I don’t know what else to say.

I don’t feel loved, although I know I am.

My wife needs to sleep. And work. She’s afraid of being impoverished.

This is a crappy feeling that’s always lurking below the surface of my smile.

I can remember days of being in no particular hurry, when staying home with a lover was all the luxury I could imagine. My son would be farmed off to his grandparents and sex with my lover would ease the pain of my failed marriage.

Back then I was a sorry excuse for a hedonist. I was too busy, in my head, rationalizing my fornication. My ex-wife’s adultery could give me some justification. I could tell myself I was “in love”, and might just marry this woman I was schtupping, but by God’s rule book I was still violating one of the Big Ten.

Fast forward about forty four years and I’m still mystified by the Judaeo-Christian rules of sex. The simple desire for orgasm trumps an awful lot of ethical treatises. Then again the ethicists keep harkening back to the children. And the children are pretty damned important.

But now, my breeding years are over. There’s no ovulation going on around here on my wife’s part. Somehow everything else we do is a priority. Everything. Lube is going to waste.

I’m going to have to take some risks, to break this cycle.

I feel lazy, more than slothful. Sloth refers more to a spiritual laziness, the lack of interest in matters of theology, but the alliteration counts for something here.

I took a shower and I’m lying nude on the bed in the other bedroom, fantasizing about naked women, more lustful than lazy, looking for reasons not to get dressed. There must be women who just wanna have fun in the friendly confines of an air conditioned house.

You know who you are.

Sometimes we use words because we have no tears.

On 20 June, I had a cataract removed and a brand spankin’ new artificial lens was implanted to replace the bad lens. It took awhile for the eye to recover. But now I can leer at women, just like before.

Modern medicine is great.