The Karma Ideal
I took the liberty of making a porn mountain in the middle of the living room rug
The Karma Ideal
Please, please let me begin by telling you a few things. I really must insist. The sex? It wasn’t ever really that good, but let’s face it, ladies, was it when you were twenty-one? To my recollection- which is admittedly vague given that sober sex was a distant second to the other option- it was just about the fucking. There was no “discovery” or “gspot” or “xspot” or “the move”. Just getting railed. What did I know? The guy before him had left to grow organic garlic in an Oregon pasture. For us, the most exciting sex was outside in sleeping bags; our sacks of trail mix sitting closely by, the weed and the organic beer not too far off.
He had a big dick. That, I will give him. Yes it was big. Yes it was, and well, curved a little. Curved down, yes that’s it. A little like Gonzo. I thought all men were like this until someone later informed me that the sinking curve was likely due to a botched circumcision. Jesus.
I guess I should have been wary of the sheer volume of porn I stumbled upon hidden in the back of his file cabinet, underneath hanging folders after we moved in together. And how I had already told him that I didn’t want this shit, his shit, these whores in my house and how he had promised to get rid of them. So that day that I stumbled upon them, I took the liberty of making a porn mountain in the middle of the living room rug for him to come home to. I remember that time, the time when I thought that if I tried hard enough I might break that wild stallion of his filthy nasty habits (which, side note, I was not actually ethically or morally against). I have seen my share, been the initiator in some cases, but never would have used it as a replacement and eventually, when the fantasies wore thin and I slowly realized that the men in the films actually turned me off, I was done. That was that. After some time, however, the stash dwindled as he sold his used videos on Ebay and many years later when he implemented a fragranced candle rule in the house- no more than three- I reiterated and said only if the same goes for the porn. Of course, what I was thinking was the actual VHS cassettes of “Stop, My Ass Is On Fire!” and “Cumhonies II”, not of the thousands of video clips on his personal computer unknown to me
I guess I should have been wary of the noises that came out of our second bedroom late at night, that bedroom where the computer was. How he would disappear after I had gone to bed- without sex mind you- and just as I was drifting off to sleep, a grunt, a sigh, a harruff would emit from that small room across the hall and deep down my stomach would churn. I would roll over and try to sleep, knowing that my protests would fuel his rage and contempt as happened many nights before. It was a battle I would inevitably always lose, him blaming me that I was trying to control, or that these women meant nothing to him, nothing like what I meant to him and foolishly, foolishly I looked the other way and tried other avenues of deterrence. I thought that maybe if I was more sexy, it would be me we was haruffing with, not a faceless fuckhole on an LCD screen.
I guess I should have been wary of his late nights at the office. Of the times when he came home to me in thongs and heels and a casserole or a meatloaf waiting for him on the table, me bending over reminding him of what was for dessert as he excused himself from the table because his back hurt, grabbing the remote and settling in for the night.
Well, guess what? I was not wary. I was a blind fool married to a nearing-fat sweaty bastard of a man. That’s what I was.
I do not wish harm upon him, though. Or sadness, or regret or guilt or any of those horrible gut wrenching emotions my mother hopes I feel. I do not wish anyone to live a life that is marked by mistakes. I do, however, wish that his dong would break.
And I feel that it is possible, that there is a remote, nay, scientific possibility that he might just literally beat it to death. I hope for one of two things in that case: first, that the slut of a whore bitch he is with can be understanding of him and thus leave him in much the same way I was left- out of the blue, out to dinner at “our” restaurant- and second, that... that… well, I don’t really have a second. I believe in karma. Insta-karma in some cases, but karma nonetheless, and it is my opinion that this would be a fitting outcome to reducing me in our marriage to another faceless fuckhole. And I just hope he knows how lucky he is that I didn’t know what real sex was like, sex with love, nasty and dirty and slow and tender sex with someone who wants you.
But if it does still work, if he was able to resist the beauty of his own hand, it satisfies me to know that he probably hasn’t completely abandoned those internet beauties. And who knows? Maybe that Abigail Williams likes to give hummers to the electronic buzz of the CPU. I just hope she doesn’t accidentally smash her head on the underside of the desk when Gonzo speaks his last words.