Fantasizing About a Secret Lover While Making Love to My Spouse

Does this make me a bad person?

Yes, I know I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t not do it. My fantasy is the only thing that gets me through sex. My imagination gives me the strength to continue when reality demands something else.

We see stories of sexual fantasies and, yes, some talk about making it with strangers. A secret tryst behind our partner’s back isn’t new. But what about what I do? I’m using someone else’s face to get through a lame cycle of sexual dutifulness and routine.

This is not cheating. I just have to imagine being with someone else to be with my spouse. As long as the fantasy stays inside my head, it doesn’t exist outside it. No harm is done. Everyone is safe, right?

For nine years of my ten-year marriage, I had to imagine I was doing it to someone else. I wasn’t sexually attracted to my spouse anymore. I hated sex. To get turned on, I had to pretend I was making out with someone else to get in the mood. I imagined a different face on my spouse’s head so I could enjoy myself. It kept me relatively sane during a tough time.

Hated is not a strong enough word.

When I said I hated having sex, I meant to say that I utterly despised it. She controlled the sex in our marriage. As her husband, I cringed at what happened in our bedroom.

I bet that surprised you, didn’t it?

Men do get into this cycle too.

She’d pick the one day of the year when she wanted sex, get herself sorted out quickly and then push me away. She was cold, insensitive and sexually selfish. There was no negotiating with her. It was her way or no way at all. So while I despised the process, I couldn’t be without it. One short time a year was better than none at all. All I had to do to make things happen was pretend she was someone else when doing it.

You wouldn’t think it to look at her. To everyone else, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. In fact, she’s a decent human being. Bedroom issues aside, she’s a compassionate, empathic and kind person. When it comes to sex and romance, she’s a control freak. “No” was her favourite word. And then she allowed two loveless minutes a year. And then she wanted me to be gracious about it.

This bizarre dichotomy between the warm human being outside the bedroom and the cold lover inside it did my head in.

After our first anniversary, I got the deal. Our sex was so infrequent and brief that I could see the pattern forming. I came to crave sex more — but then hated doing it with her when it finally happened. The fantasy faces I made to replace hers got me by. As my seething grew, I became vengeful with my choice of imaginary lovers. I asked myself: “If Samantha were to catch me in bed with another woman, which one of them would crush her the most?” This woman would be the one I’d come to use each time we had sex. More love was made to her than to my wife.

And then there was the real-life affair I had with a living woman during our seventh year.

As you’d expect, all that domestic coldness left me wanting, so I decided to take a real lover and find out what real sex was like. I won’t lie about this next part. It was the best decision I ever made. It was nothing short of exquisite. Every bit of stifled emotion and repressed sexual thought was set free.

It was lust. She, too, had been alone and lonely.

I used her body and didn’t care what I did to it. She was pushed, yanked, poked, thrown, held down and made to do my bidding my way and in my time. I used her for hours at a time. She had no choice. None at all. The irony was that she lapped it up. She wasn’t disapproving. My imposing presence was even appreciated. But she mistook my aggression for passion. Little did she know that I was walking an extremely thin psychological line each time I bedded her. It took all of my inner strength to keep the Beast from rising and devouring her. He was there inside me, watching everything I did from behind my eyes.

Why was I like that with Nina? She did nothing wrong. In fact, she did everything right. She was exactly what I needed at the time I needed it. It was me. I’d been caged for so long that when I was released, I ran as hard and fast as I could for as long as I dared to. So much anger was released. I took my long-held fury out on Nina and expected her to yield when it got too much for her to bear. I wanted her to scream: “No! Please! No more! No!”

But it never happened.

Too much wasn’t enough. Nina didn’t seem to have an end.

It’s funny how a tumultuous marriage can turn our lives upside down. This careless, brutal lover I found inside me wasn’t the real me. I’ve never been a violent man. I’ve respected my sexual partners — perhaps to a fault. It might explain my wife’s behaviour. I knew what “No” meant. I practised it often. But she took advantage of it, and me. There are consequences to this action. Forcing our partners not to have sex is just as bad as making them do it when they don’t want to.

Rape is pure evil, but sexual denial isn’t seen as anything. It’s not considered abuse. Victims don’t exist, and the Law doesn’t need to protect people from what isn’t illegal. If you suffer, then you suffer on your own and then figure out ways to cope alone.

Nina’s body was found last night.

Before you ask, no, it wasn’t me. I left her long before the thunderstorm started. I had an early start this morning and couldn’t stay. I suspect her disgruntled ex-husband was nearby. She did some nasty things to him when she left their marital home. She took their daughter and quite a bit of his money. She laughed when she told me she grabbed his new golf clubs and barbecue on the way out. She came out as the victor, and he would’ve been pissed about it. Like me, there’s only so much pushing that can be applied before something or someone pushes back.

What’s that sound? Oh, there’s a knock on my door. Sorry, I have to go. We’ll pick this up later.

–Mitchell