I met my wife online nine years ago. We were young teens and countries apart, so despite attraction we were friends. It wasn’t until I got a internship in Los Angeles that we began to talk a lot. It was an instant connection. For three months, we talked daily. We professed love. We talked dirty. It was amazing. It scared her.
After my internship, I visited her. I apparently gave an entirely different persona (beta), because she began to avoid me and eventually sent me home despite a plan we hatched to live together. She waffled on coming out to LA for my job. I was devastated. I broke up with her.
Months later, settled in LA and screwing my unstable roommate with big tits, we talked. She finally decided to come out, much to the disgust of my roommate. Under the thin guise of “just to live with you”, she moved in. We fucked the night she arrived.
Whirlwind romance. I proposed in late December and we got hitched the next June. We left LA for a family friendly city. I thought we were set.
We were far from set. And I just found this out on December 13, 2010. Two and a half months later. Apparently, months of secret unhappiness, anger and worry exploded. The next week, a week of visiting her family, was torture. I rode an anxiety attack all week and into the next week when we were back home. It’s been down and downer since then.
She’s smart, funny, very cute and energetic. Her sex drive, when it still burned for me, was unstoppable. Until December, she was my submissive. I her dom. Something she introduced me to. Since December, a few random blow jobs and one tryst fueled by watching The Story of O. In between that has been fights, crying, anger, hate and realization. Mostly from me.
Right now, I wait. I settle for it being civil. I hone my game. I deal. No other way.
That’s the sad thing about love. It keeps you around.