengage in a panic frenzy. I started rubbing my nipples again--I told my wife that I liked her to do that. For a moment she looked at me strangely, and slapped my hands..."What's wrong?"
"I don't like you doing it."
A thousand fleeting thoughts went through my head as she thrusted her luxuriant tush against my puny, self-aggrandizing member. Did she think this whole nipple thing was gay? Did she think that I needed to do some weird thing to get aroused--and she couldn't satisfy me in some way? Did she hate rubbing my nipples during sex because I couldn't sufficiently pleasure her? Was I making it too much of everything?
I started to feel my penis becoming more and more anxious as my thoughts quivered. Sometimes I felt like my penis had a mind of its own, and it danced this rambunctious dance without my control, laughing evilly as I tried to make it behave. I noticed that D was getting close, and my mind went blank as the seminal fluid inevitably pushed against my urethra...I was losing my erection, but my aching semen haplessly erupted nevertheless, without my control and pulsating as I groaned again, as pathetically as the thousand times before. Luckily this time D came around the same time as well, writhing and screaming in her usual state of ecstasy. I'm not sure how long this is going to last, but it's been another year. Another frightful, hissing, automaton year.
Friday, March 1, 2013
therapy
Yesterday I went to my therapist and rehearsed the conversation that I needed to have with D. I guess what I'm unhappy about has to do with no longer talking the way we used to. It's difficult for me to express myself that way, asking questions, because I always feel that problems need acton, not discussion. Also, I sense that whenever I want to talk to her, she feels resentful, and distant, and lonely. We feel like we are two little boats floating farther and farther away from each other on this vast ocean of isolation. My therapist told me to find a time and a place, and start thinking about how she thinks about the situation. Mentalize her thoughts. A skill that I clearly lack. I can't read minds, and I most certainly cannot read my wife's mind, even though I have felt for a long time that she's the person that I know better than everyone else in the world. Does she feel lonely? Does she think that I'm fat and unattractive? Maybe she's tired of me because she thinks I'm sexually inadequate? Maybe she's having an affair? It could be one of the wealthy partners at the firm. I wonder if it's that guy I've met once...dear god he's as old as my father...although admittedly quite attractive, and I imagine more than loaded enough to care for my children. The more I think about this the more I feel uncomfortably feminine. I remember when I was in middle school I had a period when I was scrawny and puny, then pudgy and androgynous, and felt less like a man than ever. It's incredible how the hormones of 13 turns you from skinny to fat in no time. My father wasn't very helpful either. He himself is a bit on the push-over side of things, and not very athletic. My twin brother felt a bit stronger, but he ended up a musician, so there's definitely nothing to learn from him. Oh Ricky (Richard's his name, though only I'm allowed to call him Ricky between ourselves, because he associates it with Ricky Martin), I wonder what that piece of shit is up to. I oughtta call him. In middle school I decided to change my persona. Joined the football team for a year, with a pathetic record, but learned a few tricks here and there, and especially useful was the access to the jock's weight room. And talk like a jock. That was a "skill" that came to me pretty quickly. Maybe I'm fat again. And I'm certainly hairier now than ever.
Always liked writing and math, though, and made some friends that way, and got to know some of Ricky's friends too. Read a few novels here and there. I remember zoning out during the football banquet at the end of the year, being benched most of the second year, making ever so little effort during practice. Still, this popular guy facade made it easier to find a very pretty girl to go to the prom with. My mother was thrilled. My father was not happy about how big of an idiot she was...and I judged him for it.
"We really need to talk," I told D, trying to be as solemn as possible.
She stared at me uncomfortably.
"Ok. Well do you want to talk here?"
I looked around. It was 9PM. The kids were in bed. We were sitting next to each other on this $5000 piece of sectional that we bought from a local designer.
"Look, I'm not sure what's going on but I feel like our marriage is having seriously bad problems. I feel like you are not talking to me at all, and we haven't been having sex very much for a long time. I'm not sure what is going on and I need your help to figure it out."
Or something like that per my recollection.
The next hour was really weird. I think she tried to have a genuine conversation with me. She said she's sorry and she still loved me and that it was mostly because of work, and she did feel more distant and didn't know why. Even though I think she tried her best to communicate and we each said "I love you" several times, I get this eerie sensation that we were in the middle of a break-up talk. I joked around a bit, and started feeling her up and kissing her. She looked uncomfortable, but I didn't stop. I put my finger up her panties and started feeling the contour of her labia, first in between her legs then up, with the hairy part prickling on her silky underwear. She whispered, "we can't do it here." I didn't stop. As I started to feel the dampness, something in me clicked. I wanted to let the consequences rip spectacularly in the middle of our gaudily renovated post-housing bubble den. I mercilessly suckled her nipples, darkened by more than a few months of lactation. I pulled down my boxers by my ankles and pushed myself into her from behind--I don't remember the last time I did that, and I didn't last long. She was wet, very very wet and warm and felt comforting and close, like a womb or some kind of glowing but fading childhood memory, like a perverse, absorbing kind of aggressiveness, enveloping, with no exit except for my muscle tightening, vaguely vacuous, primal contractions. Ask your man to describe ejaculation to you. And not just "it felt good."
Afterward, she was silent. I offered to go down on her, but she said no. She said we can't continue to communicate by having sex. It wasn't right. It felt dirty and cheap and abused. I said you are my wife and I love you and I wanted to show you that. She started to get teary and started to whimper but I knew she held back because she didn't want to wake the kids. I couldn't stand looking at her like that, so I tried to hold her in my arms, but that only pushed her away as she walked swiftly back into our bedroom, stealthily shutting the door on her way. When I tried to open it later I realized that it wasn't locked, but I assumed that she didn't want me in there. I walked back downstairs bare footed, feeling the piercing chill of the tiles, and craving deeply of a cigarette.
I slept on the couch last night and I'm a complete mess today. But I'm at the Starbucks now and the woman with the stroller is back. I like her body. I think I'm a dirty and fucked up individual. I am an ugly brute, no better than any of the frat boys that I had the pleasure of knowing in my life. I'm a degrading, wife-hating pathetic husband with no redeeming quality. But looking at her I had a hard-on, and that's how I know that as pathetic as I was, I'm alive.
Always liked writing and math, though, and made some friends that way, and got to know some of Ricky's friends too. Read a few novels here and there. I remember zoning out during the football banquet at the end of the year, being benched most of the second year, making ever so little effort during practice. Still, this popular guy facade made it easier to find a very pretty girl to go to the prom with. My mother was thrilled. My father was not happy about how big of an idiot she was...and I judged him for it.
"We really need to talk," I told D, trying to be as solemn as possible.
She stared at me uncomfortably.
"Ok. Well do you want to talk here?"
I looked around. It was 9PM. The kids were in bed. We were sitting next to each other on this $5000 piece of sectional that we bought from a local designer.
"Look, I'm not sure what's going on but I feel like our marriage is having seriously bad problems. I feel like you are not talking to me at all, and we haven't been having sex very much for a long time. I'm not sure what is going on and I need your help to figure it out."
Or something like that per my recollection.
