It started about five years ago. My husband was between jobs and spending his days at home on the computer, supposedly looking for a job. I came home after a long day at the office and found the pink terrycloth bag on the bed.
The bag that, when I was a young girl, carried my brush, deodorant, and lotion had somehow become X-rated on the road to adulthood and now contained such forbidden treasures like the untouched whiskey- flavored condom from Scotland, glow-in-the-dark massage lotion, and some “sex” dice, still in the package. And there, right next to that pink terry cloth bag, lay the most-used item, our lube. In an instant, I knew what had taken place that day while I was off at work—and it played no part in a job search, I can tell you that
From then on, I have been obsessed with my husband’s extramarital affair -- with the lube bottle.
We were going out to dinner later that night (probably not the best idea when one of you is unemployed, but whatever), when I mentioned it to him.
“So,” I said, “the stuff was out on the bed today.” (We call it “the stuff” -- very adult.)
“Huh?” he muttered.
“The stuff?” I said “It was out on the bed?”
“Oh. Oops,” he replied, and then changed the subject.
A couple days later I brought it up again. “I don’t know why it bothers me but I freak out when you go to take a shower because I’m afraid that you’re going to masturbate and I KNOW it shouldn’t bother me, but it does.”
To which he replied, “I don’t masturbate EVERY time I’m in the shower,” and then walked away.
I didn’t bring up the subject again, but from that day on I started monitoring the bottle to see if it was being depleted without my help. When he had been home alone for any amount of time, I would wait until he was busy in the other room and, with my heart racing, quickly check the bag to see if the stuff had moved down to the next line of directions on the label. (I’m sorry, directions? If you NEED directions, you probably shouldn't be having sex.)
But the stuff did not move. This is when I decided to go on a hunt to find his hidden stash.
The first time I found it toward the back of the cabinet under the bathroom sink, but sometimes he would put it in the pocket of his robe that hung on the inside of his bathroom door (easier access, I guess?). We’ve moved three times and each time I have sought out his hiding place. I EVEN (I can’t believe I am going to write this “out loud”) check his towels in the hamper when he’s been alone during the day to see how ... “clean” they are.
My eyes pop open the second I hear him wake up because I strain to hear what’s going on in the bathroom. I know his whole routine without ever having seen it and know the sound of the cabinet that houses his “mistress.” I know how long a regular shower takes him and how long a “pleasurable” shower takes him. I know that if he gets out of the shower and immediately brushes his hair, we are in the clear (I can tell he's brushing his hair because his brush makes a muffled tapping sound when it hits his head).
The worst part is, when I find out that he’s snuck off with her, I give him the silent treatment for the rest of the day.
I’ve tried to figure out why it bothers me, and I think I have come to the conclusion that it’s a mixture of hurt feelings (why don’t you just come out here and have sex with me?) and pure intrigue (what goes on in there? How does he do it? Is he doing some moves I should know about? And WHO is he thinking about because it sure as HELL better be me).
You know, I have a 4-year-old, a 6-month-old, a full-time job and I’m trying to go back to school to get a PhD. Do I have NOTHING better to worry about than a slippery little bottle of goo?