Why I Can't Rape My Wife

The most embarassing moment of my life was a direct result of kinky sex.
Truth be told, most of the embarassing moments in my life have been a result of kinky sex, or from attempting to have kinky sex, or while attempting to purchase the implements that kinky sex required. Truth be told, almost any incident in my life could be boiled down to the quest for kinky sex, including trips to the grocery store and reading the Wall Street Journal.
And yet I digress. The moment was this:
I was involved in a deep rape fantasy with my then-girlfriend. We were involved in a date-rape fantasy, which is the most popular kind of rape fantasy, if only because all the others involve standing in your garden at midnight, attempting to explain to your neighbors why you’re dressed in all-black clothing and a ski mask.
And yet I digress.
So there she was; I was brutalizing her soft, pale body, pinning her hands to the mattress as I thrust into her. Her hips writhed as she tried to escape, but I simply bore all my weight down upon her. “No,” she moaned softly, urgently. “Stop. Oh God, stop. Please. You’re hurting me….”
Forgetting where I was, I heard myself saying in a voice astoundingly like “Opie” from the Andy Griffith Show: “What is it, honey? Are you all right?”
We were both astonished.
She transfixed me with a withering glare, and in clipped tones informed me, “I was ACTING, you IDIOT.”
It was kind of hard to recover from that moment. We tried, but it was never the same. Actually, from that moment on our sex life was never the same; the false rape having shattered something between us, she eventually left me, moved back to Connecticut, and has now been dating the same man for a year now where, I can only assume, they are happily raping each other every night.
But that’s the problem with kinky sex. I’ve always wanted to be the High Lord of Depravity, but being fundamentally lazy and naïve, I’ve come to realize that frankly, kinky sex is just too much work. Kinky sex is like performing on stage; everyone wants to play in the band, but nobody wants to get there an hour and a half early, drag all of your shit into the bar, test the mikes, say “check” about four zillion times, tune the guitars, do an impromptu rendition of “Johnny B. Goode,” wait two hours for the customers to show up, tune again, take down your instruments, remove all the wiring, pack it out into your cars, bring it home, and then go back to the bar and try to pick up the two chicks who might even vaguely remember who the fuck you were.
That’s why roadies are hired. It’s not that it involves talent; it’s just that the band can’t get laid when they’re hauling bass drums out to the car. And yet I digress.
No, wait. I don’t digress. Because kinky sex is like setting up that stage.
Regular ol’ sex is hassle-free; all you need is a set of genitalia and a dream. You don’t need licorice whips, you can leave ol’ Spot out in the kitchen, keep the rubber sheets in the closet and the PVC pipe in the back shed – to simply fuck, suck, or backdoor it requires nothing more than the body’s adorable floppy bits. Sex is spontaneous; you can do it anywhere, anytime, at the drop of a hat. You can even fuck with your hat on – a testament to informal sex if ever there was one.
And two-person sex is variety – sure, essentially it all comes down to “Tab A into Slot B,” but there are a multitude of slots and tabs in each human body. Trying to figure out how many ways you can fuck one person is like solving a moist, wet Rubik’s Cube. Hmm, hands into assholes? Penises between the feet? Pussies on faces? Mouths on elbows? YAHTZEE!
All of this without adding a single element… But I will admit that there’s only a couple of really good positions. A lot of the more interesting sexual positions require three years’ worth of ballet training to properly maintain a grand plie on top of your partner’s face while he quivers in a reverse bicycle position and makes conducting motions.
You will never pull a hamstring in the missionary position, which is why people like it – the guys who wrote the Kama Sutra had their heads up their asses. Literally.
And yet I digress.
Now, let’s take kinky sex. Now you have to add something to your fucking – which could be many things. It could be a third partner you’re looking for, or maybe a set of leather manacles and rope gags. Or maybe it’s a fourth partner and a pair of black high heels. Or a fifth partner and a relatively docile horse. Or if you’re really over the edge, it could be a sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth partner and a large ballroom with a low security deposit and a set of sturdily-locked doors. It doesn’t matter.