The next hour was really weird. I think she tried to have a genuine conversation with me. She said she's sorry and she still loved me and that it was mostly because of work, and she did feel more distant and didn't know why. Even though I think she tried her best to communicate and we each said "I love you" several times, I get this eerie sensation that we were in the middle of a break-up talk. I joked around a bit, and started feeling her up and kissing her. She looked uncomfortable, but I didn't stop. I put my finger up her panties and started feeling the contour of her labia, first in between her legs then up, with the hairy part prickling on her silky underwear. She whispered, "we can't do it here." I didn't stop. As I started to feel the dampness, something in me clicked. I wanted to let the consequences rip spectacularly in the middle of our gaudily renovated post-housing bubble den. I mercilessly suckled her nipples, darkened by more than a few months of lactation. I pulled down my boxers by my ankles and pushed myself into her from behind--I don't remember the last time I did that, and I didn't last long. She was wet, very very wet and warm and felt comforting and close, like a womb or some kind of glowing but fading childhood memory, like a perverse, absorbing kind of aggressiveness, enveloping, with no exit except for my muscle tightening, vaguely vacuous, primal contractions. Ask your man to describe ejaculation to you. And not just "it felt good."
Afterward, she was silent. I offered to go down on her, but she said no. She said we can't continue to communicate by having sex. It wasn't right. It felt dirty and cheap and abused. I said you are my wife and I love you and I wanted to show you that. She started to get teary and started to whimper but I knew she held back because she didn't want to wake the kids. I couldn't stand looking at her like that, so I tried to hold her in my arms, but that only pushed her away as she walked swiftly back into our bedroom, stealthily shutting the door on her way. When I tried to open it later I realized that it wasn't locked, but I assumed that she didn't want me in there. I walked back downstairs bare footed, feeling the piercing chill of the tiles, and craving deeply of a cigarette.
I slept on the couch last night and I'm a complete mess today. But I'm at the Starbucks now and the woman with the stroller is back. I like her body. I think I'm a dirty and fucked up individual. I am an ugly brute, no better than any of the frat boys that I had the pleasure of knowing in my life. I'm a degrading, wife-hating pathetic husband with no redeeming quality. But looking at her I had a hard-on, and that's how I know that as pathetic as I was, I'm alive.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
to tell or not to tell
Having had some time to think things through, I realized that I'm at a point in life where I have to make some difficult decisions. Relationship with D is as bad as ever, even though neither of us is really making it difficult to live with each other. She's really doing well at work these days, and really on her way to be floating along the partnership track. Yesterday she asked me where I would like to take a vacation, Aspen or Bora Bora. Ridiculous question if there is ever one. Ever since she turned 30 I've been finding her more and more attractive, especially with her erstwhile slightly pudgy cheeks carved sharper by the imperceptible blades of time. She washes herself more carefully now, and her privates are more invitingly pink and lasciviously delicious between my lips, with only tender sensitivity that burns me with flames of desire every time I put my head between her smooth, sparkling thighs.
"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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
flickering
It's been a while. Over Christmas, we went back to my parents for a little bit. I took a couple of weeks off from work, and D decided to join us after a few days. My parents are old and finicky, constantly harassing my children about trivialities. My old room was converted into a guest room and my brother's room was cleared out for a little in-home gym that nobody ever used. My day consisted of waking up at 9:30AM, eating a bowl of cereal, going to the backyard, and sometimes lighting a covert cigarette. One night I called up a good friend, Tommy, from high school and he offered me a joint. His house is literally 2 blocks down the street. Tommy is married too now, though still in his old pudgy self and never had the physical metamorphoses that one would expect given how much money he made right before the housing crash as a contractor. We sat by his large, pristine, artificial, Japanese inspired heated pool, watching the snow weighing on the bleak pine trees in the back, barely made out, covered in a fine, pink crepuscular haze. He got married way before I did, and his daughter is now in middle school, doing well. He relayed to me how little sex he's having too, that poor bastard. I suppose it's normal. I deeply inhaled, and felt the little ripples rising from deep within my scrotum up my spine, emitting a sad, sour moan.
In any case, I spent many of my days with parents beating off on an air mattress in the guest room, being stuffed with semi-processed food that they love, jogging in that patch of suburbia, not unlikely my own in the Southwest, but covered with the distinct, airy flora of the Northeast. I remember one day I had a flashback of Lester from American Beauty saying "This is my life...and in one year I'll be dead," jogging in his little anomic paradise... Am I not a bit young for my mid-life crisis?
Lately it's been difficult for me sustain an erection with D. We had sex perhaps once in January and once in February. She likes to get it over with quickly, and when I went down on her I felt the dread, the heart pounding, the thought of the imminent collapse of our marriage, and our children being abandoned and kicked around like dreary urchins in a Dickens novel. I don't have the heart to say anything to anyone. I tried to create an artificial hard-on, but when I was inside of her I couldn't feel anything, which made me even more distressed. Perhaps the final verdict is in. Perhaps I am no longer attracted to my wife. The lack of feeling only sparked another round of fanatic self-stimulation for penetration, only to be met by a quick, unsatisfying orgasm. I offered to give her an orgasm by oral, but she said she just wanted to go to bed. The end. I lied alone next to her, and I cried. I actually cried. Of course she wouldn't know or care. This is me, 6 foot 1, muscular, in shape, working in the financial services, perfect American life. This little tableau for some reason brought back memories of Greek life in college, all the clueless meatheads, and my pretension of my disinterest in arts and letters, and my phony jocular mien. Nothing ever happens in three months, right?
In any case, I spent many of my days with parents beating off on an air mattress in the guest room, being stuffed with semi-processed food that they love, jogging in that patch of suburbia, not unlikely my own in the Southwest, but covered with the distinct, airy flora of the Northeast. I remember one day I had a flashback of Lester from American Beauty saying "This is my life...and in one year I'll be dead," jogging in his little anomic paradise... Am I not a bit young for my mid-life crisis?
Lately it's been difficult for me sustain an erection with D. We had sex perhaps once in January and once in February. She likes to get it over with quickly, and when I went down on her I felt the dread, the heart pounding, the thought of the imminent collapse of our marriage, and our children being abandoned and kicked around like dreary urchins in a Dickens novel. I don't have the heart to say anything to anyone. I tried to create an artificial hard-on, but when I was inside of her I couldn't feel anything, which made me even more distressed. Perhaps the final verdict is in. Perhaps I am no longer attracted to my wife. The lack of feeling only sparked another round of fanatic self-stimulation for penetration, only to be met by a quick, unsatisfying orgasm. I offered to give her an orgasm by oral, but she said she just wanted to go to bed. The end. I lied alone next to her, and I cried. I actually cried. Of course she wouldn't know or care. This is me, 6 foot 1, muscular, in shape, working in the financial services, perfect American life. This little tableau for some reason brought back memories of Greek life in college, all the clueless meatheads, and my pretension of my disinterest in arts and letters, and my phony jocular mien. Nothing ever happens in three months, right?
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Last night I saw Maya
Maya was my third girlfriend, right after I met D. This new development happened rather unexpectedly earlier this week, when I was "bored" and started googling random people I used to know, especially since I thought she moved to Hong Kong after we both left Chicago. It turned out that she started working at A Corp., a large, multinational conglomerate based in that little city of ours, and appeared to be quite high up. Her photo was so brightly adorned with all her shiny resume items collated in the "biographical" paragraph on their website, under "leadership and management", that my eyes didn't hesitate to moisten when I saw it.
I wrote her an E-mail immediately. I used her company E-mail, and said stoically, Dear Ms. Maya, This is so-and-so from this and that company. Please give me a call at such-and-such number.
She called that afternoon, on my cell phone. I saw her name flashing, and realized that her contact must have been carried over when I purged my old flip phone directory to the online synchronization repository. My heart tightened.
