Cleaning up some email, I’ve noticed a theme from my private correspondence with various readers. They’ve usually been leading some clandestine gay lifestyle, either gotten guilty about it or gone Whoopie and then go and drop the bomb on their poor (usually) unsuspecting wife. They then have the nerve to write me, “now what”.
Well the “now what” is you pack up your shit, get your own place and go live the homo life. It’s that fucking simple.
But NOOOOOO … these guys are all educated, smart dudes, not nearly as f’d up as me. No, they’re gonna stay at home and work it out with their wife. Work what out exactly? Is she supposed to un-cock you or something. Rid the demons that are pursuing you. She’s done nothing wrong. You’ve not really done anything wrong (OK you have, but I’m giving you some leeway).
But NOOOOOO … some long story about the kids and how they need time. Time for what?
None of these guys have any inkling what the next steps are. They simply want to unburden themselves. Tell their trusted partner and get advice, “what can I do?” Trusting wives, bewildered by what is happening, aren’t want to face the darkness. So some awkward new relationship is borne and all kinds of weird shit starts to happen. You live in the guest room. Maybe even have sex. Come and go on a new schedule. All strange.
The reality, you’ve introduced a cancer into the system and the cancer is you. I know, you’re a good guy, family man, wonderful provider, go to church on Sunday all that crap. Good for you. That game is over. A new game is about to start up and you will learn soon enough who Lady Gaga is and humming Katy Perry songs on the way to work and getting emotional watching Design on a Dime on HGTV (what an awful color choice).
You can’t stay. You gotta go. There is no good time. But the longer you prolong the inevitable, the longer it will be until you’re good again. So let the neighbors talk. Step out onto the brace, look down and let go.