Suddenly you’ve gone from watching “Survivor” in bed to trying to arrange a naked production of “Guys And Dolls.” Who wants all that work?
Not to mention the embarassment if something goes wrong. “Um… What do you mean you don’t want an orgy? Fred, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve already fucked your wife… You want mine?”
So most folks have kinky sex once in awhile, but the effort limits it to a monthly activity at best.
I think there should be a kinky sex van that roams around the neighborhood like an ice-cream truck – but instead of a white van that plays “Pop Goes The Weasel,” it should be a jet-black limo with a stereo system blaring “Pull Up To The Bumper.” The kinky sex van would cruise through the neighborhood as adults flocked out of the house and ran after it. Eventually – because the Kinky Sex Driver would be like all sadistic fucking ice cream drivers, who would drive an extra fifty miles just to watch the kids collapse in exhaustion behind them like the Bataan Death March – it would pull over, and everyone would get their wish.
For a mere fifty dollars, the Kinky Sex Van Driver would walk into your home, chloroform your kids, tie your wife to the bed in a very professional manner, and walk out, leaving you to fuck with eagerness and joy. When you were done, he’d come in, gently untie all concerned, collect all of the chains, clean up the chocolate sauce and whipped cream – and leave, saving you all of the effort. If you wanted extra partners, there they’d be in a box in the back! Not prostitutes, mind you, but just happy-go-lucky folks who liked to have random sex with droopy middle-aged fat people. The prices would be stencilled on the side of the van in hot pink lettering: “Threesome, $150. Massively hung black guy ass-fucking your wife: $250. Enemas: $50 for straight enema, $300 if you want to drink the bag.”
The Kinky Sex Van would make life easier for all concerned, saving people the time and trouble of collecting their own equipment – but dammit, my botched attempt to start the Kinky Sex Van was shut down by a lawsuit from Dominos. Apparently they claimed exclusive privileges for delivering sausage to people’s houses.
Anyway, there’s your problem: Kinky sex is extra effort.
Now shall we get into the various difficulties in specific? I believe we can.
Bondage. There’s three types of bondage: Cheap, moderate, and fucking scary.
Cheap Bondage doesn’t work, and Nike Velcro shoes prove it.
For those of you not in the know (or, perhaps more accurately, “knot in the now”), the fold-’em-shut shoes have been Nike’s topseller for some time, outselling the shoelaced versions by a two-to-one margin. And this is not just among younger folks; older people like ’em for one big reason:
Nobody can tie their fucking shoelaces right.
Turns out that people really don’t like having their shoelaces flopping behind ’em like used tampon strings – so they’re not buying them.
Now. Your feet aren’t naked and struggling like mad, moaning and desperately trying to escape your sneakers.
Here’s the secret of cheap bondage: Your partner’s faking it. That ad-libbed knot at the right bedpost slipped twenty minutes ago, and he’s been working overtime to keep his hand in place. That blindfold-cum-scarf? She’s been peeking out from under since you started. Unless you’re some kind of sadistic boy scout, your trivial attempts at impromptu bondage are doomed to failure. You need the professional equipment, pal.
Moderate Bondage is where you finally take the leap and purchase professional equipment – manacles, leather gags, whips, and the like. This provides approximately three hours of fun and two years of terror.
The fun is when you bring all of your lovely glittering merchandise home and really go to town. This is when you really need a safe word, because your partner is genuinely immobilized and you can do anything you want. Woo hoo!
Then you’re sitting on the bed in a puddle of sweat, rubbed-off skin, and fluids that were really interesting when they were body temperature but are just kind of icky now… And you’re wondering where the fuck you’re supposed to stash all of this stuff.
Suddenly you have three hundred dollars’ worth of bondage starter equipment, and where the hell do you put it? You can’t just leave it fastened to the bed… People might drop by. And hey, you want your friends to think you’re open-minded – but half a grand worth of sex toys is not an open mind, it’s an open sewer. You might as well just declare “PERVERT” on your 1040: “Bondage and sundry expenses for 2001: $500.”