"Hey you." Her voice was deeply familiar.
"Hey. How have you been?"
The conversation was easy, like riding a bicycle. She's moved here not long ago. She had to run and asked if I would be interested in having dinner on Friday with her.
I said, "sure."
I told D I needed to stay late for a client dinner. We went to an artisanal pizza place. I had a pizza with artichoke heart and prawns. She had a pizza with lobster, lyme and Gouda. We bought a bottle of wine, though I only had half a glass. She seemed a bit reckless after downing at least 3 full glasses.
She definitely noticed my ring. I definitely noticed how she didn't have one.
She's still single, though I suppose in our age bracket these days it's not so rare anymore. She told me about her "disaster" romances after me, "one guy had a the world's tiniest penis." I feigned shock, but I knew she was flirting with me.
"So where is your wife?"
I knew it would come up, and I gravitated toward pretending to be a mature, comfortable, content, responsible yet deeply reserved adult--the image of Gregory Peck in "to Kill a Mocking Bird." I felt slightly wrong, slightly guilty, slightly devious, looking directly at her face while fantasizing about her round, perfectly dimpled breasts underneath her brightly red velvet dress. Was it velvet or silk, I couldn't tell. A simple, comfortable dinner dress so hopelessly inviting to my large, fleshy fingers with their brutally unkempt hairy knuckles. Does Atticus Finch have the same thoughts? Does he masturbate? He has no wife. I can feel my member slowly, campily engorging in my wool trousers, and sweat slowly oozing out of my forehead follicles. I nervously wiped my face with the napkin.
I drove home rather blankly. D was in bed, and I wanted to rape her. Suddenly I felt fat and unattractive, and a thought occurred to me that perhaps this was what half of the world felt like constantly. That night D obliged to fuck me, and in the instant of my ecstasy, Maya's pink, round, soft nipples flashed in front of my eyes as I sighed, emitting my desperation deeply into someone else. I stared emptily into the mirror in front of the foamy mattress that bore witness to my hundreds of pathetic orgasms, and D was sleeping next to me, purring quietly like a kitten.
I wrote her an E-mail immediately. I used her company E-mail, and said stoically, Dear Ms. Maya, This is so-and-so from this and that company. Please give me a call at such-and-such number.
She called that afternoon, on my cell phone. I saw her name flashing, and realized that her contact must have been carried over when I purged my old flip phone directory to the online synchronization repository. My heart tightened.
"Hey you." Her voice was deeply familiar.
"Hey. How have you been?"
The conversation was easy, like riding a bicycle. She's moved here not long ago. She had to run and asked if I would be interested in having dinner on Friday with her.
I said, "sure."
I told D I needed to stay late for a client dinner. We went to an artisanal pizza place. I had a pizza with artichoke heart and prawns. She had a pizza with lobster, lyme and Gouda. We bought a bottle of wine, though I only had half a glass. She seemed a bit reckless after downing at least 3 full glasses.
She definitely noticed my ring. I definitely noticed how she didn't have one.
She's still single, though I suppose in our age bracket these days it's not so rare anymore. She told me about her "disaster" romances after me, "one guy had a the world's tiniest penis." I feigned shock, but I knew she was flirting with me.
"So where is your wife?"
I knew it would come up, and I gravitated toward pretending to be a mature, comfortable, content, responsible yet deeply reserved adult--the image of Gregory Peck in "to Kill a Mocking Bird." I felt slightly wrong, slightly guilty, slightly devious, looking directly at her face while fantasizing about her round, perfectly dimpled breasts underneath her brightly red velvet dress. Was it velvet or silk, I couldn't tell. A simple, comfortable dinner dress so hopelessly inviting to my large, fleshy fingers with their brutally unkempt hairy knuckles. Does Atticus Finch have the same thoughts? Does he masturbate? He has no wife. I can feel my member slowly, campily engorging in my wool trousers, and sweat slowly oozing out of my forehead follicles. I nervously wiped my face with the napkin.
I drove home rather blankly. D was in bed, and I wanted to rape her. Suddenly I felt fat and unattractive, and a thought occurred to me that perhaps this was what half of the world felt like constantly. That night D obliged to fuck me, and in the instant of my ecstasy, Maya's pink, round, soft nipples flashed in front of my eyes as I sighed, emitting my desperation deeply into someone else. I stared emptily into the mirror in front of the foamy mattress that bore witness to my hundreds of pathetic orgasms, and D was sleeping next to me, purring quietly like a kitten.
Monday, November 5, 2012
It's been a while
Life has gotten in the way for updates. For one reason or another, D has been around me constantly lately, and I didn't want her to see this blog. I couldn't do it at work either, as not that long ago someone from work got hired for browsing some adult site or other. Suffice it is to say, my only alone time is Friday afternoons when I get off work early and get a nice cup of coffee at the Starbucks at the strip mall.
D and I have some infrequent sex. Sometimes she asks for it, sometimes I ask for it. It doesn't matter. It's always boorish and sometimes a bit lonely. I even asked her about going to see a couples therapist together, as rare and uncouth as it is in this conservative, irksome city of ours. The kids are alright, not too demanding, and well taken care of by their elderly nanny. I find myself often having wandering thoughts, and often getting a massage down the block, at some Asian parlor, and paying for total indulgence, as her finger runs through my body, the warmth of the massage oil and the parlor music envelopes me as the flame in my loin burns a little stronger. I did that two weeks ago again. She was a good masseuse, and did her best to take out the knots in my shoulders. I turned around and like my usual, she offered "the full service". As she removed my towel I was almost in tears. Her slender fingers gently grazed the back end of the tip of my erection, yielding a remarkable, electrifying sensation. It didn't take very long before I felt the full, involuntary flickering inside my pelvis, fluid filled, ready for discharge, and I moaned. As one of her hand slickly stroked, her other hand cupping my scrotum, I violently ejaculated. The ruthless jets landed squarely on my heart, uncompromisingly dithering in my poorly groomed chest hair. The waves of pleasure subsided and I started feeling the pangs of pain in my pelvis--this occasionally happens to me either after I urinate or before, when after orgasm I feel the pain in my prostate, almost as if I was kicked in the nuts, for a few minutes. I swallowed some air to recover and climbed haltingly off the massage table and put on my shirt and pants, looking respectable again.
Sometimes I think about having an affair, maybe get on a website and looking for a lady in the same disposition as me, and yearn for that violence, that total oblivious, effervescent feeling. I want someone to tie me up and torture me until I cannot go on and emit the last dying cry of an animal in heat.
D and I have some infrequent sex. Sometimes she asks for it, sometimes I ask for it. It doesn't matter. It's always boorish and sometimes a bit lonely. I even asked her about going to see a couples therapist together, as rare and uncouth as it is in this conservative, irksome city of ours. The kids are alright, not too demanding, and well taken care of by their elderly nanny. I find myself often having wandering thoughts, and often getting a massage down the block, at some Asian parlor, and paying for total indulgence, as her finger runs through my body, the warmth of the massage oil and the parlor music envelopes me as the flame in my loin burns a little stronger. I did that two weeks ago again. She was a good masseuse, and did her best to take out the knots in my shoulders. I turned around and like my usual, she offered "the full service". As she removed my towel I was almost in tears. Her slender fingers gently grazed the back end of the tip of my erection, yielding a remarkable, electrifying sensation. It didn't take very long before I felt the full, involuntary flickering inside my pelvis, fluid filled, ready for discharge, and I moaned. As one of her hand slickly stroked, her other hand cupping my scrotum, I violently ejaculated. The ruthless jets landed squarely on my heart, uncompromisingly dithering in my poorly groomed chest hair. The waves of pleasure subsided and I started feeling the pangs of pain in my pelvis--this occasionally happens to me either after I urinate or before, when after orgasm I feel the pain in my prostate, almost as if I was kicked in the nuts, for a few minutes. I swallowed some air to recover and climbed haltingly off the massage table and put on my shirt and pants, looking respectable again.
