Would you like to hear how I know I am loved?
Too bad. I’m going to tell you anyway.
When I asked my wife to stand up, yank her pants down from her waist to her hips and pull her shirt up to her chin so I could take a very tasteful photograph of her, which I would then post online so I could brag about her 34C bust, 23 inch waist and six pack abs, like this:
she told me (and I remember because she doesn’t usually speak so forcefully unless the bedroom door is closed, IYKWIMAITYD), “Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of twisted, motherfucking pervert are you? That’s fucking sick! Who takes a picture of their wife and posts it online for total strangers to crank off to? Get the hell away from me!”
She had a point. It was a bad idea, and I knew it when I asked. I wanted the honest reaction of a beautiful, intelligent, emotionally centered woman to the question. I didn’t want her reaction to the idea.
Of course I apologized and dealt with the cold shoulder for a couple of days. Then things returned to normal.
She asked me again soon after what kind of husband would do that, and all I could tell her was “The kind of man who takes a dump, photographs it, picks it up, rolls it around, sniffs it, writes blog posts about it, and thinks this too is a good idea.”
She said, “Oh my God.”
I spared her the curse of greater knowledge.
Because I love her. And there is nothing I would not do to protect her. That includes taking zero ghoulish, creepy death-fetish photographs of her, and it further includes entertaining for even a fraction of an infinitesimal portion of a nanosecond any possible rationalization, however tempting, to allow such a nonexistent photo to ever escape my control.
Because that’s something only a true, dyed in the wool, I-made-a-career-of-being-a-DUMBFUCK would do.
You can’t touch that.