#goonernation

recently my girlfriend scolded me over sharing my sexual proclivities online. now i'm thinking of leaving her. in feminist spaces it's all "women should have sexual freedom" this, "women diserve rights" that, but what about men? why am i to no longer talk about cookie time monster porn? i think my girlfriend is trying to shame me into no longer sharing this part of myself, like a 17th century lesbian joining a convent to avoid heterosexual marriage. or perhaps a 50's house wife who hasn't had any touch in 5 years whilst her husband spends all of his freetime with his best friend tim "fighting the commies". he is always so tired after the commie fighting, and he can never look at me in the eyes until dinner. The other day I commented on how tidily he tucks in his shirt, but the comment threw him into a furious frenzy!

"I AIN'T NO HOMO, DARLA! WHY I OUGHTA-" He flinched towards me before gathering himself and his expression softened into one of concern as his skin drained of blood, turning pale as fine china. He extended an apologetic hand towards me, but I turned from him.

"...Why don't you cool off, fight some commies with Tim, why dont'cha?" The words slithered from my mouth colder than I intended, and in the reflection of our marriage portrait I could see how how they cut him like knife through luncheon salad.

"Darla I-" He said apologetically, like a child after disappointing his mother, however my back remained turned from him. He quietly skulked away and out of the front door. As soon as I heard the gentle slam of the door, my knees gave out and sadness overwhelmed me, reducing me to tears. I hadn't cried that hard since my dog, Betsy died when I was a little girl. I felt the same too- like a little girl. How is it a man who was meant to love me, meant to protect and provide for me could make me feel such a way? The thought angered me, so I decided I would not accept the feeling of belittlement settle inside of me. I picked myself off of the floor, before tending to the house.

It was only 10 minutes later when the doorbell rang, and I discovered my neighbour, best friend, and Tim's wife standing in the doorway.

"M-Mary!" I stuttered, slightly embarrassed that she had likely heard Bill's earlier outburst.

"Darla... I thought you'd appreciate this." She extended a bottle of red wine towards me, and a grin overtook my tear stained face.

We sat besides each other at the dinner table, trading stories of distant husbands, overly friendly mailmen, supermarket prices and the like over the quickly depleting bottle of wine. I drank the rest of the red in my glass, it's tart warmth making my problems feel... smaller. Mary and I giggled away the day, making our way through another bottle of wine I had in the pantry. After one particularly amusing joke, we found ourselves roaring like lions, in tears and clutching each other's shoulders. After the laughter subsided, I found myself lost in her eyes. It may have been the booze, but observing the subtle contours of her face, the plooms of colour within her irises, and the blush of her lips seemed incredibly important. Likewise, I observed her doing the same. We both leaned in and hesitated, before we let ourselves become overwhelmed by the compulsion to share a kiss.