Do you know where your boyfriend is?*

*Others steal my husband. I steal titles — this one's lifted straight from a song called „where's your boyfriend?" by cumplexity.

Funny thing is, I know exactly where my husband is. But when? That he never tells me. Especially when he's coming home. Ten? Midnight? Not till morning, still carrying the smell of someone else? He doesn't text. Somewhere between an hour or four he texts "on my way home".

So I wait. Condemned to it. And the waiting heats — an extra layer of it, thick and low, that has almost nothing to do with what he's doing across town and everything to do with the fact that I don't get a say in it. He's out there, and I'm here with the clock, maybe my dick locked and the gap between us does all the work.

That's power. Not the loud kind — no orders, no collar, no staged scene. He exercises it just by being unreachable while I sit and count the hours. He holds me in place without lifting a finger. And I'm hard about it.

Here's what still catches me off guard: how good it feels to be the one left out. To hand a man that much reach into my own nervous system and then get off on the reach itself. The exclusion. The not-knowing when. The waiting I can't cut short.

No wonder someone put it in a song.

Here's what most of us keep running into: you crave this — the power play, the imbalance, being held in place — and it never quite arrives. He hesitates. Or it stays a film that only screens inside your own head.

This week, that changes. Wednesday, how to get it started — without the big confession that blows up in your face. And Friday, something big and new: a way to hand the whole thing to your husband as a game he actually wants to play.

I hope you get excited, cuck.