But hey – seeing your boyfriend hunched over with a lit candle up his ass?
Anyway, so you spend a half an hour agreeing on a good hiding place – back of the closet is standard – and another half an hour unlocking everything and putting it in a box, and then, say, ten minutes to pile a bunch of innocuous-looking suitcases and blankets on top of it.
So what happens the next time you wanna play “Goldfinger” in your boudoir?
An hour’s worth of work. The set-up. The tear-down. Everybody wants the parade but nobody wants to build the floats, so pretty soon you just give it up except for special occasions. And even then you flip a coin to see who puts the chains away.
Isn’t there some sort of pervert maid service I can hire so I can just knot my wife down and not have to worry? “Submissives Maid Service – We’ll lick your windows clean!”
And if you forget to take ’em off and have small children wandering amuck… Well, let’s just put it this way. My wife once had to explain that the four sets of chains on the bed were to punish our new puppy, who had taken to wandering about the house at night.
Thank God the kid bought it.
(Incidentally, slutty chicks and sleazy guys often leave the ropes on the bed on purpose in order to seduce anyone who walks in through the door. They think it’s coquettish and sexy – and it is. Be warned, however, that traditionally the people who keep the ropes on the bed are the ones who “forget” your safe words and abuse you waaaay beyond the points you wanna go. Seriously.)
Fucking Scary. You now own so much equipment that you need a separate room for it. You have the X-frame, the suspension bar from the ceiling, the spanking bench and the rubber sheets. You have a sturdy padlock on the dungeon room. You have bondage parties.
You also have an utter inability to get off without three feet of horse leather down your throat and a cat-o’-nine tails stitching wounds in your back.
Houston, we have a problem.
Photos And Videos. In this new era of Polaroids and digital cameras, there are now more ways to humiliate your ex-boyfriend or ex-girlfriend than ever before! May I suggest consumptionjunction.com?
Anal Sex. Hey, is this kinky? I never realized. Stop that, honey.
Piercing And Tattoos. Been there, done that.
Open Relationships. “Hey! Let’s fuck other people!”
This is generally said by fairly hip folks. And it’s a logical thing: Eventually, no matter how great it is, you get tired of filet mignon every single night. And if you’re both sexually open, why not get a little on the side and come back? It’s just sex, after all. And you’ve been dating for long enough that maybe it’s time to explore Other Options.
If you don’t understand this concept at all, date more women. For a lot longer. It’ll come to you, I promise.
But if you do understand what I’m saying, and you’re considering kicking your relationship to the next level, then there’s only one question that should be going through your mind right now:
If this is such a great idea, why don’t more people do it?
The answer is because it’s tougher than you think.
The problem is that sex is really sort of messy. There are those people who are fearless and can totally separate fucking from emotion… But they are by far in the minority. Most people have love, sex, and self-esteem wrapped up in one big Gordian knot that’s difficult to unwind.
And open relationships are inherently unbalanced, because there will be one partner who is more in demand at any particular time. And unless you’re very self-confident, it’s going to be nerve-wracking when everyone wants to fuck your boyfriend and you’re standing out in the cold. Staying at home alone nights when Your Woman is getting shafted at someone else’s house is a test of willpower that most cannot overcome.
And then there’s the fuck factor. You may well be able to say, “Sure, he may have a dick the size of a subway and he makes her wetter than George Clooney’s face in The Perfect Storm and she fucks him for fourteen hours straight while I’m lucky to last fourteen seconds… But she really loves ME!” But most people can’t. Most people can’t stand the fact that Someone Else Is Better At This.. And every new partner is better at first thanks to the novelty factor. Two months down the line you’ll have realized that Samsa the Russian Bride isn’t nearly as good a cocksucker as you thought… But by then your wife can’t put a hand down your pants without thinking, “Boy, I suck at this – or do I blow? Either applies.”
And shall we throw one more factor into this, my friends? Sexuality is intimacy. I myself have separated love from fucking with extreme ease… But that post-sex cuddle is a level of bonding. Those who are naïve at relationships are rapidly going to find themselves entangled.
