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Con moglie a carico

I am the champion of those who live in the closet.
Seriously, this blog, besides being my personal space to vent and also born to give voice to the many like me who have not yet declared. Through this blog many people who are more or less the same in my situation I write and talk about their experience. I apologize for the delay in replying, but really difficult to manage all correspondence. To you I say: I am glad and thank you for the interaction.
Some letters I get from married men. I'm always very impressed by these experiences: people who for various reasons find themselves living with a woman more or less popular (some yes, others not). Who made this choice to hide even more, those who believed and still believe that love is going through despite having to castrate a good part of himself. The utmost respect for them and no trial experience that is often accompanied by big labor.
the married, especially to them, I dedicate this passage from "The lost language of cranes" that I find so fascinating and extremely detailed as to tell the inner struggle of Owen. The song
part of Owen's return home, after being in a porn cinema and finding a note of invitation from another man.

"My God, you're so wet," said Rose. "You came all the way home on foot?" Then he held his breath. Without having any intention, had mentioned their meeting dull moment in this strange way that seemed to occur was on the threshold of another life.

"Yes," said Owen. "I do not know why ... I felt like it, for no particular reason. "

" Give me your proof, "said Rose. She began to unbutton, and Owen's hand slipped into the pocket of snaps, closed intorno al piccolo cuneo di car­ta dai bordi ben ripiegati, e lo tirò fuori mentre l'impermeabile gli veniva tirato via per passare nelle mani di Rose. Di nasco­sto gli cambiò posto e lo mise nella tasca dei pantaloni. La sua mano rimase lì, ad accarezzarlo, a ripiegarne i bordi.

Rose stava appendendo l'impermeabile. Lui provò un'im­provvisa fitta di colpa osservandola, ricordando la fantasia che aveva avuto quel pomeriggio su di lei, riconoscendo, quasi per la prima volta dopo anni, tutto il bene che lei gli aveva fatto, la loro comoda vita insieme, quella casa costruita a precisa misu­ra della loro compatibilità.

«Grazie» he said. He could not say "sorry", though he so wished. He tried to think of how many Sundays had done exactly the same thing: come back to this or that porn cinema, purged (for now) by the tension of a week, need a week, and imagine that in a single afternoon 's Hell had been swept away from his life. Safe at home, he felt that kind of relief he feels when a child makes a pilferage without being surprised. He thought the risk was that way, contemplated the danger of the situation, and nestled in the absolute safety of his armchair, with his book and its sweet.

 Eppure, di settimana in set­timana l'inferno incominciava a insinuarsi nella sua vita con un pochino più d'anticipo, dopo solo un giorno, una sera, un'ora. Con esso arrivava un desiderio di una sorta che non aveva mai immaginato possibile, e l'unica cosa che lo tratteneva dal tor­nare nel cinema durante la settimana era la sua paura immen­sa di essere visto. Così aspettava fino alla domenica, un giorno che considerava in qualche modo santificato e pertanto sicuro. Si concedeva le domeniche. Eppure, ogni domenica sera, tor­nando a casa, si chiedeva quanto sarebbe potuto andare avanti così. All'inizio si era accontentato dei film soltanto, poi di una rapida sega nell'ultima fila, poi, col Over the years, to suck and suck, with your fingers up the anus, and once, a mild attempt at sex. Sometimes the revulsion for their actions was so strong that he found himself spitting on the sidewalk, repeatedly, with a desperate need to rid the mouth of the taste. Every week always wanted more.

He stood in the hallway while Rose hung her raincoat over the bathtub. He surrounded his body with his arms and thought, "Alex Melchor. The disconcerted to discover, after all this time, still have the capacity to experience joy and pleasure in his pleasure was in itself a very good feeling that at the end of the note itself did not matter that much. However, he reminded himself, things were as bad as ever. He and Rose had yet to make a decision on the apartment. Nothing had changed. No, everything was as it always had been.

And while he repeated these words to herself, she felt for her hand and stroked his pocket the note. At first it was scared. On the way back he had to squeeze in a coffee and wait until he was sure that none dare look at him before opening the note and read it again. He said that really che aveva pensato che dicesse. C'era davvero un numero di telefono - lo aveva già memorizzato, caso mai gli fosse capitato di perdere il bigliettino, anche se l'idea di comporre effettivamente il nu­mero era ancora inconcepibile. Se la stava godendo, mentre era lì in piedi, a creare schemi matematici con le sette cifre del nu­mero, immaginando delle chiavi per memorizzarlo, somman­do e sottraendo e moltiplicando.

Entrò in bagno e disse: «Rose». Lei si girò, sconcertata, e lo guardò. Lui le stava sorridendo.

«La mia Rose» disse lui, e l'abbracciò. All'improvviso gli ven  ne want to tell everything about this man, this Alex Melchior, the number whose first three digits added together gave the same result for the last four. He wished the two of them were friends, she was his confidante. These pulses absurd to confess he had been attacked first, however, and had learned to control them. Rose was his wife. And the thought of Alex Melchor, of his hand, his glasses, Owen was caught in a sudden desire; bent to kiss her. Then he withdrew. "It was nice to meet you today," he said.

"Yes," she said. "Strange, is not it?" He went back to hang her coat on the rack for towels.

"I'm going to stay," he said, and walked away from Rose. "Well, maybe I went to that movie for the last time." He smiled at that thought in mind the first time - the horror he had felt the sharp stabbing pain in realizing that it was, as he had always feared, a homosexual. And what did he do? It was sketched out in the club and immediately afterwards had practically raped the poor Rose on the living room couch, trying to see her, only her, to remove forcibly from his mind the image of that screen. But when he came, it was the boys that he was thinking, even though he had said: "Rose, Rose," and she replied: "Yes, I'm here, I'm here. I will not let go. I'll never let go away. " Lied to them - have built a marriage with her on a sexual lie - it was a regret of such magnitude that could not cope and was therefore a regret that, at this time, he decided to ignore.

For years, after all, it was said that if someone had asked him, he insisted, if someone had given him the opportunity, he would have profited. He had never imagined it would be really successful, after all, he was a married man, completely straight in the eyes of world. And now it was successful. He had the opportunity in his pocket. Someone called Alex Melchor wished. It would have been easy. He would have phoned. The would call and say ... oh, never mind what he said. He crossed the living room, sat in his chair, took his book. He knew this opportunity to live as simply a chance for a while 'time, he knew to be able to last for days now, because a hungry man has a different notion of abundance.

Rose sat on the toilet in the bathroom, looking at the proof of Owen. Across the room, his face in the mirror was fogged by the steam. Yes put his hand in the face of the point that Owen had just kissed.
(David Leavitt - The Lost Language of Cranes)