Imagine it: suppose I were to go ahead and marry A, with her tits and so on, what will happen when B appears, whose are even sweeter–or, at any rate, newer? Or C, who knows how to move her ass in some special way I have never experienced; or D, or E, or F. I’m trying to be honest with you, Doctor–because with sex the human imagination runs to Z, and then beyond! Tits and cunts and legs and lips and mouths and tongues and assholes! How can I give up what I have never even had, for a girl, who delicious and provocative as once she may have been, will inevitably grow as familiar to me as a loaf of bread?
—Philip Roth, Portnoy’s Complaint
I used to think that married to one person was the end all of all things. Placing down those roots, starting a family, moving away from the Valley with someone who will no longer have adventures with your minus the adventure of living with you until death do you part. So much like Alexander Portnoy, I feared it – or does he loathe it more than fear? – and I wanted nothing to do with the final.
Shows end in marriage. Movies end in marriage. Friends break in marriage. And the adventure of life – I’m here for the American dream: Sex, drugs and adventure! – ends in marriage.
And while all things seemingly end in marriage and starting that family, I’m beginning to see that somethings are worth it in the end. Somethings are worth the loss of that part of life as I find myself edging, at the age of twenty-five – don’t most writers accomplish more at my age when they start off? – thinking of loosening these ties of selfishness and being an adult.