5. He was great at shopping. I know that is a stereotype, but it is true. We spent a stupid amount of money. I did not want to “deal” with the finances therefore I had no idea how much debt we were in until we were in the divorce lawyer’s office. We would spend money on entertainment, trips, gifts, and other just plain stuff in the hopes it would distract us from the fact we were not really getting along. This was especially true towards the end. I keep wondering if we were happier when we were both poor and heavy together. It was when we both slimmed down (he more than me) and started making some real money did we pull apart. I say that knowing that he was always gay; he was just too fat and poor (for his liking) to be of the “elite” gay. Only when he was slim and rich did he believe a man could want him. I know the feeling.
6. He had a makeover. His appearance and clothes changed dramatically in about the last two to four years we were married, especially the last two. He lost about seventy pounds through The Atkins Diet that he followed religiously and running on a treadmill 3-5 days a week. To me he was never “fat.” He just had the Midwestern “chubby hubby” look a lot of men get in their thirties. He was a bit nerdy when I met him. He was a chemical engineer when I met him and looked the part. He dressed very plainly but not too terribly, wore glasses, and had some acne issues. He did go to an engineering conference once and his co-workers teased him about being the “best dressed engineer.” I just laughed it off, considering the source. About year eight, after the miscarriage and the beginning of the bad and infrequent sex, he went on some serious anti-acne meds, started using “product” in his hair, went from an $8 haircut to $25, and his clothes were no longer just khakis, jeans, and polos from JC Penny. He began to wear dress slacks, designer jeans, and various shirt options from the likes of Nordstrom and Calvin Kline. My wardrobe did not change a lot. Sure I went from a size 24 to a size 18 but I still had to buy “plus-sized” clothing so I did not think I deserved (or could purchase) anything as nice as his. I thought if I got down to a size 14 or 12, then I would EARN my way to designer clothes.
See this self-worth theme keep cropping up? I believed he was better than me and deserved nicer things. He made more money, he had lost the weight and I did not. No wonder he gets to have nicer clothes and does not want to make love to me anymore.
7. He was WAY too into Halloween. I love Halloween and we had the BEST time coming up with our costumes each year. You read about “Count Cockula.” Should have known…. Anyway, we often would come up with very clever “couple” costumes. We were Mardi Gras revelers once with masks; we were “victims of downsizing” where we dressed up like office zombies. That was fun. We were the Witches of the East and West from “The Wizard of Oz” where I was the Wicked Witch of the West with green make up and a broom and he was The Wicked Witch of the East where he wore a cardboard house over his body and just green and white stockings and red ruby slippers. It was brilliant, but you would think a man that knows that much about The Wizard of Oz might have been “A friend of Dorothy.” Once again, a stereotype, but sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason.
8. He was never that into my body. I am not saying he was “bad in bed.” I am not. Consider how “skilled” a man can become when he is desperately trying to cover up such a deep, dark secret. For years, he was so good that I thought his homosexuality was all in MY head. He just did not have the same, let’s say, enthusiasm about the female form that I have found in other straight lovers. He did not hunger for my body like other men seem to. This hunger sometimes embarrasses me as a grown woman. Perhaps when I was young and innocent with a lot of hang ups about sex and my own body I could not handle “the hunger”. I cannot help but wonder if I was complicit in some way that I married a gay man and let it go on for so many years because of my own shame issues.
Sex is not everything, but in this arena, a more experienced woman would have picked up on some clues. I was not “technically” a virgin, but pretty close. For about six to eight years, roughly, or sex life was pretty good. People ask me about this all the time. Yes, he turned out to be gay, but he was attracted to me at first and could perform for many years with me without the help of porn, Viagra or anything. He was attracted to me physically, could maintain an erection and we did have a pleasing sex life for about half our marriage. It was sweet and tender.
I do not want to get into too many details. It would be tacky and take away from the magic that was the early years of our marriage. Like I have said before, I loved this man and he loved me. I would hazard to say that we still love each other and always will at least in some form. People say I am “too easy” on him and should be way more angry. I am, but we knew each other like husband and wife for many years. I am so sad that he had to keep this greatest secret from me. I do believe we were soul mates. Maybe soul mates do not have to be married or even live in the same town to have that special connection. That is why I defend him is because he is still a part from me. Even with all that, now that I have been exposed to what real love can be like, I resent him not giving his all to me.
