10 years of marriage.
10yrs to the day.
5 years, or more, of whining about a sexless marriage on a blog.
It used to be that I found I had something to write about at least once a week. Usually twice if not three times. Sexy boots. Sex with ex-es.. The language of sex. Kink. Gender politics. Porn.
Of late I’ve mostly written of marital dysfunction and self pity. There may be a reason my readership has dwindled.

10 years to the day.
We marked it with a disappointing meal at the venue where we got married.
There was fleeting mention of

opening that bottle of Champaign later that evening. The one we were given … who knows when, and which has sat In the cupboard largely undisturbed ever since. Not 10 years, but probably more than 5. It has been discussed from time to time – we should open that She’ll say, but I can’t help wondering whether She really means We should open that, I’ll have a small glass, you can drink most of it and then we can leave the rest in the fridge until it’s barely worth cooking with.

When we got home I put the bottle in the fridge to chill.
Later that evening we fell into the familial hole that so often spews forth stress.
The bottle of Champaign stayed in the fridge.
We watched the rest of a movie I’d fallen asleep in front of the previous night. I fell asleep in front of it again. So I went to bed. Alone.

In the morning, as usual, I woke before anyone else. Downstairs I watched the end of the movie. An hour later I heard Her go to the bathroom … then back to bed.
A couple of hours later I sat on the floor of the shower with my head in my hands. I ran through all the things I was unhappy about and it was far too easy to see it adding up to everything.
Call it depression? What does that achieve? Is it even vaguely justified? Who am I to judge? And if it is depression, so what? Who cares! A label doesn’t fix anything.

I left the house. I needed to get out and vent some stress. Maybe. I was pretty sure I’d be going back. Though I was all too conscious how easy it would be to neither return, nor arrive anywhere else. Ever again.
Before I left I found myself doing two unexpected things.
Firstly I made the bed and neatly folded my clothes. You know, like the disgraced soldier does in the movies, just before he dispatches the secret dossier to the press and shoots himself. If I’m honest I can’t say that my actions weren’t influenced by some romanticized Hollywood perversion of self-righteousness. But the comparison came after the action.
The second was arguably just as narcissistic or petty. I collected the condoms from the bedside drawer and stuffed them into my pocket. Once out of the house, at the first opportunity, I stopped by a rubbish bin and disposed of the unopened packet of ultra thin, ultra sensitive, spermicidally lubricated, teat ended mariner’s albatrosses.

10yrs to the day.

(Evidently I made it home.)

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