My sex life with my wife, S, is, on the surface, more than satisfactory, however that has failed to prevent me from visiting, certainly monthly but sometimes as often as weekly, a certain particularly styled brothel, where a young prostitute, Yolanda, works, and with whom I share, though I am prepared to admit that her pleasure is enhanced by monetary compensation, certain very specific proclivities.
It’s not that S would refuse my request. We have done this in the past. We have performed activities about which magazine for young women blush to even suggest. If our sex life were to be discussed on one of those insipid television shows where the idle upper middle class drone on endlessly about their relationships and fashion, then S and I would be held up as daring, racy, open-minded, stimulating and erotic. And we are.
But now that we have a child, I find myself unable to do anything but the most ordinary of acts. She wants more, I know, and I am creating an unhealthy and unfair imbalance within our relationship due to my reticence, but it seems that there is something in me that prevents any kind of sexual interaction with the mother of my children other than the most perfunctory.
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The above piece of writing comprises part of my fragments project, some of which are available on this website. I intend to add new fragments piecemeal, not in any particular order, and as the occasion take me.