How Not To Save A Marriage
When it comes to doing things badly, I took the cake for a couple years. My (then) wife gave me a run for my money, but I believe that in terms of sabotaging the relationship I ultimately brainwashed myself into thinking I was doing my best when I was in fact doing the exact opposite. I am not proud of my actions. I am not proud of the way I reacted to my wife’s actions. In the end we’re both to blame. There’s no way around that.
I wish it sounded better, but there’s no way around it; the trouble started within 6 months of getting married. No, scratch that. The trouble started 2 years before getting married, I was just too blind, dedicated, and self-deceptive to recognize our problems for what they were. We were incompatible in may ways and we both refused to see that. Our sex life was dwindling, our communication skills were shot, but we pushed forward on the premise that love would help us make things better. Once we had committed to a wedding venue and date we both felt “locked in”. I know I did. It became a matter of course more than joy, but after watching far too much Bridezillas on TV I was just happy we weren’t that bad. So on we pushed on a path plotted into the heart of disaster.
Within 4 months of getting married the wife was pregnant. Within 2 months of that she flat out told me that she just couldn’t control when she was in the mood for sex and that any advances I made just made her feel worse. Being the understanding husband I tried to let her be. Being the horny, unfulfilled, undesired husband I did the wrong thing, and signed up for an adult dating / NSA sex site. I thoughtfully wrote the profile, explaining I had a wife whom I loved and got along with wonderfully in every way but who had decided that my cock was best served not going near her. I listed that I was Bi. I listed I was married and that she didn’t know I was doing this. I listed that I was a lying cheating son-of-a-bitch dumb bastard.
And thus I became one.
Over the course of the pregnancy the wife and I did not have sex once. I tried for more often, making yse of every seduction technique I could muster. We went on dates. We went on holiday together. I would have a candlelit bath drawn for her when she got home from work, and I’d wash her back and give her a gentle upper body massage. Nothing worked. Trying to talk about it was met with either cold rebuke or tearful admonitions. I was either the bad guy or the bad guy. When mentioning the possibility of me trying to seek release somewhere else I was told very simply that I had a hand at hand whenever I wanted.
So I became the bad guy and sought comfort and release with other people. And when the wife would show a modicum of interest for a day or two after the birth of our son, I would respond wholeheartedly… until the next two to three weeks of a lack of interest on her part. During these times I would again seek out new partners through the adult site. This site also came into use when I traveled for work; on two trips (out of nearly 20) over the course of two years I found somebody local for a one-time fling. At home, most flings were one-time things as well. Once or twice I met somebody for a second time, maybe even a third, but never more than that.
Shortly after our second anniversary the wife started warming up to me solidly again, and for about a week out of every month we’d have sex like crazy, often with her initiating things. I drank like a parched man and took every chance I got… only to go dry again for another three weeks. Bound and determined as I was to be a stats geek I document every day that we did, and noticed a pattern the exact same time she told me she was pregnant again; we’d been having sex on her fertile days. Only. Granted, we’d agreed to start trying again when I thought things were warming up between us, but to know she’d only been interested in me when she might get pregnant was like a kick in the gut.
Just like the first pregnancy, the second resulted in no contact between us sexually for the duration. I begged. I pleaded. I demanded. I ranted. And finally, one night, after hours of trying to get her to engage in conversation with me she said “I know you’re not happy, but I don’t want to hear it anymore. I can’t take the stress.” Just like that, I knew we were over.
I played the good husband, waiting for a chance to leave. Work had laid me off a month before and I was scrambling hard to find something else. I grew tired of the endless games on the adult site and signed up for a more tame site, one that promised more personal connections but still required no membership fees for proper use. I answered questions and wrote comments in the forums and managed to find some people for some more extra-curricular play, but still remained unfulfilled.
It is a lonely life, being depressed, being in a marriage you know is irrevocably broken, being unemployed, and engaging in meaningless hookups that result in only momentarily distracting one from the emptiness inside.
It was in this state that Mrs. AP found me. Through our very long site-email and instant message conversations she heard all of this from me, yet still cared enough to listen. She was intrigued enough to want more. Soon our chats became more friendly, more personal, more engaging. I found myself longing for that connection with her more than I wanted to be at home with my wife. The crucial moment came one night when Mrs. AP said via chat “You know, I can feel you withdraw when you know she’s coming home. You go from being alive and vibrant to being dead inside. I can feel that drop from you even from here.”
She was right. I became dead inside when my wife was around. I hated it and knew I had to leave before I was well and truly dead. I had to get out before I destroyed myself instead of just our marriage. And so, just a few short weeks after my daughter, I left. I ran to the one place that offered solace and welcome and a complete lack of judgment, and moved in with Mrs. AP and her (then) husband. The three of us became a Polyamorous Triad and worked our damned best to make it work.
I know the actions I took likely hastened the demise of my marriage. Looking back, it seems inevitable. I felt — I still feel — that in many ways I was used. I was used to provide stability and comfort and children, like some weird version of a stable stud.
The divorce was ugly. My wife used my sexuality and my living situation against me, and the courts backed her up. My contact with my Bio-kids is only allowed under the supervision of my wife or her family, despite the fact that I have passed no less than 6 FBI-level background checks and at least 3 TSA-level background checks in the past 7 years.
SINful friends, I am not proud of what I did or what it made of me. I do not ever want to, nor intend to, revisit those lonely, empty years I spent seeking satisfaction in the arms of others. Mrs. AP fulfills me, completes me, satisfies me in ways that I used to think we only possible in the films and romance novels. My life is whole with her, and she has pushed and kicked and struggled to help me become a better man than I used to be. She still fears at times that I will revert to that old behavior — what I call my Slut Period — but I know her fears are unfounded.
Yes, I was acting badly to do what I did. I also felt I had no choice. I had a partner who would not listen or engage. I do not have that problem now. In fact, per Mrs. AP’s oft complaint, I am the one who has problems communicating. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I get locked in my head, or can only seem to get things out through writing. Writing here, writing in email… it is my preferred medium, my safety net, my comfort zone. I keep trying to push that comfort zone, though, and walk without the safety net. To be open and honest in my words aloud as well in my words written. Mrs. AP is graciously, lovingly, incredibly supportive through it all. She is amazing. She is wonderful. She is everything I need and want in a partner for this life and all the rest.
It took me destroying one marriage to find the person to whom I should – -and will — be married for eternity.
Stay SINful, friends.