The Surrendered Wife And Sex (And Me)

It’s a Saturday in the country of my exile. I slept poorly. There had been a lot of noise outside, loud music, a boy slugging a girl (as I found reported in the building’s WhatsApp group this morning). It seems a call was made to 911 (it’s a different 3-digit number in the country of my exile; I don’t know the number). I’m not bothered by such things. I fall asleep within 15 minutes under any circumstance. And I often wake up three hours later, for no reason but what’s going on in my own head.

I did my errands. I paid a visit to my father. I found him in his room, slumped forward in his wheelchair, wide awake, forehead resting on the shelf of a bookcase. Drool from his mouth had gathered into a small puddle on the floor. He said he couldn’t straighten himself. I helped him sit up, but I couldn’t keep him straight and he doubled up again. I alerted personnel busy in the common area. They said it wasn’t their business. They said this wasn’t the kind of thing that they were around for. I proceeded to the nurses’ station. They looked in on my father. They called another nurse who measured my father’s blood pressure and took his temperature. They said they’d be back, but they weren’t. If people could kill with a mere heartfelt mental effort, or by indifference, we would be reduced to ten million in a matter of days, and extinct one week later.

Ding ironing

I’ve got work to do. I have to clean up the place. I’m not sure why or how, but cleaning makes me horny. Years ago I bought The Surrendered Wife by Laura Doyle with nought but prurience in mind. It’s by far the most idiotic book I’ve ever purchased. As it turned out the author was a trifle too serious about her ‘woman as a subordinate being’ ideology to make the book a turn-on for a masochist like me. Anyway house-cleaning is a stimulus, and I have a feeling that the Womanizer Premium will be air-pulsing between my legs before I’ve finished a single room.

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