“Bored. Bored. Bored.”
“That’s about sums it up, sweetie.” Duncan.
“Sorry, sweetie.” Me.
“No worries.” Duncan.
So, here we were. Empty nesters. Still faced with years and years and years together with no children as a buffer. I looked at Duncan. He looked at me. I said, “You need to go find a hobby.’”
Duncan whistled. “What the fuck? I’ve been waiting thirty-plus years for you to be my hobby again and suddenly you’re off the fucking table???”
“Lover, I’m tired. I’m bored. You’re going to have to come up with something that will float my boat again.”
“Fuck. OK. I’m off to the Internet.”
Four hours later Duncan came back and plopped his bony ass on the couch next to me. I turned off the TV. He began to read from his laptop:
“A sexual fetish specifically refers to a strong sexual preoccupation with an object, material, or body part. Examples of a fetish might be a person who is sexually turned on by feet, or silk, or high heels, or wearing women’s panties.”
He looked at me, a big grin plastered all over his face.
“What’s your point?”
“Slow down, I’m getting there!”
“OK. Read on.”
“I’m about to email you a fetish survey. I’d like for you to answer all of the questions as honestly as possible. I’m emailing the same survey to myself. I will answer all of the questions as honestly as possible.”
“And next weekend, we’ll get in the hot tub naked and compare what we’ve discovered about ourselves. If there’s common ground, we’ve got something to explore. If not, it looks like I have plenty of time to work on my golf game.”
Duncan stood up and made his way to the back door.
“Where are you going?” I wanted to know.
“To buy golf clubs. Just in case this doesn’t work out.”
I crossed my arms and fumed for a few minutes. Fetish? Golf? Fuck.
I just wanted a little excitement, some romance thrown in. Maybe a reminder from time to time that I mattered.
What the fuck did he want? Latex lingerie?
I turned the TV back on. It didn’t last long. A peek into a portion of my twisted partner’s mind waited for me in my email inbox. I had to look.
The email began:
As you are aware, I work in quantitative and qualitative analysis. In other words, professionally, I know how to ask questions and then derive some sort of strategy based on the responses from participants.
I would like for you to review the following questions. Give each of them thought. Then respond as truthfully as possible.
I assure you, that when we gather in the hot tub next weekend to review our answers, THERE WILL BE NO JUDGEMENT.
I can also assure you that we will come out of the hot tub next Sunday with a better understanding of who we share life and a bed with.
P.S.: No blushing!
“OK. I’ll play along,” I said aloud to the empty house.
Q1: Would you like to have sex via a live video feed?
What the fuck? You sick bastard. No. I don’t want to have sex via a live video feed. Scratch the “you sick bastard” part. No judgment…