Analogy

Over the last few months, since my Wife and I went on a marriage guidance retreat with Dr Ruth, the tension between us has not dissipated. There may be various reasons for that, but I’m not going to go through that here. My blog wasn’t really meant to be about Our marital difficulties – true, it started with the intent to reinvigorate our sex life, and for a while, so many years ago, that seemed plausible, but hope has diminished, and optimism has drifted into the distance. For all our emotional and sexual divisions we might as well live respectively on Mars and Venus.
My Wife seems not to want to consider sex unless We are on firmer emotional ground.
I struggle to find firmer emotional ground when there is no sex.
The circle snarls at those within it.

It’s not that simple, obviously! I don’t for a moment mean to suggest that everything would be fixed if my dick was in Her pussy. That would be a truly naive suggestion. But the lack of physical connection has a profound effect on me.

I woke with a raging hard-on. Our host, ignorant of our turmoil, had put us in the same room. With my Wife asleep and so far away beside me, for one rare occasion, I imagined fucking Her. Fucking like a Victorian steam piston. I wanted pussy. I need pussy.

In the shower, my limp, dejected cock hanging, I lacked the will to wank.
I tried to find an analogy.

My Wife is a bookworm. She has probably read more chapters than I’ve had wanks. So …
Imagine reading books was how She disconnected from the world. How She de-stressed. Every night, She would read a book in bed before She turned the light out. [Ed: This is not so very far from reality.]
Now imagine She was never allowed to read another book.
She could read reviews of books, but never the books themselves.
She could look at all the books on Her shelves that line the walls of Her study, but never even lift one down.
She could remember the stories She had read in the past, and fantasise about their unread sequels, but never read them.
She could visit book shops, but never read more than cover-notes.
She could still read, but only book reviews, and mind numbing information pamphlets. Nothing as satisfying as a book.
And imagine She had to accept that She may never get to read a book again.
She might try writing a book herself. But as much as She had read, consumed, and absorbed about the craft of writing, it just couldn’t compare to someone else’s story.
She would doubtless feel the need for some Shakespeare. Perhaps that’s a bit too Freudian – spears thrusting, and all that [Ed: Yes Dear Reader, that thought did genuinely go through AM’s head. He genuinely discounted the example and sought something more neutral. And without a hint of lascivious allusion or the merest intent of double entendre, He genuinely followed up with these exact words …] You’d imagine what She’d need would be a bit of Dickens.

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