M

“Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid pleasure, darker than the swoon of sin,” ― James Joyce

Nov 182016
 

I received a text last night from a friend and former lover. It wasn’t positive.

Taking a step back: he had texted me last week about finding a new sexual partner during his vacation, and they had had the STIs discussion. He thought I would have been proud of him, as that is a talk that I stress in my own life. I was proud of him for talking, but apparently the talk was brief (and worthless in my opinion).

A week later she had texted him asking if he had come inside of her, to which he replied he did, and on several occasions. I’m unclear why days later this would concern her. But she responded negatively towards this admittance.

He texted that he was nervous, that he felt that during the STI talk that he was thorough enough to dispel any concerns.

Maybe for STIs, from  him. But how does he know that she is clear of any? I require my partners to be tested, to show me that test. I want to go into an intimate situation clearly informed. Him telling her that he is clear, that he’s been tested, doesn’t protect him.

And the idiot (don’t worry, I still love the idiot) didn’t even consider pregnancy it seems. STI talks are not pregnancy talks, though they can easily segment into them (which apparently they didn’t). He didn’t even think to ask about birth control. She didn’t even think to ask for him to wear a condom.

I think condoms are a must to such an extent that it has to be negotiated out of the equation, not into it.

He’s beating himself up over this, and I think he should, because I’m mean like that. Hopefully he’ll learn from the experience, and hopefully without long term consequences. But I don’t think he’s entirely to blame.

Women cannot be so passive as to place all the blame solely on their partner. They are just as responsible for their sexual well-being. I told him that “she can’t shift all the blame to him, unless she told him to pull out. She allowed sex without a condom as much as he did. She’s as much to blame as he is, and if she’s not adult enough to own up to it, then he shouldn’t be doing adult activities with her anyhow.”

I had a few follow up questions like: “is she on birth control?” and “how did you guys negotiate the no condoms?”. This really should have been a part of their talk beforehand, but maybe he’ll remember them for next time.

Women aren’t the only ones, however. I cannot begin to count how many men have told me, when a partner gets pregnant, “but she said that she was on birth control,” or “but she said she couldn’t get pregnant,”. While men have far less options to avoid pregnancy than women, they can always put a condom on. No matter how much they trust their partner, if they don’t want to have a child, they can take precautions to avoid it.

I am aware that my own viewpoint of sex and sex talks will be different than other people’s. That having these talks aren’t going to cover everything, like non-monogamy, condoms breaking, cheating, and other scenarios (though, seriously, I discuss issues like that as well). I may be a bit fanatical in my discussions and suck all the romance out of it.

But I am in charge of my sexuality, of my body. I am. No one else.

And it pisses me off when I see people of any gender pointing the finger at someone else if they consented to the activities. They need to own up to what they allowed, what they liked, what they consented to, what happened. It’s not a blame game.

 Posted by at 7:59 am
Jun 122016
 

Wicked WednesdayIMG_6374
When my sister and I first began blogging, I wanted absolutely no identifying factors. Sis A definitely chafed at this, but overall really respected my wish to be completely anonymous.

As time has gone on, I’ve become more relaxed about identifying factors, discussing more and more personal stories, letting her show more and more of her face, eventually showing a bit of me too.

I still don’t show my face, but I’m getting closer to it.

My reasons for being anonymous haven’t changed, simply how stringent I feel like I need to be.

At first, the only audience that I personally knew was my sister, and I had zero issues with that. Then my husband starting reading (he always knew, just wasn’t interested). As soon as I knew he read, I found myself changing how I wrote, keeping in mind he was in the audience.

The friend that was my tech help later became my lover for a time – he obviously knew about the blog, he helped me make it. He encouraged me to write after we were intimate, and loved to read it. I’ve written in more detail how people that I am intimate with have shaped my writing in Known Blogger.

When my sister convinced me to let her post the website on her Fetlife – certainly taking at least her away from anonymity with her kink community, my husband and I decided to do that as well.

So mostly everyone I met in the kink communities knew I wrote; it was odd to see a comment from someone I knew personally. It was strange to me that I may write up something that will influence how they see me, my sister, my husband. They may read something about a scene that I have had in their presence. (Lesson Learned would be a prime example.)

Mimir became my first true challenge on how to navigate consent with writing – I asked if I could post scenes for the first time ever and he read each and every write up beforehand for approval.

Because I started to write from a personal perspective about my life and explorations, I felt that it was important to write up any conflicts and had the full support and approval from my husband. The problem with this only came about when he moved across the country to try and find a job after getting out of the military, and we were separated for a few months while I supported us and gave notice to quit my job before joining him. New people in a new community were reading the blog without seeing our dynamic in person and the deep love that we had for each other. They also only viewed me from the one perspective that the blog affords – not as a wife, or mother, or professional, or friend, only from the sexual journey that I presented for a particular audience.

