I call this piece “Several Years After the Wedding: You Won’t Understand Until It’s You.”

It’s 8:30 pm on a Wednesday night. Your brain—which has been on the verge of seizing all day from the amount of caffeine you had to drink to stay awake—is finally able to relax. The sound of screaming children has finally subsided into their snores. Your stomach is full from the dinner you cooked, and the house is clean “enough” because you always tend to it. Finally, you plop on the couch and turn on the tv, and put on your show. You’re happy—UNTIL, enter stage right: your husband, who has done nothing to help you or ease you today (or most days) sits next to you and complains about the show that you picked. Your last brain cell is in survivor mode and has no “fight” left, so when he changes the channel so a show that destroys your peaceful ambiance, you accept it. You continue watching tv, even though its no longer enjoyable, counting down the minutes until you go to bed. When suddenly you notice your husbands hot palm groping your body and you feel inconvenienced like a cat whose being pet by a naive toddler.

And then, as if to substitute any type of foreplay, he says it: where do you want me to cum?

You’re so turned off that your ovaries start to shrink up as if a black hole was suddenly bore into the center of your stomach, until your entire body just implodes and vanishes. Your husband looks over at the spot on the couch where you were, shrugs, pulls up porn hub, and treat himself to a delightful night, never to see you again.