While doing a little internet search to find out if any other guy is in a similar situation to mine, I came across the following plea for help to some advice columnist:
I recently found out that my girlfriend waits for me to go upstairs and take a shower, or goes upstairs to the shower herself so that she can masturbate. I have never, ever rejected her for sex. I have even told her many times that she could have me whenever and wherever. We have been together for almost five years. When I caught her — long story — she claimed that this had only been going on for a few months before I found out. I was really upset about it. When I confronted her about it, she said that it only happens ‘six out of every ten times’ that I’m not home. So, more than half of the time that I’m not there, she would rather fuck herself than me. She acts happy and she tells me she loves me multiple times a day. She says that everything in our relationship is good. However, over the past six or seven months, she only had sex with me maybe once or twice a month. (When we started dating we were having sex at least once or twice a day!) She claims that she wants sex, but she would rather masturbate than have sex with me — even when I’m at home. I just don’t understand why. And now I feel like I just don’t know who she really is or that our relationship is as truthful as I thought it was.
I felt really bad for the poor dejected boyfriend, especially because it could easily have been written by Lo’s ex-boyfriend — the guy she was with just prior to me.
You see, she was with this boy, Steve, for close to three years. The first year was wonderful — so she tells me — but the last two, not so much. At some point she fell out of love with him. It happens. Now, Lo being Lo, though the love was lost, she couldn’t just turn off her libido. And, if she were very honest, she would tell you that she stayed with this fella because he did have quite an amazing cock — over 9” in length and thicker than her forearm in girth. As a result, she resorted to the methods of the hapless guy’s girlfriend as quoted above. She would masturbate in bed after he fell asleep. She’d masturbate in the shower when he was home with her (at his parent’s house). She would masturbate when he wasn’t around.
What’s more, when Lo began to deny this strapping youth the pleasures of worshiping at her altar, he, being virile himself, would often jack it in the bed next to her. She could feel the bed moving, his breathing growing heavy in short quick breaths, and sometimes even the warm ejaculate upon her back. Through it all she remained stoic and still, feigning sleep until it was her turn. She knew that only a few moments after he came she would have her chance.
Yet, every once in a while she still craved that cock of his and she would get her fill. On occasion she would open her mouth to receive all nine inches of that rod; she’d bend over to take it in her pussy or her ass; she’d get on her knees to have him cum on her face. And this was enough to give Steve hope and keep him returning to the well for more.
Much of this relationship was while Lo was in college and Steve, who didn’t go to college and lived at home with his parents, was none-the-wiser about Lo’s various “boyfriends” she kept at school. There was Gerald and his diminutive endowment enhanced (or, rather, the opposite of enhanced) by the use of steroids. There was Teddy and the massive member he carried around with him like a Smith & Wesson 500 Magnum. And there was the elusive Ryan. These playthings were good for some thrills, but Lo was unable to extricate herself from the place she’d carved out in Steve’s nuclear and extended family.
She went through all the motions of Thanksgiving and Christmas, birthdays, and family vacations with them. Yes, the first year she entirely enjoyed him and his family. In truth, they were a very good group of people — so good that when she felt herself falling out of love with him, she lamented leaving them more than leaving him.
She remained in this limbo, as I said, for about two strained years. I knew her during this time and, on occasion, we would see each other. It would only be years later, after she and I became a couple, that she revealed to me that she had a thing for me all that time and that frequently, after we would get together for a coffee to catch up, or an innocent meeting at a concert or bookstore, she would jill it to thoughts of me. (Flattering. Very flattering.)
But then, in some magical way, sparks of romance began to shoot back and forth in our Platonic relationship. Soon enough she was slipping away from Steve in order to meet with me for the illicit dark alley kiss; the so very risky blowjob in my office; or the unrestrained fuck in the front seat of my steamed-up car.
Then came that fateful day that she and I were at a remote bar, staring into each other’s eyes, talking, after having two or three drinks, when she revealed to me something that cut me to the quick.
“So, last night, after we met and you got me all riled up,” she began, making reference to our long, lustful make-out session that resulted in her cumming a number of times without any actual penetration, “I needed it. I had to have it. I went home and I woke Steve up and I sucked his cock till he was good and hard. I spread my legs and, as he was going at me with that massive cock of his and I was just on the verge of cumming and cumming in a BIG way, I found myself unconsciously saying. . .”
“Saying what?” I asked, on the edge of my seat when her words trailed off.
“Saying your name.”
“Out loud?!”
“Well, loud enough that I heard it. I don’t think Steve heard me. He was going at me furiously. When I finally came, I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from screaming your name because, you see, I was imagining that it was you fucking me and not him.”
These words of hers poured into my ears like a mixture of poison and elixir. They swirled in my chest and elicited the most confused concoction of emotions I had ever known. At one and the same time I was delighted to hear this story; excited to imagine it vividly in my mind; repulsed by the image; disturbed by the thought of her going home to him for sex, even if she was thinking about me. I had no words for any of this. Waves of heat descended over my body from head to toe. All I could do was look into her lovely eyes and gaze at her beautiful and oh-so-dirty mouth. And, without knowing what it was that I was doing or saying, I grabbed her hands and my mouth pronounced the words, “Lo, I need to tell you, I love you. I love you desperately and deeply. I love you in a way that I have never, ever known. I love you and I have loved you and every day I fall deeper in love with you.”
She looked at me with confusion and joy on her face. We were in the middle of some dive joint in the sticks, country music playing on an old juke box, the bar filled with sad, drunk people. This was hardly the place that I would have picked to profess my love for her and I think that the confession came as quite a surprise to her as well. But her response to my unreasoned and untoward words surprised me equally. She said simply, “I love you too.” It wasn’t the sort of pat, formulaic response that is said out of politeness. It was heartfelt. They were four simple, monosyllabic, yet very weighty words pronounced with measure and sincerity. Perhaps more than the words, the look in her eyes as she said them lent them the reassurance of truth that reading them on the page fails to do.
Her hands clutched mine and I knew that we had something, something real and something special — something that we had to do something with and about in order to become the people we were.
Some time after this mutual exchange of love, I said to her, “Lo, but there is one thing I need you to promise me — to promise me very solemnly.”
“What?”
“I need you to swear that if ever you fall out of love with me like you have fallen out of love with Steve, you will tell me. You will have the kindness and courage to say it to my face immediately. You will never string me along. You will never stay with me out of convenience. You will never fuck me and whisper to yourself the name of some other man.”
Little did I know back then what I know now — that I would give my blessing to Lo’s fucking as many men and women as she pleases. Yet one thing still holds true — I demand her love. I know that when she fucks someone else, it is me that she loves. I know that when she masturbates to wild fantasies, it is me that she loves. I know that when she lusts for men and women who we pass in the street, it is me that she loves.
As long as I know that, we’re good. We’re very, very good.