My identity is far more than the flat sided puzzle piece of the blog.

They began to criticize our dynamic.

Then my husband found a play partner and immediately broke all boundaries and limits that we had established in pursuit of a relationship. I understood the whys – after all, I had been guilty of it years prior, and I moved across country with a job offer in his town only to be turned down within hours of arriving.

I wrote of my heart ache in separating from the love of my life, sent them to him for permission, and tentatively got it. He was always my biggest supporter, though he disagreed on some posts and wanted his girlfriend left out of it completely.

And then I became the other woman, and he wanted that kept hidden. He began to  criticize and shame me on what he was reading from Twitter. I blocked him, he created a new account. He said his girlfriend read my Twitter, read my blog. I tried to stifle even more of me, take out less personal details.

But the blog had become something very personal, and I just couldn’t take it back to impersonal erotica. At a time where I was again alone from moving and not having a support system when I so desperately needed it, I found strength in the online community.

Then he wanted nothing else posted – this is about where I’ve left his story off, though I did share more than he wanted at the very end – I felt like it was important to gain perspective and for my healing process, not to mention that it completely killed the twisted future that he and I went back and forth on.

To be very honest: my marriage kicked ass and was truly magnificent (I absolutely mourn for it far more than I thought possible); it was my divorce that became dark, abusive, cruel, ugly.

Because the blog is a few months behind my actual life for most posts (not all), when I began venturing into new relationships and new communities, I have kept it anonymous: it is no longer on my Fetlife profile, the people I scene with do not know of its existence – though if I ever develop any sort of intimacy with someone they will know, I just feel that’s ethical, though I do not feel the need to share with my random hookups or random people I scene with.

So who does know in my “new” life?

Mr. Texas because he was someone that I became very intimate with and he features often.

David because he was in my old town so already met me with the full knowledge, and because I needed his permission to post the photos (each one emailed for approval prior).

Speaking of photos, any random guy that I take a photo of that I want to post knows (so far this is only one man).

The Wanderer who also knew me prior to me withdrawing open knowledge. Just like with Mimir, I am incredibly nervous to write about him, almost intimidated.

I am about to tell The Reservist because he is more than a one night stand, despite my original intention of only one time. He lives in my actual town though I hooked up with him across the country while he was in training, and he paid to fly me back out to see him over a long weekend before he deployed. We have a great connection and amazing sex. We have every intention of pursuing something once he is finished with his deployment. I figure when he returns, I will tell him if we truly do pick back up.

I am also about to tell someone I’ve scened a few times with; we are about to do some photo shoots which will definitely need his permission. He is great at rope, though I do not have the dynamic that I had with Mimir. (Hopefully, I will develop that strong of a dynamic with someone else someday as it was everything I could ever hope for.)

I am tentative about sharing the blog to people I am meeting because I do not want to be judged from this one sided perspective of my life – it does not define the entire person that I am, it simply sheds light into my sexual journeys and relationships with others.

 Posted by at 2:01 pm
May 292016
 

“Come up with something that you want to do, that you haven’t heard me mention before,” I suggested to him one balmy night in the hot tub as I sipped my wine and his hand gently roamed alongside me. He couldn’t keep his hands off of me, and in the hot tub I was more often than not in his lap being fondled. I made the suggestion because he was inexperienced and I had no clue what turned him on or what he desired – I was the stronger and more experienced force, but I wanted an indication of where he was at and what he wanted.

“Hot tub sex,” he suggested. “Have you ever done that?”

“Yes, and I’m not that fond of it,” I shrugged and set down my wine glass.

“Why not?”

“Because the water dries me up a bit,” but I leaned over to kiss him amid the steam and heat. Though perhaps me being not as wet would be a benefit with him, I thought. The bubbles concealed our lower halves as in between kisses I peeled us out of our attire, his mouth sucking a bit too greedily at a breast and leaving a mark that would last for a week.

I straddled him and slid him into my body, the water working against me but for the friction that can be absent when I am soaked from my own desires. I angled myself and wrapped my hands around his neck for balance and leverage as I raised and lowered myself on him.

The jets swirled and pushed between our bodies every time I raised up on him, added to my own sensations and helped keep me turned on. This session was about him and his fantasy – I really didn’t appreciate hot tub sex though I did appreciate the water creating a pleasurable tension to my body. I tightened upon him and heard his groan, felt my own slight crest of a climax, and tightened even further, increasing the tempo.

Water lapped at the sides as we created waves. I cried out as he did, enjoying it much more than I thought I would.

He couldn’t keep a sweet, goofy grin off of his face. “Is it just me or is it really hot in here now?” he asked when I pushed myself off of him and towards the step.

I’m sure my face was red – it always is in a hot tub and I had just worked hard for our pleasure amidst the heat. “Yes,” I said, taking that as a cue that he was also ready to get out. My foot swiped my bikini bottoms and I pulled them on before stepping out of the water.