Sometimes I think about having an affair, maybe get on a website and looking for a lady in the same disposition as me, and yearn for that violence, that total oblivious, effervescent feeling. I want someone to tie me up and torture me until I cannot go on and emit the last dying cry of an animal in heat.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Divorce is not an answer
Some of you may wonder why I am not divorcing my wife. We have sex at most once or twice a month. I would like to have sex at least a few times a week. We have tried a number of things to make this work for us, but I think the essence of it is not going to change. I would like to divorce her, but it's not as easy as you think it is. It's not that I can just go to a lawyer, call her up and serve her the papers. Do I really want to live a pathetic, divorcee's life with two young children requiring years of child support? Do I really want my children to not have a father in their lives? Do I really want to wade through some custody battle? The answer is no. The lack of (enough) sex is not a sufficient reason to let things collapse completely.
Am I happy? I don't think I am. But there are many of you out there who are just as unhappy as I am, and you figured out your various ways of coping. I don't see how getting a handjob is hurting anybody. Unless you make an argument that there is such a thing as a victimless crime. That's my way. You can judge all you want and call it whatever you wish, but while I do feel guilty about it sometimes I despise you and your moral high ground. You don't know what you are talking about and you are just going to the same hell as I am.
Am I happy? I don't think I am. But there are many of you out there who are just as unhappy as I am, and you figured out your various ways of coping. I don't see how getting a handjob is hurting anybody. Unless you make an argument that there is such a thing as a victimless crime. That's my way. You can judge all you want and call it whatever you wish, but while I do feel guilty about it sometimes I despise you and your moral high ground. You don't know what you are talking about and you are just going to the same hell as I am.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
(Acu)pressure
I do apologize as I have not updated my blog as frequently. Situation between me and D are hanging out exactly where it was, with the requisite once a month or so intercourse and pretty much not a lot of anything else. She doesn't act as if she cares. I certainly have given up hope, even though I tried numerous times to communicate with her. I can't divorce her. I can't get away. I am stuck.
On Saturday I went to one of those local Asian spas that seemed to have sprouted out a lot lately. A work colleague recommended it. It was a small, sort of dampy place, ran by a couple of older Asian women who barely spoke any English. Each of the massage beds were separated by a thin screen, and you most certainly can hear your neighbors. One of the ladies pointed to an open bed and said, "take off", and I took off everything except my boxer briefs.
I lied on my stomach, my head in a hole facing the floor, and the masseuse began her work. As she used her elbows, I started to relax. The smooth, artificially warm touch created by the sandalwood massage oil, mixed with a faint smell of incense and that barely audible "Eastern" music was dizzying. Moments later, she pulled off my underwear to my buttocks, and I was startled, but she was only going to massage my back.
The best part was the head and face massage after I flipped over, and after that was done she whispered into my ear, "do you want a special massage?" "Ok." I said, and immediately regretted it because I forgot to ask her how much. She pulled off my underwear and skillfully started massaging my penis, which was already slightly engorged. A few stray thoughts came into my head: "Is this cheating? Is someone going to find out? My wallet is in my bag, what if someone I know comes in and picks me up? Would I lose my job? What if I can't get hard? That's gotta be embarrassing. I hope they don't try to blackmail me." But as her smooth fingers started tugging on my tumescent cock, the tide of pleasure started to turn, rising stubbornly from my pelvis up and down, above my belly into my chest and down my feet. And I realized that nothing mattered. Pleasure was the end in itself. Her other hand cupped my scrotum as I started squeezing my own nipples with my free hands and my mind went blank, with all the annoyance and troubles temporally escaping my cranium as the waves upon waves of pleasure tightened my rectum. I let out a slight moan but was reminded of the indecent and less than private environs. As the tension in my prostate built up, I relaxed every part of my body and focused my mind deep in my pelvis, and that tingling sensation went into the heels of my feet. I tightened my PC muscles a few more times as she slowly went up and down my shaft, and finally let that uncontrollable release envelope me. I watched the jets going straight up my belly, up my chest and shoulders.
She wiped me down with a warm towel. It was $150. I am definitely going back.
On Saturday I went to one of those local Asian spas that seemed to have sprouted out a lot lately. A work colleague recommended it. It was a small, sort of dampy place, ran by a couple of older Asian women who barely spoke any English. Each of the massage beds were separated by a thin screen, and you most certainly can hear your neighbors. One of the ladies pointed to an open bed and said, "take off", and I took off everything except my boxer briefs.
I lied on my stomach, my head in a hole facing the floor, and the masseuse began her work. As she used her elbows, I started to relax. The smooth, artificially warm touch created by the sandalwood massage oil, mixed with a faint smell of incense and that barely audible "Eastern" music was dizzying. Moments later, she pulled off my underwear to my buttocks, and I was startled, but she was only going to massage my back.
The best part was the head and face massage after I flipped over, and after that was done she whispered into my ear, "do you want a special massage?" "Ok." I said, and immediately regretted it because I forgot to ask her how much. She pulled off my underwear and skillfully started massaging my penis, which was already slightly engorged. A few stray thoughts came into my head: "Is this cheating? Is someone going to find out? My wallet is in my bag, what if someone I know comes in and picks me up? Would I lose my job? What if I can't get hard? That's gotta be embarrassing. I hope they don't try to blackmail me." But as her smooth fingers started tugging on my tumescent cock, the tide of pleasure started to turn, rising stubbornly from my pelvis up and down, above my belly into my chest and down my feet. And I realized that nothing mattered. Pleasure was the end in itself. Her other hand cupped my scrotum as I started squeezing my own nipples with my free hands and my mind went blank, with all the annoyance and troubles temporally escaping my cranium as the waves upon waves of pleasure tightened my rectum. I let out a slight moan but was reminded of the indecent and less than private environs. As the tension in my prostate built up, I relaxed every part of my body and focused my mind deep in my pelvis, and that tingling sensation went into the heels of my feet. I tightened my PC muscles a few more times as she slowly went up and down my shaft, and finally let that uncontrollable release envelope me. I watched the jets going straight up my belly, up my chest and shoulders.
She wiped me down with a warm towel. It was $150. I am definitely going back.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Long hiatus
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
voyeuristic desires
Lately I've been thinking about getting in touch with someone on craigslist to make a pornographic video. I think all the sexual deprivation has led to strange fantasies on my part. I have been thinking more about having sex with old people lately. Old, disgusting, near death people with wrinkly skin, who smell like a combination of baby powder and adult diapers. I want to fuck that. Sort of like where people have scat fetish, I realize that if I did get myself involved in that kind of situation, I will never be judged, and not being judged is always a good thing because at home I'm constantly being judged.
