What do you say when a man spills the contents of his heart, and a steaming froth of confusion and mini-deaths of the soul pour out of his mouth, and tightening emasculation is choking the very breath out of his lungs?
He said, “My wife and I have had sex less than five times this year.”
He said, “I don’t even bother her any more. I told her that she knows where I am if she wants me.”
He said, “I even grabbed her and asked if I was that repulsive, if she found me that awful to have sex with.”
He said, “I get so tired of wanking when she’s asleep, but I am sick in the stomach for days if I go elsewhere; if she finds out, I’ll lose my kids because she won’t understand.”
He said, “Maybe I’m asking for too much out of life. I have a wife, a house and kids and perhaps I can’t have everything and this is the one thing I can’t have.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I said, “I know how she feels because I used to be her, and until not that long ago.”
I said, “But I had the courage to face the part I played in a downfall and pay someone to ask me questions that made me cry in self pity. I learned that I wasn’t allowed to be the victim and control another with sex, and that’s too confronting for most people.”
I said, “I know how you feel because I caused your pain in someone else, and I know nothing I say can help because nothing can help her until she comes out of denial. And that day might never come. Can you live without your sexuality or pay the price of its freedom?”
We ran out of words and hugged the wilted embrace of the broken and the sympathetic.