From the diary of a cuckold...

Jan 19th 1937

In disgrace I find strength. She must think of me at least before the creepers of the night entangle her in the affairs of her manufacture. She must think, "How useless he is" or "And to think he doesn't know about Raj or Shikast or Assadullah or the many who have let their inadequate imagination abrade the adequacy of their manliness." And then the night consumes her, rather she consumes pawns in the span of a night.

But I know.

I know every skin that stuck to her navel when she steeled herself under the throes of unfaithful pleasure - the greater she strived for rigidity, the greater the pleasure that reverberated in the nether folds of her being... resounding with my disgrace.

But that is how she loves me, why else would she strive so hard to insult me? She thinks that in grinding my honour and self-respect between her abdomen and a strange, though virile, one, she could break me under her foot - stray glass on the corridor. But she can't and in not being able to do so, she strives harder. To shatter me, to make me fall at her feet, to lick beneath her toenails... and thereafter she will love me, her lover who has emptied himself of all pride only to be filled with her love. But I shall hold this up for a longer while. I shall prolong the final outburst of ecstasy, like every man learns on the first night in bed with his wife who dotes on him, but loves him not. For without such disgrace, without pride ground to fine powder which fills the air, there cannot be love...