It would ever be so sweeter if I can do an old lady while her husband sits and watches, and I would love to be that man who would show him (and her) how good it could be in bed, bringing her to endless cycles of ecstasy that he has not been, if ever, able to provide her. When I get on top of her, I see leathery skin that's been damaged by decades of sun, freckles, age spots, indicators of an imminent, timely demise of what lies within that shell of a body. And thereupon I cannot care what I would do because whatever I do would not matter. Or maybe I would want to see the pathetic old couple try to get it on, squeezing and tugging their respective puny little organs, with no sign of vitality arriving from their ailing, congested hearts. Is it a necro thing? Is this why people like cold, dead, dried up corpses to possess to their hearts' content?
D and I had sex again a few days ago, right after her period, when she's at the admittedly highest point of her desire every month. She was so beautiful, which made it even more frustrating, because after the inevitable climax, which I tried my best to delay to the detriment of my seminal vesicles, I was in a daze of a combination of nostalgia and longing--it wasn't gonna happen again for a long time, and I wanted to live in the present, immediate consciousness, when the tender, silky smoothness of her vaginal wall still felt indelible and warm in my prickly remembrance, griping me from the inside. I wish it was as easy as being a necrophiliac, if she were dead, if I didn't love her, if we didn't have children together. And yet I don't hate her. I hate myself. I want to be whipped.
It would ever be so sweeter if I can do an old lady while her husband sits and watches, and I would love to be that man who would show him (and her) how good it could be in bed, bringing her to endless cycles of ecstasy that he has not been, if ever, able to provide her. When I get on top of her, I see leathery skin that's been damaged by decades of sun, freckles, age spots, indicators of an imminent, timely demise of what lies within that shell of a body. And thereupon I cannot care what I would do because whatever I do would not matter. Or maybe I would want to see the pathetic old couple try to get it on, squeezing and tugging their respective puny little organs, with no sign of vitality arriving from their ailing, congested hearts. Is it a necro thing? Is this why people like cold, dead, dried up corpses to possess to their hearts' content?
D and I had sex again a few days ago, right after her period, when she's at the admittedly highest point of her desire every month. She was so beautiful, which made it even more frustrating, because after the inevitable climax, which I tried my best to delay to the detriment of my seminal vesicles, I was in a daze of a combination of nostalgia and longing--it wasn't gonna happen again for a long time, and I wanted to live in the present, immediate consciousness, when the tender, silky smoothness of her vaginal wall still felt indelible and warm in my prickly remembrance, griping me from the inside. I wish it was as easy as being a necrophiliac, if she were dead, if I didn't love her, if we didn't have children together. And yet I don't hate her. I hate myself. I want to be whipped.
Friday, July 6, 2012
nipple orgasm?
Is it really possible? I have a female co-worker who told me once that she could achieve orgasm by simply stimulating her nipples. I told D the story and she was anything but convinced. This female co-worker is the feisty type. I once watched cable porn with her on a business trip when we shared a room together. Nothing happened. We just laughed at how ridiculous the first person perspective was.
A couple of days ago I became a bit more curious about the concept of nipple orgasm when I was inadvertently flicking my own nipples while watching pornography. D, obliviously, wasn't there. It gave me a strange sensation in that something deep in my pelvis, perhaps my prostate, would be a bit tickled, and I would end up engorged even though I wasn't touching myself. The area around the nipple is a well known endogenous zone, so I wasn't surprised by my experience. Last night, D went to bed early again, and I was left to explore my own body. I read up on nipple orgasm, and a few people reported on the internet that such a thing is possible for men.
So I went outside, took off my shirt, and felt the warm, wet summer night engulfing me. I quietly started to flick my nipples again, both of them, with my index fingers. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation both above and below my waistline, and a little bud of something started to grow between my testicles, deep within my loins. I decided to continue, as that was the trick the web posts seemed to have liked: persistence. Waves and waves of pleasure started to rise, like the tides on a beach under a full moon, rising from between my thighs and submerging my entire upper body. Eventually I reached a point where my sphincter started to contract involuntarily and the body of my penis danced rhythmically. My heart beat with a pounding, flushing pace. My body started to writhe uncontrollably, with my throat making a funny, raspy noise. I felt that time had stopped and I wasn't myself.
"Ah..." I yelled out slowly and softly.
Nothing came out of the orifice. It was certainly an orgasm, but a dry one. Later that night I was able to recapitulate that rising tide and cataclysm a few more times, until I decided that it was too much to handle, and grasped and stroked until I finally discharged my evanescent eros. Was this really the mythological male multiple orgasm?
A couple of days ago I became a bit more curious about the concept of nipple orgasm when I was inadvertently flicking my own nipples while watching pornography. D, obliviously, wasn't there. It gave me a strange sensation in that something deep in my pelvis, perhaps my prostate, would be a bit tickled, and I would end up engorged even though I wasn't touching myself. The area around the nipple is a well known endogenous zone, so I wasn't surprised by my experience. Last night, D went to bed early again, and I was left to explore my own body. I read up on nipple orgasm, and a few people reported on the internet that such a thing is possible for men.
So I went outside, took off my shirt, and felt the warm, wet summer night engulfing me. I quietly started to flick my nipples again, both of them, with my index fingers. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation both above and below my waistline, and a little bud of something started to grow between my testicles, deep within my loins. I decided to continue, as that was the trick the web posts seemed to have liked: persistence. Waves and waves of pleasure started to rise, like the tides on a beach under a full moon, rising from between my thighs and submerging my entire upper body. Eventually I reached a point where my sphincter started to contract involuntarily and the body of my penis danced rhythmically. My heart beat with a pounding, flushing pace. My body started to writhe uncontrollably, with my throat making a funny, raspy noise. I felt that time had stopped and I wasn't myself.
"Ah..." I yelled out slowly and softly.
Nothing came out of the orifice. It was certainly an orgasm, but a dry one. Later that night I was able to recapitulate that rising tide and cataclysm a few more times, until I decided that it was too much to handle, and grasped and stroked until I finally discharged my evanescent eros. Was this really the mythological male multiple orgasm?
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
a drunk tryst relived
I find that my tolerance has increased dramatically lately. It used to be that I can drink a couple of whiskeys and I get comfortably tipsy, and these days I would need a solid five shots to get buzzed, and even then it wears off quickly. Last night was not exceptional, when I finally had the opportunity to spend some time to get away from D, even though all I ever so desperately wanted to do is to get closer to her.
I went to a neighborhood bar with Aaron and Christopher. Aaron, being the family man that he clearly didn't want to be, decided to be the DD and only had a couple of drinks. Christopher and I started doing shots at 8:30PM and while we tried to play a drinking game over the monster truck show, it was really more or less to drown each of us in our own miseries. He revealed to me a few days ago that lately he had been having problems getting it up, and his wife had been nothing if not scathing, especially considering that he put up the front of a 20 year old frat boy all day long. He related an episode to me where his wife told him, in clear contempt, "looks like I'm not gonna get any again tonight?" "I told her to fuck off, and she just said whatever and we went to bed. Whatever is right." Gulp.
I was in Aaron's car, and my head was spinning. I felt the inevitable desire to retch, and that desire triggered a flood of memory of D, when we first met, when this happened on a regular basis. I remember being disoriented with intoxication, of the alcohol, of her scent, of her meditative, contemplatively sexy stance disseminating in the air. I remember her hand on the inner part of my thigh, slowly wriggling her finger up my shorts. As I recalled the details of that encounter I felt myself becoming uncontrollably aroused, and I turned myself away from Aaron in the front seat toward the window. I remembered the cotton sheets of her cramped little apartment, and her smooth, young, lean navel as I slowly kissed it, ejaculating fiercely into the latex condom. I remembered recovering thirty minutes later, my tongue intertwined with hers, then entering her from behind as she shyly requested a break to take a shower. I cruelly denied her request as I ruthlessly penetrated her over and over again until the waves of pleasure came over the second time, absorbing whatever the leftover essence there was. The second orgasm was always different, as you felt the desperation and effort of your own sphincter, as the remaining pleasure became coalesced, bit by bit, with a not minute amount of scornful, dull ache, sitting quietly in the back quarters of the perineum. But it was inescapable.
