by Jamie Thunder

One evening, after we had drunk the remaining half-bottle of wine in front of the television, I asked my husband to show me what kind of pornography he likes. I thought it might be exciting for both of us, and if nothing else might give me some new ideas. Over the last few years our sex had become like a routine gym session: dully satisfying, but leaving us eager to get back into our regular clothes.

“No!” he said, coyly. I thought that he was probably embarrassed, so to reassure him that this wasn’t some marital trap I asked again, and slipped two fingers into a slit between his shirt buttons.

He wriggled away when I did this and said, “No, why do you want to know that?” He was smiling a nervous smile, and I felt my resolve stiffen.

“It could be fun,” I said, still teasing, but now we were in opposition, pushing against each other. Again he refused and again I tried, until our words had travelled along the spectrum and shaded into an argument, any arousal we had obliterated by the white heat of passing hatred.

I haven’t asked him since, and he has been careful: he locks the study when he’s in there, and his browser history is always clear. But he’ll make a mistake eventually. Until then, I’ll keep wondering just what it is the women in those videos are doing, and why it is that he doesn’t want me to do it too.

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Jamie Thunder lives, reads, and writes in south London, and tries to behave better than his characters. He writes at http://asintheweather.wordpress.com and tweets as @jdthndr.