Somedays I go to sleep wearing a condom.

Some nights if I want to be technically correct.

I get turned on and she gets turned on after the foreplay and the wine but she falls asleep.

And I hope, I hope, she will wake up in the middle of the night, I will be ready and prepared and we will make love. Sometimes I stay awake for an hour, not yet cooled off, with she and her reasonably attractive naked body right next to me, trying to play with her hair and caress her shoulders while watching Netflix, hoping she stirs or something stops stirring in me. But mostly that the condom is put to use some time in the night.

Some day.

Sometimes I try to get on top of her lying naked besides me, after the foreplay and hope she wants me or if not me, she wants it. Because let’s face it, a married couple most times do not want each other, they want it. They want to come. In each other. Via each other. And just sometimes, for each other.

So I start from her feet to get on top of her and start kissing her. But I hear a loud and clear no. I hear hands pushing me away.

Nothing could be clearer. I am not a rapist. Heck, i dont even fantasise or jerk off on any woman who has explicitly told me i am not their type. I am not a rapist even in my fantasies. Reality doesn’t bend itself in my fantasies, the theorems of fantasies are built on postulates of reality so that even my fantasies are honest, logical, doable. It may not seem like that to you, but I am a nice guy actually, except for when i write about awful things. Except when I write about my inadequacies. But let’s face it, a person never learns about himself when he is happy- it’s only when you see rejection or indifference that you know something about yourself that you didn’t previously.

I never get angry nowadays. I used to, but then I realised that anger makes me bitter. I am not a bitter person. Besides, when you go through the events of the day, you can definitely find something you did which can make you say you don’t deserve sex for the day.

Yet. I am an optimist. Or I wouldn’t go to sleep wearing a condom on some days.

That’s life. Condoms too have their luck. Some are destined to go to the trash empty. Some are destined to miss the very purpose of their existence, just like a lot of people I know, and it isn’t unlikely I am an empty condom myself.

Not getting sex when you want to isn’t something to cry about.

There are a lot of lonely people in the world.

And most of them don’t even know enough to write about it.

Someone could say if I’d get enough fucks, i’d never write a word.

Does that mean those who don’t write at all never leave empty condoms behind?