If you had to choose one flaw in a life partner, what would it be? A raw temper, or bad breath? Deep-set racial sentiments, or indifference towards the things that matter to you? Well…
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My husband left. Suddenly. I know it was all my fault. But I love him. I really do. I know I messed up. I need help. Maybe, you do too.
Barry was truly the classic example of a Mr Right. A studmuffin; handsome, with a muscular, well-carved, wrestler physique. He was God-fearing, caring, a good listener, and a great helpmate around the home. He was everything to me.
He was patient until I finished schooling, before popping the question. Our wedding was grand, our honeymoon, grander.
I had never experienced sex prior to my marriage. Honestly. I was nervous in the build-up towards my first encounter. I was told it would be painful, and that it could take me a while to get used to.
Not me. It was heaven right from day one. It was so good.
So good, that I wanted more. I wanted him to go on and on. I wanted him to be home all the time. I devoted a great deal of time ingesting all kinds of material to spice up that area of my life. The Kama Sutra was my Bible. I recited every page, and had day long videos of every position.
But Barry was not tagging along. I often complained about how much he was changing, and how little I benefited from his repeated calls of exhaustion.
I had him coming home from work twice daily, before the day ended, just for a good bonking. He made excuses at work, for my sake, and I enjoyed what I got.
I quit my job, as a banker, because I could not concentrate when all those thoughts were running through my mind. The voice of any man, his perfume and even his firm grip in a handshake could turn me on.
I looked on, as my hunk of a man became a scarecrow, then a broomstick, and later, a walking bag of bones. I didn’t care. I needed it. That was what marriage was all about, right?
We had graduated to a minimum of six times a day. When he really tried, we had about thirteen rounds – I helped him with drugs – he couldn’t keep up. He was usually lousy, and sometimes he even passed out. I was getting frustrated.
After about six months with this behaviour, he thought we should see a doctor : both of us. By this time his eyes were popping out, his cheeks were deeply sunken, and his ribs, set like a wasted pine tree. I agreed for his sake.
The doctor said he needed rest. He needed a break, a vacation from all the sex, work and chores. The doctor also pointed out that I also needed help.
Can you imagine? Who takes a vacation from marriage? When other men were celebrating their prowess in the bedroom, my husband’s waist was shrinking. And that is all a doctor could say? Really? Did Barry pay him to spew that rubbish?
I married a fierce black horse, not a despondent transparent tadpole, and I intended making sure that my investment paid off!
I tried all the aphrodisiacs and bitters that were advertised, to get him to work. I even bought a dildo to help him help me. Even then, all I ever heard was that he was tired. His anthem.
When he told me he had lost his job, I was happy on the inside. Now I had him all to myself. We were both jobless. I didn’t care. We had sex almost every thirty minutes, for about two weeks. By this time, he was using a walking stick, and overdosing on painkillers. No, I’m not joking.
I was disgusted.
I thought he was being lazy. After all, I gave him what every man wants from his wife. I was faithful, even after several chances for an affair. I was sexier than ever. And what did he give in return? If he was tired, did he expect me to go looking elsewhere?
After the duration, we run out of supplies for the home. I had to see an aunt that day for help with money.
When I returned, Barry was gone. He had packed, bag and baggage. He didn’t leave a note. I called every number I knew, including all his friends, whom I thought might help. But Barry was nowhere to be found. I must confess: all I had on my mind was my next bout of sex, and how selfish he was. He claimed he was weak and tired, so how did he manage to lift his suitcases? I really couldn’t process the event like a rational person should. Even for weeks after.
He has been gone for five years. I have not stopped searching. But I have needs. So, I got a houseboy, to help me pound fufu, and to cater for the other deed.
I have sought help with several counselors, some of whom ended up in bed with me. As for the pastors, uncountable. I have seen several psychologists, and still, my longest stretch without sex has been four weeks; and the men I meet get surprised that I’m not after their money. I have slept with over two hundred and sixty different men. And no, I’m not HIV positive.
But I miss Barry. After five years and an avalanche of therapy, I realize that I may have a problem. Now, I care. I am willing to work on it, but I want him back. I will do anything he wants. Life and marriage is more than just sex. Even if he has remarried, I want him back. I’m so sorry for my flaws. I never, ever thought that this was a disease. Who could have predicted this?
Barry, if you are reading this, I want you to know that you are still my heartbeat, my soul mate, my gumdrop. I really love you, and I was wrong to equate sex with love. I knew neither before I met you. Now I know both, because of you. Please come home Barry.
I’m sorry. Forgive me.
– For Ever or Worse
– A Case of Nymphomania
– Based on a true story