Diary Lies

Dear Diary

C is my husband. You know it already. And you also know that he does not like to make love to me. And when he does, it feels like paying rent or fulfilling an assignment.

I know he loves me. He does. And I love him too.

What is the definition of love? It's a highly complex question but there is a simple answer. Love has different forms and each form suits different people. I have been through many forms of love, the painful ones, the lusty ones, the unrequited ones. And at this stage I want a lukewarm-water-like love.

Comfortable. Not intimidating.

Compassionate. Not passionate.

Someone asked me “How do you know if he is not fucking around like you do?”

I don’t know. And I don’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss. It will hurt me so much knowing that he enjoys fucking other people then making love to me. I rather not to think about it.

And that’s why I will never let him know that I enjoy having sex with other people more than with him.