Pizza is like sex, and I had been eating plain cheese pizza for far too long.
It hits the spot in a pinch, but it’s never fully satisfying. Impossible to fully gratify cravings with the taste of unfulfillment left on the tongue. Plain, ordinary, boring, only go so far.
Such was the way of life.
Such was the way of my sex life with my wife.
Until out of the blue, she tried something new. Unexpected. Exhilarating.
Unbenounced to me of its correspondence with that of her infidelity. But for a time, for a few weeks, plain old cheese was replaced with an extra-toppings supreme.
Yes, I’d Like Plain Sex, Hold the Meat
In the beginning, before the waters of passion settled and began seeping through the cracks of the aging relationship, an element of originality existed.
Nothing crazy. We weren’t breaking open the Kama Sutra for inspiration. Heck, we weren’t even pulling out the monthly Cosmo or Victoria’s Secret catalog. Even so, there was excitement. A newness to everything. Every touch, every moan, every whisper and lick and claw and squeeze unique. Original. And yet, day by day, month by month, kiss by kiss, excitement left. Left to be replaced by hollow excuses.
She announced new regulations to our physical relationship like Martin Luther nailing requirements onto a cathedral door. Oral sex went by the wayside with the sudden proclamation that it hurt her jaw. She waved away my suggestions of providing my own brand of oral stimulation, as my head between her legs brought with it a level of self-consciousness she wanted to avoid.
Doggy style was lost because she felt unattractive. Cowgirl wasn’t brought up because she felt fat. The list of bullet points shot our sex life through the head. Nothing I said would, or could, change her mind, make her feel beautiful, or loved. Neither words nor deeds had any effect. There was a reason or excuse or rebuke waiting for it all.
There were days I would attempt to warm her up. Ease her into the mood. Rejection came as swift as a door slam. Those days didn’t frustrate me. But the other days, the days were sex wasn’t remotely close to my mind, were something else. Where I would surprise her with lunch at work, have flowers or random gifts waiting for her at home, take her feet into my lap and massage between toes after a long day. Days I just wanted to show my appreciation, my love, my affection, and she’d announce, in the middle of a foot rub or me cooking dinner, that, “we’re still not having sex tonight.” Those were days that would frustrate me the most. Insult me the most. Hurt me the most.
She’d tell me all I cared about was sex.
There were times that was absolutely true, and yet completely obvious. When rolling over in the middle of the night with a hard on pressed against her bum, yeah, that’s what I was looking for.
But most of the time, I just wanted to rub her feet or cook her dinner.
Eventually, I stopped trying. Stopped offering. Stopped suggesting. She had no complaints. Unless I remained downstairs to take care of myself while she went up to bed. The eye rolls and looks of disgust I’d receive upon joining her in the bedroom.
There were times I’d sleep on the couch after I finished, all because I didn’t want the cold shoulder and disgruntled sigh. But that only led to different problems the following mornings. Mornings filled with accusations of digital sexual infidelity. Of sexually chatting with strangers or former crushes. I tried my best to wake early and take the dogs for their walk to avoid those fishing conversations. The lack of a nibble often forces the fisher to try harder. To cast a wider net. To toss additional accusational lines.
I was just someone that needed to get off once in a while. I had no problem answering questions about what I watched, if I talked to anyone, what we talked about.
One night a female friend who I had not seen in many years asked why I was on the couch at such a late hour. I disclosed my frustration with what had been transpiring over the previous months and months.
Realistically I shouldn’t have opened up, specifically to a female friend. I should have known the issues that would insight, but I needed to vent to someone. To get it off my chest. She simply had been the first person to ask. Had a stranger at the bus stop asked me the same I likely would have offered a similar answer.
The next morning, when asked about the previous night, I disclosed this information. That didn’t go over well. And the following evening I did end up sleeping on the couch, but out of banishment from the bedroom. Although at least the dogs slept with me while downstairs. They were far warmer than the woman I had decided to spend my life with. A fact I had increasingly started to question.
And then, all of a sudden, it changed.
Keep From Me The Truth
I want to try something.
Words I had never heard before. Not from her at least.
She slid down my body, taking hold of my hardening offering, lifting it up as if making an offering to some far-off deity, before pushing my thighs wider so she could slip mouth and tongue to an opening of my body rarely accustomed to any kind of sexual attention.
It caught me off-guard. A dagger shoved between my ribs would have proven more expected. An icy knife to the heart would come months later.
Where did that come from? I asked at the conclusion.
It’s something I’d always wanted to try, came her response. We both left it at that. Why press when sweat and satisfaction dripped from my body?
Experimentation came more frequently. At least in the form of her trying out new self-proclaimed fantasies on me. She wouldn’t allow any changes in my reciprocation toward her.
Toys were introduced. Blowjobs in darkened alleys behind bars occurred.
It all felt wonderfully strange, and yet the deeper we went the more off I felt. A squeaky wheel at the beginning now the screech of grinding metals at the end.
At the time, she remained after work, sometimes for hours, nearly every day. An excuse always accompanied the delay in her return home. I wanted to question it but didn’t. In fact, I felt guilty for the thoughts I considered. The sexual exploits continued, proverbial arms linked with the long hours of overtime. I wanted to ask further, but why question a good thing?
The pieces were all there for me to put together, but obliviousness is a powerful drug and far more addicting than anything a street-level dealer could ever offer up. The less I knew the better I felt.
When my eyes were opened and confronted with the truth, the withdrawal from obliviousness hurt just as much as discovering what my future wife/wife/soon-to-be ex-wife had been doing. The blindfold of sexual fantasies had been ripped off and the burning sunlight of relationship failure stung my senses.
Nothing slaps you awake like reality.
Ultimately, her fantasies were little more than distractions. Distractions to me? Distractions for her? Both? In the end, it didn’t matter. Because once obliviousness was lost it was impossible to ever reclaim it.
Was she testing out moves to try on her lover? Did he ask for these experimentations? Was it nothing but shade thrown over my eyes to keep me from seeing the truth?
More questions I didn’t ask. Or, at least, more questions never answered. It’s better that way.
We went our separate ways, with our own wounds, our own shame, our own failures.
But for a time, before the light of the world exposed all, I had some pretty great sex. And like perfect pizza, there’s nothing better. Just as long as its enjoyed before it turns cold and stale and moldy.