Aaron's car stopped. It was my house. It's time to face another sleepless and sexless night.
I went to a neighborhood bar with Aaron and Christopher. Aaron, being the family man that he clearly didn't want to be, decided to be the DD and only had a couple of drinks. Christopher and I started doing shots at 8:30PM and while we tried to play a drinking game over the monster truck show, it was really more or less to drown each of us in our own miseries. He revealed to me a few days ago that lately he had been having problems getting it up, and his wife had been nothing if not scathing, especially considering that he put up the front of a 20 year old frat boy all day long. He related an episode to me where his wife told him, in clear contempt, "looks like I'm not gonna get any again tonight?" "I told her to fuck off, and she just said whatever and we went to bed. Whatever is right." Gulp.
I was in Aaron's car, and my head was spinning. I felt the inevitable desire to retch, and that desire triggered a flood of memory of D, when we first met, when this happened on a regular basis. I remember being disoriented with intoxication, of the alcohol, of her scent, of her meditative, contemplatively sexy stance disseminating in the air. I remember her hand on the inner part of my thigh, slowly wriggling her finger up my shorts. As I recalled the details of that encounter I felt myself becoming uncontrollably aroused, and I turned myself away from Aaron in the front seat toward the window. I remembered the cotton sheets of her cramped little apartment, and her smooth, young, lean navel as I slowly kissed it, ejaculating fiercely into the latex condom. I remembered recovering thirty minutes later, my tongue intertwined with hers, then entering her from behind as she shyly requested a break to take a shower. I cruelly denied her request as I ruthlessly penetrated her over and over again until the waves of pleasure came over the second time, absorbing whatever the leftover essence there was. The second orgasm was always different, as you felt the desperation and effort of your own sphincter, as the remaining pleasure became coalesced, bit by bit, with a not minute amount of scornful, dull ache, sitting quietly in the back quarters of the perineum. But it was inescapable.
Aaron's car stopped. It was my house. It's time to face another sleepless and sexless night.
Friday, June 29, 2012
suicide by gunshot
Today I was at a TGIF after work, and I ran into a guy who worked for a company up in the East, who knew a guy who was a really good friend of mine from college. I asked him about my friend, C, as I haven't heard from him for more than 2 years.
"He killed himself."
I felt my skull exploding in a millisecond, and my expression froze in an awkward silence. The guy standing next to me stared at me, trying to save me with a distracting, innocuous remark.
"How did this happen?"
"Well, he shot himself. I guess he's been depressed for a long time."
The topic skidded away, as they started trading gossip about their respective bosses, while I stood there, frozen in agony and stunned, with racing thoughts bubbling, penetrating my body in a visceral, nauseating way, so paralytic that I could barely talk to anyone else at this pleasant, welcoming little event.
I raced home and researched ceaselessly over the Internet concerning his death, and there was very little. No obituary. No newspaper prints. I couldn't find his E-mail even. Maybe it was just a rumor. I had some glimmer of hope that maybe it's all just heresy. I decided to find his boss's E-mail and sent him a little message to express my condolence. Perhaps I'd be able to get his wife's phone number and talk to her--I went to their house once in college for thanksgiving, and remember fondly of that wonderful lunch-dinner that was so diametrically different from my own family's eggshell scattered annual ritual.
The boss was on vacation. Then 5 minutes later he sent me an E-mail saying what a terrible loss it was, and the memorial service was already over with lots of tears and good humor. He attached a nice little company-wide message neatly summarizing his "devotion" to his wife and his "love" to his 3 year old son.
I felt unspeakably angry. I wanted to yell, you don't know what the fuck you are talking about. Last time I talked to C was in 2010, and over the phone he told me "the only thing that annoyed me more than my wife is my son." He spent ten, twelve hours with you and you don't really know him. Nobody knows him. And now he's dead. He shot himself IN THE BLOODY HEAD and I didn't even know you can get a gun up there that easily. Why did nobody have a fucking clue?
I am so angry. I am angry at him. I am angry at his boss. I am angry at his wife and "friends", if he had any to speak of. I am most angry at myself. Why did I only try his gmail a year ago? Maybe he would've checked his old school E-mail. Maybe he would've forwarded it to his new company E-mail. Maybe he would've called me before he died had I been able to stay in touch with him. Maybe I could've done something more.
He was a few years older. We smoked my first joint together. We complained about the inanity of our respective love affairs together. We were supposed to laugh in our intoxication into our old age together.
He once told me, I don't meditate, I masturbate, and that was wisest thing I've heard in my life. Does he have a gravestone somewhere? C, If you can see this, know that we have unfinished conversations, and I'm looking forward to having them with you in hell.
"He killed himself."
I felt my skull exploding in a millisecond, and my expression froze in an awkward silence. The guy standing next to me stared at me, trying to save me with a distracting, innocuous remark.
"How did this happen?"
"Well, he shot himself. I guess he's been depressed for a long time."
The topic skidded away, as they started trading gossip about their respective bosses, while I stood there, frozen in agony and stunned, with racing thoughts bubbling, penetrating my body in a visceral, nauseating way, so paralytic that I could barely talk to anyone else at this pleasant, welcoming little event.
I raced home and researched ceaselessly over the Internet concerning his death, and there was very little. No obituary. No newspaper prints. I couldn't find his E-mail even. Maybe it was just a rumor. I had some glimmer of hope that maybe it's all just heresy. I decided to find his boss's E-mail and sent him a little message to express my condolence. Perhaps I'd be able to get his wife's phone number and talk to her--I went to their house once in college for thanksgiving, and remember fondly of that wonderful lunch-dinner that was so diametrically different from my own family's eggshell scattered annual ritual.
The boss was on vacation. Then 5 minutes later he sent me an E-mail saying what a terrible loss it was, and the memorial service was already over with lots of tears and good humor. He attached a nice little company-wide message neatly summarizing his "devotion" to his wife and his "love" to his 3 year old son.
I felt unspeakably angry. I wanted to yell, you don't know what the fuck you are talking about. Last time I talked to C was in 2010, and over the phone he told me "the only thing that annoyed me more than my wife is my son." He spent ten, twelve hours with you and you don't really know him. Nobody knows him. And now he's dead. He shot himself IN THE BLOODY HEAD and I didn't even know you can get a gun up there that easily. Why did nobody have a fucking clue?
I am so angry. I am angry at him. I am angry at his boss. I am angry at his wife and "friends", if he had any to speak of. I am most angry at myself. Why did I only try his gmail a year ago? Maybe he would've checked his old school E-mail. Maybe he would've forwarded it to his new company E-mail. Maybe he would've called me before he died had I been able to stay in touch with him. Maybe I could've done something more.
He was a few years older. We smoked my first joint together. We complained about the inanity of our respective love affairs together. We were supposed to laugh in our intoxication into our old age together.
