...continued from part 1
Since my nephew left, I hadn’t been working. I’d ended my real estate career a few months before due to the market crash and was no longer a foster parent for our autistic nephew. It was time to look for a new occupation. I got a job that would consume almost all the waking hours of the next year of my life.
Kellan had plenty of opportunity to hook up with guys because I worked crazy hours, sleeping the few I was home. For a whole year I was the walking dead. He could have had an orgy in our bed and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. From what he told me later, he started fucking around with guys four or five months after I started my new job.
I should have known. Kellan abruptly ceased activities he loved. One was flying airplanes. He’d pursued his pilot’s license passionately, helping me work through my own fear of single-engine airplanes, caused by my grandmother’s married boyfriend shutting the engine off one day as we soared over the ocean just off Palos Verdes. I enjoyed flying with him. He took my friends up. Flying made him grin from ear to ear. Mastery is the greatest tool to improve self-esteem and flying did wonders for Kellan. But suddenly, he lost interest. He used money as an excuse, but I knew that wasn’t it. He also stopped what we both called “making messes.” These could be visual art projects that filled our place with fumes, displacing my whole life. He’d also made two music videos. Around the time he started compulsive sex with young guys, he was trying to put another video together, and then just lost interest. There would be no more projects. This is when the last of the Kellan I recognized…died.
We’d moved into a beautiful “penthouse level” loft with an amazing terrace that Kellan turned into a tropical paradise. But neither one of us ever created a thing there. His rejection of me, physically, sexually and emotionally sent me into a place of low-level depression and dissociation. Nothing I did could get his attention. He developed a special way of pushing me away….ever so gently with his fingertips.
I’d come home to him masturbating to porn under the covers. I figured it would be a good time to initiate sex. He’d roll over to go to “sleep.” Sometimes I’d wake to find him not in bed with me, in the bathroom masturbating to porn. This affected my self-esteem deeply. Fat, old and unattractive. It became a mantra for me.
First came the excuses. Lots of “I’m too tired.” I had no sympathy as I slept very little due to work. When we’d take trips, I’d say “let’s have a fuckfest.” He seemed to like the idea, but never seemed interested.
About a year ago, I made a conscious decision to live in a virtually sexless marriage. What I had no way of knowing was that in the 3-month periods between our intercourse, he’d fuck at least a dozen guys.
The sneer. About the time we moved into the penthouse, it solidified on his face…that and his being almost completely devoid of expression. One of the things I’ve always loved about Kellan was his expressiveness. His large eyebrows would move almost constantly as he spoke, reacted or thought. This was replaced by an almost concrete expression, as if half a gallon of botox had been dumped into his face. Whenever I tried to discuss spiritual matters or anything to do with our beliefs or what got us though the day, he’d give me the sneer. I wrote it off to his new Atheism. That wasn’t it.
The sneer became a resident in our loft, as did a crazy, swirly look in his eyes, a special kind of mania I’d known from my previous two partners but somehow failed to connect. It was the inertia of energy after acting out sexually. It was these times he wouldn’t even want to hug me, or he’d give me a special kind of patronizing hug I’d unfortunately experienced too many times.
My self-esteem had crashed and burned. He was rejecting me and seemed only interested in beating off to young guys. What I didn’t know was that he was also fucking them. Lots of them.
I decided to go back to therapy to find out what was wrong with me. Also, I talked my psychiatrist into reversing the amount of psych meds he’d given me when we lost my nephew. I didn’t know how I’d gone from feeling good and posting torso pics of myself online to feeling so worthless.
I’d been having lucid dreams of Kellan fucking young guys. They were so real…I could hear their moans, smell their sex, feel the heat from their bodies. One in particular, Kellan was fucking a cute white boy, the young guy’s head off the end of the bed, his back arched, moaning as Kellan gave him a vigorous fucking with his big cock. I woke crying, but with an erection. Kellan woke, stroking my head. “What’s wrong baby?” I told him of my dream, “do you want to fuck twinks?” He donned a smooth voice, completely unlike him. I’d heard it in bed a couple times. The “porn” voice of a real slut. “Aw baby, if I wanted to fuck a twink, I’d go do it.” At this point it had been dozens. I had other dreams, one after the other. They haunted me. “I dreamed that we weren’t together anymore and I wasn’t welcome in our home. You were cold and cruel to me.” Kellan dismissed these as imaginings “why do you torture yourself like this?”
Sixty-six days ago from this writing, I caught Kellan in the bathroom, beating off to porn again. It had become more frequent. I knew it was twink porn as that’s all he watched. That night, a whole movie in my head of evidence I’d compiled that supported Kellan loving me but having no interest in my sexual type came crashing down on my head. I didn’t sleep. The next day I told him “I feel like a beautiful, sunny part of my life is ending and a dark chapter is beginning.”
The next day, after Kellan went limp during sex, he confessed. And it was the REAL Kellan, one I hadn’t seen in two years. The expressive eyebrows launched into full force as he cried his eyes out.
