Sally and David

Ten years into our marriage, life—and particularly our sex life—had flatlined into the mundane. It wasn’t a deliberate failure on anyone’s part; we fell into the trap of excessive comfort. Our intimacy had dwindled to a rare, monthly occurrence that felt perfunctory—a box to be checked rather than a hunger to be fed. It stood in stark contrast to our early years, which were explosive, a time when we couldn't keep our hands off each other.

Work certainly played a role. Sally, my wife, is an executive at an oil firm in London, a position that demands grueling hours and heavy responsibility in exchange for a substantial paycheck. I’m a digital ad designer, working primarily from my home office, here in Chatham. While the pay is good, the solitude leaves me with too much free time. When my mind wanders, I inevitably drift toward corners of the internet I probably shouldn't visit. The result is predictable: I jerk off—a lot, which is how I ended up on the wrong end of an argument with Sally.

It was one of those rare instances when Sally arrived home from work earlier than usual, catching me completely off guard. She hadn't called or texted to warn me, and as a result, I was in the midst of a solo session, shorts around my ankles, hand cream, and tissues at the ready. The computer screen displayed models in leather and whips, not my typical preference, but where my wandering mind had led me. I was deep into it, eyes closed, fantasizing, and nearing the edge when her voice shattered the moment.

"What the fuck are you doing? You fucking pervert!”

 Sally's scream made me jump, spinning the chair around and exposing my near-nakedness.

 A wad of tissues barely concealed my rapidly softening erection. I stared at her, stunned.

"I work all the hours God sends, and you're at home wanking off like a little teenager," she spat, her anger palpable. It had been a long time since I'd seen her this furious. When we last argued about her parents, I thought she might leave me then.

“No wonder you never want to fuck when I do,” she snarled, her eyes flashing with anger.

"That's a low blow," I thought, feeling a surge of irritation.

I yanked up my shorts, trying to regain some dignity, but she wasn't done yet.

“And when we do, it's like you don't even know what you're doing,” she spat out, her voice dripping with contempt.

That was too much. "She's going way too far," I fumed internally.

“Hold on a minute,” I snapped back, my voice tight with anger. “You're being a bitch. You've never said anything like this before.”

She rolled her eyes, a smug smirk on her face. “Maybe I just didn't want to crush your fragile ego. I know you can't handle the truth.”

The way she said "fragile" was like a punch to the gut, and I could feel my temper boiling over.

“Listen, Sally, so what? I jerk off on my own. Maybe if you paid more attention to me instead of working all those damn hours, I wouldn't have to. You've got assistants who can handle half that work for you,” I snapped, feeling my face flush with anger. “And when you are home, you're glued to your fucking laptop all night.”

“You never complain about spending the money I earn, do you? I bet you never think about how many hours I work for that,” 

I continued stepping forward to confront her directly, ready for a showdown.

She didn't back down. Her eyes narrowed, and her voice was sharp as a knife. “Maybe I just didn't want to hurt your feelings. You're so damn sensitive about these things.”

The tension between us was palpable, the air thick with unresolved issues and pent-up frustration. I could see the storm brewing in her eyes, and I knew she was on the verge of exploding. And then, without warning, her hand flew across my face, the slap echoing in the room.

I stared at her in shock, my hand instinctively going to my stinging cheek. Neither of us had ever resorted to violence before, even in our worst arguments. I stood there, rubbing my face, as she turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, then out of the front door. I managed to get to the door just in time to see her Peugeot pulling out of the drive, leaving me standing there in stunned silence.

I waited a couple of hours before calling her, hoping the time would give us both a chance to cool down. The call went straight to voicemail, and when I dialed her office, all I got was an out-of-office message. Anxiety started to creep in, and I couldn't shake the thought of her driving angry. I was about to start calling the police and hospitals when my phone buzzed with a text from her.

“Going to spend the night in a hotel. I need to calm down. We'll talk tomorrow. Please don't call, give me time to clear my mind. Just know I love you.”

I stared at the screen, hoping for more, but the message remained terse. I spent a restless night alone in our bed, the silence and emptiness amplifying the room's size. My mind raced, replaying the events of the day, and I couldn't help but think, "I shouldn't have let it get like that. If only I had kept my temper in check."

The next day, I threw myself into work, trying to catch up and tidy the house, a habit I always fell into after our arguments. I don't know if Sally ever noticed, but it was my way of coping, of trying to make things right even when the words were hard to find.