He once told me, I don't meditate, I masturbate, and that was wisest thing I've heard in my life. Does he have a gravestone somewhere? C, If you can see this, know that we have unfinished conversations, and I'm looking forward to having them with you in hell.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Anal desire
D was on break this week, and was taking care of the kids at home, so I wasn't able to get away from her and write some more after work. She is gone now at her parents house--alone with the kids, upon my request in the form of protest. It really is symptomatic of our deteriorating relationship.
She's coming back on Saturday, so I have a few moments of reprieve. I did something last night that I've only done a couple of times in my life. D has a big black dildo that she swears that she never used since we got married. In fact, she has been trying to hide it in the closet, in a big paper box with all her other trinkets that she supposedly no longer "uses", like her little bowl for marijuana and her oversized vibrators. Anyway, I decided to fish it out of there and get a little bit of anal pleasure out of it. There were a couple of lubed condoms in the bed-stand drawer, and I teared open one of them and rolled it effortlessly onto the dildo. I wanted an easy disposal. I aimed the dildo at the opening, and softly massaged it, and the nice warm electrifying feeling expanded upward to the rest of my pelvis. I always wanted D to lick me down there, but she refused categorically even though I offered to reciprocate. I used some extra lubrication and slowly pushed it into myself. It was a strange feeling that I remembered when I did this a few years ago, a feeling of fullness and a sensation that I was about do defecate, as my sphincter contracted involuntarily, gripping the dildo with a messy, subtle force. I feel myself expanding and becoming aroused, engorged both in the front and in the back. I greased up my right hand and got a good grip while my left hand moved the dildo in and out. This combination of motions lasted a good 10 minutes and the sensation of fullness and loss of control intensified, as I started grunting with every motion.
At this point I was sitting on the floor, and edging toward that final point of no-return. I increased the frequency of my left hand, feeling the tip gently but firmly massaging my prostate, and with every squeeze my sense of control peeled away, layer by layer, until I stopped the motion of my right hand. I felt that fantastic wave rising, quite unusually slowly, first from the inside of my pelvis, then tightening with the rest of my body, as my eyes rolled back and the volume of my animalistic grunts reached its inevitable apogee. The strange, powerful contractions possessed my entire existence as thick white liquid erupted from my orifice. It was a strange feeling, orgasming that way--but certainly a good feeling that I would like to try a few times a year.
A few minutes later when I came to, I saw the puddle in front of me. I wiped it up with some paper towel and dumped the rest of whatever else that needed to be dumped in the trash. I felt lonely.
She's coming back on Saturday, so I have a few moments of reprieve. I did something last night that I've only done a couple of times in my life. D has a big black dildo that she swears that she never used since we got married. In fact, she has been trying to hide it in the closet, in a big paper box with all her other trinkets that she supposedly no longer "uses", like her little bowl for marijuana and her oversized vibrators. Anyway, I decided to fish it out of there and get a little bit of anal pleasure out of it. There were a couple of lubed condoms in the bed-stand drawer, and I teared open one of them and rolled it effortlessly onto the dildo. I wanted an easy disposal. I aimed the dildo at the opening, and softly massaged it, and the nice warm electrifying feeling expanded upward to the rest of my pelvis. I always wanted D to lick me down there, but she refused categorically even though I offered to reciprocate. I used some extra lubrication and slowly pushed it into myself. It was a strange feeling that I remembered when I did this a few years ago, a feeling of fullness and a sensation that I was about do defecate, as my sphincter contracted involuntarily, gripping the dildo with a messy, subtle force. I feel myself expanding and becoming aroused, engorged both in the front and in the back. I greased up my right hand and got a good grip while my left hand moved the dildo in and out. This combination of motions lasted a good 10 minutes and the sensation of fullness and loss of control intensified, as I started grunting with every motion.
At this point I was sitting on the floor, and edging toward that final point of no-return. I increased the frequency of my left hand, feeling the tip gently but firmly massaging my prostate, and with every squeeze my sense of control peeled away, layer by layer, until I stopped the motion of my right hand. I felt that fantastic wave rising, quite unusually slowly, first from the inside of my pelvis, then tightening with the rest of my body, as my eyes rolled back and the volume of my animalistic grunts reached its inevitable apogee. The strange, powerful contractions possessed my entire existence as thick white liquid erupted from my orifice. It was a strange feeling, orgasming that way--but certainly a good feeling that I would like to try a few times a year.
A few minutes later when I came to, I saw the puddle in front of me. I wiped it up with some paper towel and dumped the rest of whatever else that needed to be dumped in the trash. I felt lonely.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Philosophy of a sexless marriage
Sometimes I ask myself, am I living in a sexless marriage? One common definition somewhere states that a sexless marriage is a marriage in which people have sex less than 12 times a year. I think I might've barely beaten that last year. In the hands and hearts of demographers, I do not qualify. So what is my marriage? How am I to justify my pathetic, self-pitying existence?
If you know me in real life, you wouldn't know how unhappy I am. I go to the gym. I buy expensive clothing at fancy department stores. I drive a pretty nice car. I direct a team of 5-10 people and report directly to the divisional VP. My job is flexible. My company is more than accommodating with my rather undemanding patrimony. I live in a nice part of the southern suburb of this nice, newly constructed, All American city. I have a beautiful car with gorgeous leather seats. I smile a lot to every one around me. This is who I am to everyone--even to my therapist, whom I see from time to time. There is nothing wrong with my life.
I can put up a front as a man. It takes no effort. I have no depth psychology. Women and men assume that if you appear happily married, if you sound like a doting father, and if you fulfill the obligations of a bread winner, your existence is easily described and your purpose totally capitulated by the sequence of stereotypes that everyone on earth knows about and worship, directly or indirectly. Do I love my wife? What does that mean anyway? Doesn't love mean that you commit yourself to take care of her no matter what happens? Doesn't love mean that you not avail to the opportunities that present themselves to indulge upon the sensuality, the indecency, the criminality of extramarital affairs? Doesn't love mean that the utility of sex as a vehicle for self-expression, that uniquely human characteristic would be denied from time to time? Does love mean responsibility? Love stipulates a dry, stark demarcation between fantasy and reality, between what is possible and what is likely, between what I wished my life was like and what my life will actually be like.
Is it possible that the assumptions that all of us make are wrong? Is it possible that men want sex for love as much as women want love for sex? The fundamental conflict of desire and action is the ridiculous core of this strangely wistful scenario that many of us know about and all of us dread. Sex is not animalistic. If it were, we would be happily mating once a year during estrous, while pursuing our lonely, fanatic careers, like the proud Siberian tigers. Is sexlessness the disease, or is it the symptom of a bigger disease--our daily drivel, the weblike anomie that surrounds us, the lack of all capacity in this post-industrial, post-modern matrix for me, with all of its vainglorious irony, to be human?
If you know me in real life, you wouldn't know how unhappy I am. I go to the gym. I buy expensive clothing at fancy department stores. I drive a pretty nice car. I direct a team of 5-10 people and report directly to the divisional VP. My job is flexible. My company is more than accommodating with my rather undemanding patrimony. I live in a nice part of the southern suburb of this nice, newly constructed, All American city. I have a beautiful car with gorgeous leather seats. I smile a lot to every one around me. This is who I am to everyone--even to my therapist, whom I see from time to time. There is nothing wrong with my life.