He managed to squeeze back into his wet shorts and soon we were padding back into the house and headed towards the shower.

“Want me to wash  your back?” he offered, and I handed him the loofah and he scrubbed slowly at my back.

There were far sexier ways to clean each other, and I figured I should show him, so I shoved him against the shower wall once I was handed back the loofah and slowly began to circle his back with one hand and scratch with the other. He made a surprised noise as his chest and face slapped against the wall, but made no resistance.

Slowly, sensually, I used both the loofah and my hand across his back, his shoulders, his arms, down his butt – intermittently pressed my own body and glided it down his soapy surface, before I told him to turn around. I slapped his legs apart a bit and just as slowly rubbed down his outside of his thigh, calf, foot, up both of the insides of his thighs, my mouth inches from his growing cock, my breath felt on the tip. I paid no heed to it, and stroked and caressed and scratched up his inner thighs before taking a handful of soapy bubbles from off the loofah and giving him a hand job, looking up at his face as I kneeled between his legs.

He thoroughly enjoyed the shower, so much that he showed his appreciation by scooping me up and carrying me a dripping mess to the bed after we rinsed off.
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 Posted by at 8:46 am
May 122016
 

Questions found from Insatiable Desire:

Day 5: What was your first kinky sexual experience?  If you haven’t had one yet, talk about what you hope to have happen.

This is so close to Day 4’s question. I can’t remember my first kinky sexual experience, besides it was probably the moment that I brought a knife into the bedroom – but that didn’t seem odd. It seemed comparatively tame considering my then-boyfriend and I were just as likely to bring in swords as we both taught and did sword fighting pretty much daily at the time. Swords seemed a bit cumbersome, but knives seemed just right for the moment.

With him I also experienced bondage, being dominated, primal sex, and a vibrator. Now that I’m thinking about it, I guess while I can’t recall a moment, I can at least point the finger towards a person. He was an amazing lover, and the first person that I (somewhat) opened up to on what I desired.

We’re still really good friends and see each other every couple of years, as distance and time allows. I’m planning a trip to see him this summer, as a matter of fact.

 Posted by at 7:53 am
Apr 272016
 

Wishy-Washy is what he described himself, so I’m using that for W for the A to Z Challenge. While written two months ago, not much has changed with us in these two months. I would like to especially thank my husband for allowing these posts to be shared, as long as I take out certain parts – which that decision was a good one as my intent is not to be hurtful but express heartache and confusion in the ending of my marriage. He is handling me badly – has treated me poorly in this ending, but he is a good guy overall whose intention isn’t cruel.

photo credit: Passing via photopin (license)

photo credit: Passing via photopin (license)

I’m angry, I’m sad. I feel lost. I feel unloved. I feel that this is fair. I feel that I don’t deserve better. I feel that this will rip us apart. I feel that this will make us stronger. I wanted this. I didn’t want it like this. I feel like this is a tiny death that we can be renewed from. I cling to the past. I want to spring off from this towards a future. I’m done. I’m in love.

It doesn’t help that he is also so back and forth. “Let’s have sex,”, to “you’re disgusting – I wouldn’t touch you.” He wants me, his wife, to be the other woman because he’s already in a committed monogamous relationship with her. “You can’t tell anyone,” he tells me before he propositions to fuck me.

He compares us in the bedroom – something that deeply disturbs me if for no other reason than I’ve no wish to hear details of their sex life and that it is maybe a reason why he wants me back – for purely physical reasons. For some reason, I am now more emotional and he is more physical when it comes to sex – a complete opposite to how we’ve ever been in all our years together.

He fucks me – expresses how amazing it all was, and goes back to her.

He tells me he loves me – creates a happy illusion for her, still going off afterwards and choosing her nonetheless.

He tells me he believes that his future includes me, that every scenario he envisions I am in it, that I will give him the best future – but he wants what he has with her as long as possible.

I block his number because he calls like we are friends, demands details of what I am doing and who with – he changes his number and yells at me for blocking him. I try to be friends with him, after all I’ve been friends with all my exes, but he has crushed me in a way that I’ve not experienced, and I don’t know how to cope.

I have no self-pride, there are times that I bend because my heart urges me to and I become the other woman to my own husband, and then he leaves it tattered and shredded because he changes his mind, does not know his own mind.

He tells me he wants me back because:

“I think I want to get back together because I pity you.”

“Insert a myriad of negative comments about his girlfriend here.”

He tells me it’s not about her, that his decision has nothing to do with her.

And I…I feel desperate, like I would give him the world to be in his arms, and I hate that desperation. I hate how he can reach into me and manipulate me so easily. I hate how I feel that I deserve to be alone, or second place. I hate how I feel weak and vulnerable. I hate how I don’t know how to move on yet, I am impatient with myself.

