At the moment, Mr. PS and I are on the outs. Why, you many query? Over finances? Not this time. Who's going to do the dishes? Not hardly.

Out of the blue, Mr. PS brought up the Farrah Abraham/James Deen "sex tape". Being the gossip maven of our marriage, I proceeded to fill him in on the entire sordid tale, from the laughable premise to the commentary Farrah made concerning James' prodigious penis.

Me: And it's so funny that she chose to pick on his penis size, because that's the least of his problems.

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Mr. PS: *stops smoking, stares at me, all amusement gone from his face* And how do you know this? Have you watched it?

Me: Hell, he's porn star. A porn star won't have a small one. But, yeah, I watched something of his because I was curious what all of the hubbub was about over him.

I have since been on the receiving end of the silent treatment, only broken when I asked him if he was really, SERIOUSLY, mad at me for admitting that?

Yes. Yes he is.

It boils down to the fact that Mr. PS was addicted to porn when we were first married, something I didn't discover until we cohabitated afterwards. He looked at it every free moment. I'd go to the bathroom and come back to a laptop of groaning coeds. He'd pull up Redtube on his cell while smoking. It wasn't for masturbation; he just...watched it. It was constant and I found it extremely rude and panic-inducing. I was not shy in telling him this. Eventually, he stopped because he knew how hurtful it was to me.

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Now, since then, I've clarified that I don't mind if he occasionally pulls up the old websites. I really don't. We don't have tons of sex anymore and I'd much rather he do that than seek pleasure elsewhere.

Tonight, he tells me that I have two ideals - one I hold myself to and one I hold him to. He sees absolutely no difference between a porn addiction and me watching a video to see why this dude's pop culture phenom. He asked me if I masturbated to it and if that's why we don't have sex often (!) - no, you asshole, it's because I'm depressed and hate my job and hate my body. He knows all this yet apparently now believes that I spend my days frantically rubbing one out to James Deen.

As of right now, Mr. PS is downstairs sulking and I opted to come upstairs because I HATE cold-shouldering. I'd rather talk things out but he won't calm down enough to discuss until tomorrow.

What say you, GT? Do I need to apologize? I don't feel like I did anything wrong and I was honest with him but maybe a different pespective will help.