Towards the end, he rarely looked at my body while we making love. Although he did find me aseptically pleasing in the nice clothes that he would choose for me.
Too Much Information Warning!!!!
The last year of our marriage he could only respond to be was if he took me from behind. The longest time we did not indulge in this position. At the end this was the only way I could make him come or even keep him hard (other than with my mouth). He could only get off if he did not have to look at my breasts or face. Don’t get me wrong, like many girls we like it doggie style every once and awhile, but all the time it can make a girl wonder. Actually, it destroyed me. I was really picking up on the idea that he no longer desired me. He really, really would prefer a man and do things with men only men could do. No wonder how sweet I was, how thin, how pretty I was or could become, and I could not make him want me.
9. He always made me initiate. In his own words he said if we ever had sex it was because I initiated 95% of the time. He said he had sex with me to make me happy. I told him not to bother. He made me feel like a wanton whore just for wanting my husband. Men who have tried to love me have to undo a lot of bad programming.
10. Never jealous. Men can sense if they have a chance with a woman or not. Her marital status is immaterial. She does not have to do anything to warrant this attention. Her availability is subconscious. Maybe it is pheromones, maybe it is the evolutionary hunger that women have too to procreate and her body sends out all kinds of signals to eligible, viable, viral men to alert them to her fertility. Her body is letting the world know that she has eggs ready and available and they are not being fertilized by her chosen mate. Her body is telling any man in a certain radius, “touch me, fill me, make me happy and I will make you happy.” It is chemical; it is psychological, and rather subversive. We cannot help it. The only thing to stop this hunger, the growling emptiness of our womanhood is to love your woman and fuck her properly and often. That will keep the wolves and her own appetite at bay.
I told my husband about men that were hitting on me making me nervous. I told him about his own friends making passes at me. I even told him about a rather humiliating, frightening sexual harassment issue at work and he did absolutely nothing. He never defended me. He did not want me, why would he think any other man would. Maybe he secretly thought if I were getting it somewhere else that meant he would not have to and I will stay out of guilt.
11. Everyone knew but me. There were some that suspected form the very beginning, but he cleverly covered his inclinations and quelled suspicions. He was a marvelous actor. He was always the consummate game player. He knew the game he was playing; he was in control of all the pieces and knew how to win. What was the prize? Was keeping the secret the prize? Not fulfilling his true nature, finding someone (who would have to be a man) that would make him truly happy the prize? Was I the prize? The trophy? No, sadly, I think I was just “the beard.” I hate that word. It hurts me, but it is true.
12. He was willing to give me away. The last party we attended as a couple was, ironically, a Halloween party at our friend’s house who was gay in a gay neighborhood. I was one of only about four girls in a part of over 40 men. Several guys came up to me and asked if my husband was bi. They asked me this to my face. I was pretty much a stranger. I knew the host and a few other people. Maybe they thought that it was so obvious my husband was gay/bi that I had to know and therefore not a shock if they asked. Maybe they assumed I was okay with it. I was asked by about five different people to be in a threesome. They thought my husband and I were cute and would like to “try out” a woman. There were also a few guys there that were previously with women and even had children with these girls. Often, they did not have full custody. One guy said, “If I liked pussy, I’d start with yours.” He then proceeded to touch my breasts like they were just open to everyone like cantaloupe at a fruit stand. Okay, they are more the size of grapefruit, but you get the idea. One older guy dressed up as a priest pulled me in by my collar and kissed me, with tongue, in front of several guests in the kitchen. He did not care. Yes, everyone was drinking, but still, huge faux pas. Obviously he did not see my husband as a threat. Upon leaving he came up to my husband and said “You’ve got one firecracker of a wife there.” I believe under most circumstances behavior like that could get you a stern talking to by the husband/boyfriend if not a trip to the hospital. If you love a woman, you don’t just give her away. We “broke up” thirteen days later. It was the beginning of the end.