Scorched Earth Policy@Scearpo
Imagine getting nuzzled by that gargantuan schnozz in the middle of the night, a limp manicured hand reaching out through under your arm and rubbing your bare chest with the trained motions of a courteous prostitute. A simulation of intimate desire from an unfeeling scab.
Morning light through a kitchen window. Sallow dumpy ass squeezed into discount leggings, bare feet with wrinkled long toes, tilting up to reach for a tub of peanut butter. Two different flavors of Oreos in the pantry. A metal minimalist cross on the wall is paired with an "All things through Christ" quote in TJMaxx cursive. She squints at you through the dead eyes of a Saharan rug salesman while her toothy gummy smile stretches wide in a rehearsed fashion.
Pictures on the walls with open mouth smiles. Haggard bare shinned kayak vacations and trips to Disney. A television in the living room cuts to commercial break, uttering "the past" in some product quote, only to trigger a vivid flashback in both of you.
In your memories, youth pastor guitar sing-a-long. Donuts at the Wednesday night church meetup. Veggie Tales and Iron Giant on VHS. $15 sheet cake from the grocery store. Baseball practice. Hot dog barbecue. Getting yelled at for reading Eragon and feeling guilty about it. Mentally retarded golden retriever. Football tossed in the back yard. Spaghetti night. Only Wii Sports resort and music rhythm games allowed. Your first beer at 24.
In her memories, blackout drunk rape bait. Getting fingered by her cousin at a Bat Mitzvah and liking it. Jello shots, mischling anal. Jean skirts and rattan wedges. Parents divorcing. Xanax. Coke. Alcohol. Cigarettes. The taste of spit in her mouth. Sucking dick for benzos. Psychiatric ward. Getting molested. Aesthetic "suicide attempt". Black boyfriend. Hanging out with black people. Keeping Up With The Kardashians playing on the TV while she passes out on Xanax. Scrolling through nose surgery before/after shorts on cocaine. Waitress - stripper - RN pathway.
Every moment between the two of you is a pregnant pause and an awkward silence that gets filtered in your mind as the natural idiosyncrasies of any relationship. To you, anything is everything and is forever always. All is normal and all is good because there has never been anything else. You are a suppliant little slaughterhouse cattle being eaten alive while simultaneously rejuvenating your own flesh through sheer ignorant pleasance.
Even when attacked by the overwhelming scorn of reality, you concoct fantastical martyrdoms to uphold your ego. It's not only not a problem your wife is ran through, it's your DUTY to be married to her. The instinctual discomfort you smother to death before it can even boil into jealous rage is simply your cross to bear. The more she has defiled herself, the more God rewards your forgiveness. All of it is upheld by the barest promise of guilt and shame on her behalf, a golem's inscription keeping you in a state of righteous indignation.
Even as you subconsciously acknowledge the stark embarrassment of your circumstances through a Twitter confessional, you close your eyes and open your arms waiting to receive the onslaught. You know your love can weather anything and your Titanic heads directly for the iceberg as proof of resilience
All the while she reads the gospel and writes in her shame journal. She has absolutely no fear of where her relationship is headed, not even in the depths of her husband's hubris. Every ounce of exposure to her shameful past only nestles further in the direction of the barbs her conscious defense mechanism has developed. There are no thoughts in her mind, no feelings in her heart.
Unlike the cuckhold's rage fantasy, she actually doesn't think about other men or wish to be filled any deeper than what you can muster. She's not satisfied or unsatisfied, she's not anything. She has evaporated her conscious thought and is in a state of cosmic slumber. You tell her the name Jesus Christ and her material carcass repeats back "Praise Be" in Pavlovian reflex but there is no image in her mind, no stirring in her heart.
She just latches onto you at night, pressing her palms on your chest and her chest against your back. A little fleshy backpack parasite, siphoning the childlike energy from you as you become an emaciated husk propelled by the performative signalling of your own relationship. You are essentially a married eunuch, a posterboy for being God's little garbage man. An ancient Roman slurry sluice to collect society's rejects, unwanteds, and scumbags. You are the grease that gets crushed and squeezed between the gears of civilization to keep society running in relative peace.
