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.
Monday, August 13, 2012
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?
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