“Well, at least it’ll give you something juicy to blog about,” said Belle following the biggest, nastiest, most horrible fight we’ve had in…maybe ever.
It all started on Instagram. As regular readers from way back should know, about eightish years ago I had an affair. The Other Woman (TOW) was a friend of mine and still is (though we have far less contact now, for perhaps obvious reasons). I follow her on Instagram and we’re friends on Facebook, etc., because as friends join these sites you follow them and they follow you, but I can’t even recall the last time I laid eyes on her or we spoke (another reason for this is she lives about 900 miles away). Our contact is tangental and not unlike a lot of acquaintances in the age of social media.
In any event, she posted what could be described as a provocative selfie to Instagram the other day. I found it a bit of a surprise (I know, the guy who posts penis pictures to Tumblr should be surprised, but whatevs) and commented something like, “Um…hello.” I didn’t “like” the picture and no back-and-forth comment conversation took place as a result. I honestly felt as though I did nothing wrong.
Of course, you can see where this is going.
Belle’s also on Instagram and, it turns out, looks at the activity of those she’s following (like me). Also, it turns out, that comment showed up there. I hardly ever look at that and didn’t even think about being “caught” by it. I wasn’t thinking about being caught because I didn’t think I had done anything to be caught over. Regardless, she caught me.
And then everything went to hell.
I’ve put off writing this post because I really don’t want to get into it again. It was the worst fight we’ve ever had, I think, including the rows we had back when I told her about TOW. These were worse because I felt as wronged as she did. I have literally given her the key to my heart and yet was being accused of…what, I can’t say. Betrayal something. And I know her reaction was just pure fear and unearthed all kinds of nasty nuclear waste. It was all horrible. It was the only night I’ve ever not slept with Belle.
Oddly enough, Belle had let me out of the Looker 02 earlier in the day. We were going to have a kid-free evening and, even though she was on her period, she let me out for good behavior. We floated in the pool (me totally naked) and planned on just hanging out with one another. It was to be a good time, even though I didn’t expect any penis action.
So, on that horrible no good night, laying on the guest bed steeped in my rage, there was opportunity. My higher brain functions were generally advising “this too shall pass” but weren’t too terribly in the mood for an in-depth analysis. My lower brain functions — the Lizard — was whispering all kinds of things. I felt the “devil on my shoulder” thing more strongly than ever before. Ideas were popping into my head seemingly from outside my brain.
The Lizard and the potential orgasm it advocated became a kind of entity in the room with me sitting just to my left. It presented a path I could take. A justified path, it argued. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Not even close. The penis never even got hard. The Lizard/orgasm entity slithered back into whatever crevice it inhabits all the rest of the time.
Belle and I talked the next morning. We shared our relative positions and gingerly moved forward in the haze of an emotional hangover. Raw and tender and trying not to touch the bits that had yet to scab over.
The next day, I told Belle something that I had assumed was perfectly obvious, but I don’t know I ever said it in so many words. She is the most important thing in the world to me. More important than my own sexual relief. My love for her exceeds my love of orgasm. And it will always be that way. I am hers.