“I’ve been cheating on you,” he sobbed.
“How many…two, five…”
“No, more…”
“Twenty..thirty?”
“More like fifty.”
My first reaction wasn’t one I would have predicted. I didn’t hit him. I didn’t scream at him. I felt sorry for him. I couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for him to carry all of this around.
“I’ve been going to therapy to save our marriage for over a year…but I couldn’t stop….” He told me he had two and a half months of sexual sobriety. Two and a half months. In my head, I made a hash mark at that date, and another a year and a half before. Everything in between had been a lie.
“I have to break up with you because I know you’ll never forgive me.”
Then the other Kellan took over. His face turned to cement again. He wanted me to go to a hotel. He blamed my depression for much of his acting out. He didn’t want to be with me anymore.
I blindly checked into the Biltmore Hotel. I don’t remember booking the room or how I got there. This was a nightmare. I couldn’t believe my Kellan had done this to us. I didn’t sleep. I cried all night. I found porn with guys who looked like him fucking twinks and jerked off to it. That night of not sleeping, decided the problem was me not being raunchy enough in bed. I decided I’d march over there, put some porn on, tie him up, dominate him, drip candle wax…you get the idea. My next idea was to bring home another partner.
I went over the next day to talk to Kellan. The addict was out, no sign of the man I loved. He was positively evil, informing me that he only liked guys 15-25 years younger than me, I was never his physical type, and that he only went with me because he was a vulnerable newcomer in AA and would have gone with the first person who smiled at him. He shared with great relish what he liked. At the time I didn’t remember, as I do now, him checking out guys older than me, as well as trying to talk me into dying my hair all grey. But that’s before he brainwashed himself with twink porn.
“What do you like about me?” I asked.
“Your ass, your lips and your cock,” he said, throwing a sneer at my imperfect midsection.
The rest of the talk was like something from the Exorcist: both the angel and the devil. In a mild-mannered voice, he’d tell me that he always thought I was beautiful, and then the addict would eviscerate me, slinging his cruelty, knowing exactly where to hit me.
I left a puddle of blood and tears, worse than before. It was then I experienced some amazing synchronicity; a friend called just to say “hi.” I unburdened myself to this person, pouring out the whole ugly story. Unbeknownst to me, my friend had been sexually compulsive and gone through a 12-step program.
“Don’t listen to anything he says right now. He’s like a drunk person. He doesn’t know what he’s saying and he doesn’t know what he wants. Don’t try to talk to him about feelings or anything.”
(continued in part 3)
Since my nephew left, I hadn’t been working. I’d ended my real estate career a few months before due to the market crash and was no longer a foster parent for our autistic nephew. It was time to look for a new occupation. I got a job that would consume almost all the waking hours of the next year of my life.
Kellan had plenty of opportunity to hook up with guys because I worked crazy hours, sleeping the few I was home. For a whole year I was the walking dead. He could have had an orgy in our bed and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. From what he told me later, he started fucking around with guys four or five months after I started my new job.
I should have known. Kellan abruptly ceased activities he loved. One was flying airplanes. He’d pursued his pilot’s license passionately, helping me work through my own fear of single-engine airplanes, caused by my grandmother’s married boyfriend shutting the engine off one day as we soared over the ocean just off Palos Verdes. I enjoyed flying with him. He took my friends up. Flying made him grin from ear to ear. Mastery is the greatest tool to improve self-esteem and flying did wonders for Kellan. But suddenly, he lost interest. He used money as an excuse, but I knew that wasn’t it. He also stopped what we both called “making messes.” These could be visual art projects that filled our place with fumes, displacing my whole life. He’d also made two music videos. Around the time he started compulsive sex with young guys, he was trying to put another video together, and then just lost interest. There would be no more projects. This is when the last of the Kellan I recognized…died.
We’d moved into a beautiful “penthouse level” loft with an amazing terrace that Kellan turned into a tropical paradise. But neither one of us ever created a thing there. His rejection of me, physically, sexually and emotionally sent me into a place of low-level depression and dissociation. Nothing I did could get his attention. He developed a special way of pushing me away….ever so gently with his fingertips.
I’d come home to him masturbating to porn under the covers. I figured it would be a good time to initiate sex. He’d roll over to go to “sleep.” Sometimes I’d wake to find him not in bed with me, in the bathroom masturbating to porn. This affected my self-esteem deeply. Fat, old and unattractive. It became a mantra for me.
First came the excuses. Lots of “I’m too tired.” I had no sympathy as I slept very little due to work. When we’d take trips, I’d say “let’s have a fuckfest.” He seemed to like the idea, but never seemed interested.
About a year ago, I made a conscious decision to live in a virtually sexless marriage. What I had no way of knowing was that in the 3-month periods between our intercourse, he’d fuck at least a dozen guys.
