Fuckin’ Around on The Side: Part II
Closed relationships have their own set of advantages and problems. One guy in the relationship is getting itchy, or isn’t getting it at home as much as he’d like, or at all anymore (hey, libidos aren’t always in sync). But he sees value in maintaining the relationship for other reasons: emotional support, companionship, economics (like splitting the rent or mortgage) or just having someone to come home to to argue with. Beats sloppy licks from your poodle.
But he understands his partner well enough to know that even bringing up the subject of side sexcapades could mean an end to the relationship. So begins the deceit: the work-outs at the gym when the only exercise he’s getting is fucking someone’s ass; the late nights at work; the out-of-town family visits or business trips. Guys in closed relationships never leave their smart phones on ringer when home or when they’re with their partner, always communicate with their liaisons by text, and are always ready with a back-up lexicon of excuses to cover their ass.
But why, oh why, do we stray in the first place? It makes life so complicated, doesn’t it? Physical release and warm flesh isn’t the whole story, not when you can get off in seventeen uncivilized minutes with xtube, some porn, or a fleshlite, and not even have to use mouthwash. No, I think the real culprit is our insatiable need for an ego kick, to lust and be lusted after. All fun, no strings.
A buddy of mine who’s been with a guy for twelve years and who is a definite sex addict had a mother who constantly pampered him and told him how great he was. So now he just expects it from everyone else. Me? I’m the exact opposite. Unlike most red blooded American boys and girls who look on their high school days fondly, my adolescence was pure hell. No, I wasn’t the class queer but being unathletic and a nerd was a close second. Today, though I should be content to have someone in my life who gives more than two shits about me, I never got over that feeling of inferiority and constantly search for acceptance in the most transitory yet elemental way possible: sex with an endless array of men.
Sad, ain’t it?