Generally, there’s only two types of people who can have open relationships well:
The Pathetic. Generally, these are guys with huge egos who date women with low self-esteem… And NO sex drive. Women in these relationships tend to approach sex with the same enthusiasm they take towards changing the kitty litter – God, do I have to? Generally, sex in these relationships tends to be negotiated… Which is a nice way of saying, “He begs for it.”
Thus, the Man With The Roving Ego gets to go about seducing as many women as he wants, all the while bragging how amazingly cosmopolitan and open-minded he is. And why shouldn’t he brag? He’s never going to have to ante up. His wife is happy that she doesn’t have to do it. But if he ever encounters a man who turns his wife into a carnal, cock-munching fuckslut, ten’ll get you five that suddenly his tune changes.
(Be warned also that men like this are more than willing to swap partners. They know you’re getting the short end of this deal, because your girlfriend will be humping and pumping like she was a dancer on Soul Train – and his SO will be lying there like the outcome of a recent taxidermy experiment. Trust me, I’ve done it twice – I know.)
The Fucksluts. I include these not because this is the measure of a long-term relationship, but because they tend to pop up with astounding frequency. They live with each other but like fucking other people. They seem to be happy, but eventually they get bored with each other and move on – or, more tragically, discover that their eternally-creepy friendship has left them utterly isolated and they’re all they have left.
If you meet two people who have been intending to get married for a year or more but can’t afford it yet, stay away.
The Open. God bless these people. Wish there were more of them. They’re totally healthy, psychologically-fit folks who truly do feel a deep bond for each other and never seem to need any reassurance. Nothing seems to rattle them. “Honey? I think I’m switching religions.” “Love you!” “I’m becoming a cannibal.” “Love you!” “I’ve just become a lesbian – and I’m a man!” “Love you!” “I’m leaving for twenty years to go on a secret mission to save the universe, and when I come back I’ll be a paraplegic, six years younger than when I started out, and my penis will be growing out of my forehead.” “Love you! See you when you get back!”
These people are so rare. They’re an inspiration. Having two of them dating each other is even rarer. And I’m telling you: If you’re fucked up enough to be reading this and laughing, this isn’t you.
Wife-Swapping. Hey, isn’t this the same as an open relationship?
Nah. Here’s the difference between Wife-Swapping and an Open Relationship: By the time you get to wife-swapping, you could fucking care less.
Open relationships are done early on, when couples are trying to get over the boredom. By the time you get to wife-swapping, my god, fucking your wife is like screwing a piece of breathing meat – there are no surprises left. Your wife could lay on her back in bed, her legs spread, farting “Yankee Doodle Dandy” with a sparkler in her pussy and a raw eighteen-inch kielbasa poking out of her throat, and you’d just yawn and say, “Been there.”
Likewise, you could twist your dick into a small, pony-shaped balloon that you separated from your body while it galloped around the room and she’d just file her nails.
Wife-swapping is when the ego goes.
Don’t believe me? Look through the personal ads. The real ones. They’re all from couples in their mid-40s – sure, you’ll see a couple of ads from folks who claim to be in their twenties or thirties, but talk to them and you’ll hear the rattling throatboxes of some aging Baby Boomers.
Essentially, wife-swapping is saying, “Well, we’re not attractive to anyone else anymore… But to OTHER saggy baggy old people, we’re new meat!”
And studies have shown that there’s far more wife-swapping in America than anyone talks about – mostly among late-middle-aged couples who have swap meets in their homes on quiet Friday nights. There have been movies made about this. Studies. All across America, right now as we speak, there are wrinkly flabby unattractive people furtively humping their brains out like they were teenagers.
And God bless ’em.
I just love the idea of a bunch of just-under-fiftysomethings, getting those last mad fucks in before their bodies finally betray them – guys getting hardons in ways they haven’t seen in twenty years, aging matrons getting attention lavished on ’em like they were in high school. For the first and perhaps last time, they can have fuckfrenzies with each other like they did in high school.
It reestablishes my faith in humanity. It really does.