The sneer. About the time we moved into the penthouse, it solidified on his face…that and his being almost completely devoid of expression. One of the things I’ve always loved about Kellan was his expressiveness. His large eyebrows would move almost constantly as he spoke, reacted or thought. This was replaced by an almost concrete expression, as if half a gallon of botox had been dumped into his face. Whenever I tried to discuss spiritual matters or anything to do with our beliefs or what got us though the day, he’d give me the sneer. I wrote it off to his new Atheism. That wasn’t it.
The sneer became a resident in our loft, as did a crazy, swirly look in his eyes, a special kind of mania I’d known from my previous two partners but somehow failed to connect. It was the inertia of energy after acting out sexually. It was these times he wouldn’t even want to hug me, or he’d give me a special kind of patronizing hug I’d unfortunately experienced too many times.
My self-esteem had crashed and burned. He was rejecting me and seemed only interested in beating off to young guys. What I didn’t know was that he was also fucking them. Lots of them.
I decided to go back to therapy to find out what was wrong with me. Also, I talked my psychiatrist into reversing the amount of psych meds he’d given me when we lost my nephew. I didn’t know how I’d gone from feeling good and posting torso pics of myself online to feeling so worthless.
I’d been having lucid dreams of Kellan fucking young guys. They were so real…I could hear their moans, smell their sex, feel the heat from their bodies. One in particular, Kellan was fucking a cute white boy, the young guy’s head off the end of the bed, his back arched, moaning as Kellan gave him a vigorous fucking with his big cock. I woke crying, but with an erection. Kellan woke, stroking my head. “What’s wrong baby?” I told him of my dream, “do you want to fuck twinks?” He donned a smooth voice, completely unlike him. I’d heard it in bed a couple times. The “porn” voice of a real slut. “Aw baby, if I wanted to fuck a twink, I’d go do it.” At this point it had been dozens. I had other dreams, one after the other. They haunted me. “I dreamed that we weren’t together anymore and I wasn’t welcome in our home. You were cold and cruel to me.” Kellan dismissed these as imaginings “why do you torture yourself like this?”
Sixty-six days ago from this writing, I caught Kellan in the bathroom, beating off to porn again. It had become more frequent. I knew it was twink porn as that’s all he watched. That night, a whole movie in my head of evidence I’d compiled that supported Kellan loving me but having no interest in my sexual type came crashing down on my head. I didn’t sleep. The next day I told him “I feel like a beautiful, sunny part of my life is ending and a dark chapter is beginning.”
The next day, after Kellan went limp during sex, he confessed. And it was the REAL Kellan, one I hadn’t seen in two years. The expressive eyebrows launched into full force as he cried his eyes out.
“I’ve been cheating on you,” he sobbed.
“How many…two, five…”
“No, more…”
“Twenty..thirty?”
“More like fifty.”
My first reaction wasn’t one I would have predicted. I didn’t hit him. I didn’t scream at him. I felt sorry for him. I couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for him to carry all of this around.
“I’ve been going to therapy to save our marriage for over a year…but I couldn’t stop….” He told me he had two and a half months of sexual sobriety. Two and a half months. In my head, I made a hash mark at that date, and another a year and a half before. Everything in between had been a lie.
“I have to break up with you because I know you’ll never forgive me.”
Then the other Kellan took over. His face turned to cement again. He wanted me to go to a hotel. He blamed my depression for much of his acting out. He didn’t want to be with me anymore.
I blindly checked into the Biltmore Hotel. I don’t remember booking the room or how I got there. This was a nightmare. I couldn’t believe my Kellan had done this to us. I didn’t sleep. I cried all night. I found porn with guys who looked like him fucking twinks and jerked off to it. That night of not sleeping, decided the problem was me not being raunchy enough in bed. I decided I’d march over there, put some porn on, tie him up, dominate him, drip candle wax…you get the idea. My next idea was to bring home another partner.
I went over the next day to talk to Kellan. The addict was out, no sign of the man I loved. He was positively evil, informing me that he only liked guys 15-25 years younger than me, I was never his physical type, and that he only went with me because he was a vulnerable newcomer in AA and would have gone with the first person who smiled at him. He shared with great relish what he liked. At the time I didn’t remember, as I do now, him checking out guys older than me, as well as trying to talk me into dying my hair all grey. But that’s before he brainwashed himself with twink porn.
“What do you like about me?” I asked.
“Your ass, your lips and your cock,” he said, throwing a sneer at my imperfect midsection.
The rest of the talk was like something from the Exorcist: both the angel and the devil. In a mild-mannered voice, he’d tell me that he always thought I was beautiful, and then the addict would eviscerate me, slinging his cruelty, knowing exactly where to hit me.
I left a puddle of blood and tears, worse than before. It was then I experienced some amazing synchronicity; a friend called just to say “hi.” I unburdened myself to this person, pouring out the whole ugly story. Unbeknownst to me, my friend had been sexually compulsive and gone through a 12-step program.
“Don’t listen to anything he says right now. He’s like a drunk person. He doesn’t know what he’s saying and he doesn’t know what he wants. Don’t try to talk to him about feelings or anything.”
(continued in part 3)
