I got married on the very day it first became legal last summer. During our four years of dating prior the Supreme Court’s ruling, my now-husband constantly badgered to do stuff in bed with him that in my opinion, as a Christian, was just too way, way immorally out there — a degenerate “boi-whore” I wasn’t raised to be.
The only thing that held “Mike” at bay was me promising him that if Texas ever made it actually legal for two men to marry, I’d then do every twisted thing he wanted of me to his depraved heart’s desire; meanwhile, until that day came (not!), my freak-in-the-sheets’ flavor of choice would remain plain vanilla. For emphasis, I even outstretched my left hand and steeled, “I’ll require a ring on this first, mister, too, before even considering any of your filthy honey pot extras.”
Well, flash forward to present-day, and my newlywed husband’s “imagination” behind closed doors with me, of course, has far exceeded anything he’d previously winked-and-grinned at me to expect back when he initially dropped down on bended-knee before me. I’m afraid if I tell him, “No!” ever in bed these days, though — any further rebuffs might eventually lead to Mike instead, possibly, working late, and all that “working late” implies. I love him and don’t want to lose him, but the sex stuff is just too… too. What do I do now? — Neal
Dear Nelly Mae,
Sweet mother of matrimony, you whiny boi-lemming, you, just shut … the… haughty … fuck… up! This little “morally horrified, Maria-from-the-convent-high-ground” shtick of yours ain’t gonna fly with dear Howard here — nor, clearly, with your sexually raunchy new husband, who knows you even better than I, thank heaven. Call me old-school, Miss Nelly — I mean, Neal — but, textually, any private-life activities involving legally wed spouses (short of, oh, engaging in a ménage-a-trois with, say, a minor, or any kind of non-consensual violence) is fair game. You set the conditions of sexual obedience when you set marriage as the benchmark and now you want to renege; sounds to me like you obligated yourself to keep your husband singularly satisfied whenever you’re alone behind vaulted doors, buck-nekkid with his erection bouncing high as an elephant’s eye. Otherwise, your promise was an empty as your protestations now seem. Obey and enjoy your nuptial partner, honey; after all, it’s his golden ring of avowed fidelity that glints — legally betrothed now! — from that piously-manicured, left ring-finger of yours, Nell — Neal, I mean.
I’m a heterosexually-married man; I dabble a bit on the side with play toys of my same gender. My own two children are grown now anyhow and away at college, but my wife, I’m certain, is herself diddling some practically-gay muscle-schmuck one cul-de-sac over. He’s practically a caricature of gym-obsessed narcissism — this freak has protruding nipples practically the size of elevator buttons, ’roided-up biceps and a perennial bulge in his pants like he’s smuggling a python… Not that such facts excus the cheating witch. What strategy should I take? — Frank
Contraband reptiles in the britches of your wife’s boy-toy aside, to be dabbling “a bit” on the down-low with fellow males yourself leads dear Howard here to suggest the following placating solution: Either you perhaps tag-team with your wife the bicep-bulging, Otis-nippled serpent packer who resides merely one cul-de-sac over — whose packaged, coiled appendage clearly strikes salivating fangs in you both — or you continue fucking whatever local rental dicks you enjoy on the sly, and allow your wife to enjoy her own penile conquests minus your jealousy.
— Howard Lewis Russell
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This article appeared in the Dallas Voice print edition March 25, 2016.