I can put up a front as a man. It takes no effort. I have no depth psychology. Women and men assume that if you appear happily married, if you sound like a doting father, and if you fulfill the obligations of a bread winner, your existence is easily described and your purpose totally capitulated by the sequence of stereotypes that everyone on earth knows about and worship, directly or indirectly. Do I love my wife? What does that mean anyway? Doesn't love mean that you commit yourself to take care of her no matter what happens? Doesn't love mean that you not avail to the opportunities that present themselves to indulge upon the sensuality, the indecency, the criminality of extramarital affairs? Doesn't love mean that the utility of sex as a vehicle for self-expression, that uniquely human characteristic would be denied from time to time? Does love mean responsibility? Love stipulates a dry, stark demarcation between fantasy and reality, between what is possible and what is likely, between what I wished my life was like and what my life will actually be like.
Is it possible that the assumptions that all of us make are wrong? Is it possible that men want sex for love as much as women want love for sex? The fundamental conflict of desire and action is the ridiculous core of this strangely wistful scenario that many of us know about and all of us dread. Sex is not animalistic. If it were, we would be happily mating once a year during estrous, while pursuing our lonely, fanatic careers, like the proud Siberian tigers. Is sexlessness the disease, or is it the symptom of a bigger disease--our daily drivel, the weblike anomie that surrounds us, the lack of all capacity in this post-industrial, post-modern matrix for me, with all of its vainglorious irony, to be human?
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Another scotching summer day
In my part of the country, the summer heat goes up pretty consistently around early June, and becomes unbearable this time of the year, and this is why everyone has a pool in the backyard. My backyard is mostly full of pebbles--we wanted a dry garden feel, but a few square feet was opened up for some greens. The pool has its lining changed recently, and it's a sleepy bowl of blue. I'm writing on my laptop in the sun, wearing nothing but a pair of oversized swimming trunks. I am having cravings for a cigarette. The children need to be picked up soon.
Is there time for a quickie?
I know there won't be any action for me later tonight. So maybe I'll get going now. I'm imagine myself being squeezed tightly by a smooth warm slippery thing, and I start to perspire profusely. I am going to take off my swimming trunks. Now that I am naked I'm going to put one finger in between my scrotum and my sacrum and press on it, feeling my prostate contracting in response. I see myself becoming larger and larger, and the veins expanding with fresh blood bringing felicitous oxygen. My eyes are closed and I'm feeling the warmth of the mid afternoon sun shining on me. I am sweating. My blood is boiling. That budding tickle of a feeling, growing monstrously from the depth of my pelvis, expanding like a weed sweeping across the field, throughout my body, as I moan, slowly and deeply, in pleasure. As the pressure builds up, my entire body contorts uncontrollably with each wave of indescribable orgiastic sensation. Suddenly a creamy, white jet erupts from the small opening at the tip of my erection, and I yell out, carelessly as I may be, as the neighbors might hear me and see me in a state of wonton decadence. Maybe a few drops of my fresh semen will fall into the pool, expanding into a psychedelic floral pattern, dreamily rushing down the filter accompanied by the incandescent bubbling of the filtering motor.
"Ah! Ah...Ah!"
Ok I am going to do that now and then pick up my children. See ya later.
Is there time for a quickie?
I know there won't be any action for me later tonight. So maybe I'll get going now. I'm imagine myself being squeezed tightly by a smooth warm slippery thing, and I start to perspire profusely. I am going to take off my swimming trunks. Now that I am naked I'm going to put one finger in between my scrotum and my sacrum and press on it, feeling my prostate contracting in response. I see myself becoming larger and larger, and the veins expanding with fresh blood bringing felicitous oxygen. My eyes are closed and I'm feeling the warmth of the mid afternoon sun shining on me. I am sweating. My blood is boiling. That budding tickle of a feeling, growing monstrously from the depth of my pelvis, expanding like a weed sweeping across the field, throughout my body, as I moan, slowly and deeply, in pleasure. As the pressure builds up, my entire body contorts uncontrollably with each wave of indescribable orgiastic sensation. Suddenly a creamy, white jet erupts from the small opening at the tip of my erection, and I yell out, carelessly as I may be, as the neighbors might hear me and see me in a state of wonton decadence. Maybe a few drops of my fresh semen will fall into the pool, expanding into a psychedelic floral pattern, dreamily rushing down the filter accompanied by the incandescent bubbling of the filtering motor.
"Ah! Ah...Ah!"
Ok I am going to do that now and then pick up my children. See ya later.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Other people's business
Chris (Christopher) and I had lunch today and there wasn't much to do at work, so I headed home early. He told me his in-laws are coming over this weekend, and he was trying to figure out what would be something to do that would not make him want to blow up his brain. I suggested amusement park.
"I like the water parks, " I said, "especially since it's 100 degrees out."
"I think people piss in the pool."
"Don't be ridiculous. Who's gonna piss in the pool?"
"Kids."
"Why would anyone want to swim in their own piss?"
"Why do kids sit in front of the TV and watch PBS for 30 hours straight? I don't know!"
We both laughed.
Christopher is around my size, maybe a bit bigger, and I can see that he hasn't been going to the gym lately. When he climbs that two pathetic stories at the flat box of a work place that we inhabit, I can always catch a glimpse of those beads of sweat leaking out of his veiny forehead.
"I actually don't mind her parents much," he said, "she used to tell me that they thought I was too quiet. After we married she once told me that they thought I was too loud. I kept thinking, make up your fucking mind! I used to try pretty hard to make my father-in-law happy, but I should've known that there's not a lot you can do. He is quiet around me all the time. And this one time when we were over at her house, and it was late, we just started doing it, and afterward I came out buck naked to go to the bathroom, and he was standing right there. I thought he was sleepwalking. That was pretty awkward."
I had a grotesque image of Chris on top of his wife, who's not unattractive, thrusting. It was a bit much for me, so I stopped thinking about that, but the more I tried to suppress it, the more disturbing the images come up, as his enormous, ball-like body rolling back and forth over her voluptuous breasts. All of a sudden, he was me--I was the one on top of her, his wife underneath me, smooth, warm, moist, overeager to please her cuckold.
"What's up?" He noticed my silence.
"Let's go back," I said, swallowing the last morsel of Arby's roastbeef.
"I like the water parks, " I said, "especially since it's 100 degrees out."
"I think people piss in the pool."
"Don't be ridiculous. Who's gonna piss in the pool?"
"Kids."
"Why would anyone want to swim in their own piss?"
"Why do kids sit in front of the TV and watch PBS for 30 hours straight? I don't know!"
We both laughed.
Christopher is around my size, maybe a bit bigger, and I can see that he hasn't been going to the gym lately. When he climbs that two pathetic stories at the flat box of a work place that we inhabit, I can always catch a glimpse of those beads of sweat leaking out of his veiny forehead.
"I actually don't mind her parents much," he said, "she used to tell me that they thought I was too quiet. After we married she once told me that they thought I was too loud. I kept thinking, make up your fucking mind! I used to try pretty hard to make my father-in-law happy, but I should've known that there's not a lot you can do. He is quiet around me all the time. And this one time when we were over at her house, and it was late, we just started doing it, and afterward I came out buck naked to go to the bathroom, and he was standing right there. I thought he was sleepwalking. That was pretty awkward."
I had a grotesque image of Chris on top of his wife, who's not unattractive, thrusting. It was a bit much for me, so I stopped thinking about that, but the more I tried to suppress it, the more disturbing the images come up, as his enormous, ball-like body rolling back and forth over her voluptuous breasts. All of a sudden, he was me--I was the one on top of her, his wife underneath me, smooth, warm, moist, overeager to please her cuckold.
"What's up?" He noticed my silence.
"Let's go back," I said, swallowing the last morsel of Arby's roastbeef.
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