To give you some background first, though, my ex-husband was a freakin' sex addict. I'm not kidding. His self-esteem hinged upon whether he got any and how much. And as I've mentioned before, he sure didn't get much with me. He was always on me like white on rice, and the more he pressured, the less I could bring myself to perform what I considered to be a chore, my "marital duty."
I might have told you that he once, once woke me out of a sound sleep and asked me to blow him. Dude, don't ever fuck with my sleep. I told Eduard about it; I said to him, "If you do that, I tell you right now, it'll get you nowhere," as he laughed.
So the ex was always wanking. Always. Once underneath the bed I found a t-shirt with what must have been hundreds of spooges on it. GROSS. I tossed it in the wash just so he'd know I found it. Oh, and he was always surfing porn and denying it.
Even though I seldom woke up, some part of my consciousness knew he was at it once again. So one time in my dream I felt the bed vibrating and immediately felt irritated. "GodDAMM your constant jerking off!" Then I woke up and found it was several months after we'd separated, I was living in a different city, and the source of the pounding was my dog Beekie enjoying a good scratch on the bed. Poor thing didn't understand why I was pissed.
Speaking of dreams (have I already said this?), I often dream up these complicated sagas that can go on over a few nights in installments. I wonder if that's because of my antidepressents, which I forgot to take today, incidentally. Last night I dreamed of my high-school best friend, the one who dumped me. Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck. Will those dreams stop already?! 'Doh! Stupid subconscious!
posted by Newpeep, N.D. (neurotic depressive) @ 9:18 PM
1 Comments:
Ew. If you married my ex, I feel really sorry for ya. :-P I shoulda branded a warning label on his ass when I had the chance.
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