An Ordinary Man

Or, Men 101

Month: November, 2016

Misery Loves Company

I am acutely aware that my novel about the sexually-frustrated husband, An Ordinary Man, strikes some as nothing more than a pathetic screed by one no longer able to seduce his wife.  I am also acutely aware that it could have been written by any one of, say, ten million American males, one of whom I met last night in my night job as a driver for Uber.

Conversations in my car can turn astonishingly intimate in a very short time, given that participants are shielded to some extent by darkness, seating arrangements, relative anonymity, and the certainty that we are unlikely to cross paths again.

But after finding out I was separated in large part because of the interference of Us (my wife and I) by Them (our children), my passenger quickly revealed that he was headed down the same path; with children aged 5 and 3, sex had become reduced to a monthly event.

He told me he wanted it from her more than from anyone but that he wasn’t going to stand for not getting it from anyone.  I reminded him that something caused him to throw in with her and that he’d be wise to try to rekindle that, but not to expect tangible progress for four to six months, knowing that he, like me, like all normal men, will probably tire of of waiting that long.

America’s divorce rate will continue to climb.


An Extraordinary Woman


I’m not up on either my super models or my sports heroes so I cannot assess the validity of Kate Upton’s complaint re her man not getting the Cy Young pitching award but I do salute her tweet for its recognition of a central, critical fact: she is the only one who gets to fuck her fiance.

And I hope she continues to recognize and appreciate that fact long after they get married because that is one of the key things that makes a woman a wife, partner, soulmate, lover, or whatever she wants to be with respect to a man she has thrown in with.

Richard Wilson, the frustrated husband in An Ordinary Man, thought of it thusly:

That you are permitted, even expected, to sleep with your wife is part of what makes her your wife. She is your fuck. That’s what men mean when they say they ran into your wife the other day, or saw her someplace: I saw the woman you have sex with. It’s not a judgment call, a critique or evaluation per se – it’s an acknowledgment of a central tenet of your relationship. A critical one; it’s common enough to run into, and even befriend, women who are younger, prettier, shapelier, smarter, more attractive than the woman you married on any of several levels. But you don’t fuck them. At the end of the day, there is only one woman there who is specifically intended, designated even, to receive your bodily fluids and you hers. He used to see her in the distance and think, yes, there she is, that one-in-one-hundred-million who you could take home and possess as if you owned her because in a way, you did, just as she owned you in exactly the same sense. The ultimate partnership.

You rock, Kate Upton.

Not An Ordinary Man

trump-quoteI’ve billed my novel, An Ordinary Man, as an unflinching look at marital sexuality and describe man’s powerlessness in his pursuit of sexual gratification.  My guy, Richard Wilson, is led to contemplate infidelity when the give and take of married life leaves him wanting a bit more “take” and I make no qualms about justifying his appetite on a biological basis. Indeed, that is what makes him the ordinary man of the title.

Our next president appears to fail to understand that the joy of sex is in consensuality – a word I just made up, maybe, which perfectly joins the words consent and sensuality – bragging that star power permits something the ordinary man does NOT want: non-consensual sex, i.e., rape or, at least, assault.

That he feels that way does not make him extraordinary, it makes him a criminal to the extent he has acted upon it.  There is nothing ordinary about that.