I get angry, and it’s all directed at me.

 Posted by at 8:11 am
Apr 262016
 

Vacant would be a good adjective for my next two men, for my A to Z Challenge. There was a lot absent in the experience with both of them – one an entire memory, the other was just a self centered jerk who I still continued with because I was desperate to stop the hurting. I ended up far more hurt than I could have imagined.

photo credit: via photopin (license)

photo credit: via photopin (license)

The ginger I was unconscious for.

I have no recollection of what he looked like, neither his body nor face, though the dating app shows pictures of him. I found two condoms in the trash can the next morning.

That doesn’t make him a bad guy – he was probably unaware of my mind state. That night, after so many nights of crying but still not sleeping, my sister gave me an Ambien, where I apparently had what is known as an Ambien blackout. I probably started messaging him first, regardless of what I did next to unconscious, I gave him my address somehow during this blackout.

I don’t remember him leaving either, but thank goodness he did, because that would have freaked me out – to wake up with a strange man in my bed.

There are just a few moments that I remember, it would all amount to a total of five minutes perhaps, but it was was at different parts.

I answered the door in a flannel.

I remember going down on him and nothing else on a physical level – I don’t remember actually wrapping my mouth around him, just leaning down to do it.

He repeatedly asked: “where have you been the three years I’ve been here?” and I remember thinking he repeated that question a lot.

And compliment after compliment from him.

Thank goodness he messaged me the next day, otherwise I would have been clueless who I slept with during the night. He kept the conversations very focused to things like his free time over the weekend and how he wanted to see me during them.  He was sweet and kept messaging, telling me his work schedule and asking about what I was doing so that he could see me again. Neither of our schedules worked out – I didn’t see him again* and I really wanted to – just to know who he was that I had slept with. It is odd to me to sleep with someone I don’t know/remember.

>>>>>>>>>>Another Night, another guy<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Pull Out Get Out, seriously if I could name a guy (which I can on my blog) it would be that. The dude was gorgeous (slutfest was mostly about female votes on who was the hottest as a deciding factor for my one night stands), but he didn’t ask a single question about me and then left immediately afterwards… seriously he pulled out of my body, rolled off of the bed, stood up, dressed, and muttered about going to smoke as he shut the door…and didn’t return.

He was also the only man during slutfest that I was set up with, a friend of a friend who immediately came over when he heard I just wanted sex and then talked a lot about himself as an awkward getting-to-know you, but wasn’t curious in the slightest about who I was. I knew nothing about him outside of his work (his only topic).

I was tired that night and almost skipped a night of hit-it-and-quit-its and by the time he left me, really wished I would’ve stuck to that instinct.

It wasn’t all bad: he made the sexiest grunting noises, but zero foreplay outside of what I did to him. It was all about him, just like the conversation.

It also felt like he was splitting me in two; he was far too big especially with my body not thoroughly prepped but still he pressed in, pressed on.

Him on top, me on top, doggy style for some stupid reason even though that made him bigger.

He hurt my cunt to mirror my heart, perhaps that’s why I allowed it.

I felt terrible about being with this man, would rather have been a guy of my choosing – which it didn’t feel like it was, this meeting of a friend already negotiated for sex.

However brief  the conversations and connections, at least on the dating apps I saw them first, they engaged with me, messaged at least a bit to get a feel of something.

I was so emotional when I knew he truly left (I had to check because he didn’t say anything); I didn’t quit crying that entire night.

A terrible end to what I thought of as slut fest, the one that spotlight shined the desperation in it.

I was a hole, and no matter how many cocks slid into my hole, it was there incomplete, wounded, gaping, exposed. Disgusting. Unworthy.

…Unloved

*He texts me still, constantly for awhile. Apparently, I was amazing at giving him head and being on top. He wanted to know when I would come back to the state so that we could hook up again, and I gave him that chance when I visited again about a month and half later. I believe that I wrote about that second encounter as well, this man that I had slept with but was meeting for the first time. He was/is nice.

 Posted by at 8:54 am
Apr 252016
 

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U is for Ultrahot (yes it’s really a word) for my A to Z Challenge. This man I experienced a lot of firsts with, and he has to have been the hottest I had ever had sex with (if we’re going by society’s standards – he didn’t turn me on physically the most out of every body.)

He was pretty. His photos were of a body that was incredibly sculpted, his smile friendly. He had light eyes and hair. He contacted me within minutes of my new dating profile that my sister had helped me create for “slutfest” – as she called it. In my profile, were a lot of lingerie and me in a bed type pictures so people didn’t get the wrong idea. The tagline and profile was a mixture of corny and pretty direct – I would have never written it myself, but with sis A at the helm of the keyboard, my inner most slut was polished and put on online display.

If he would have contacted me later, I wouldn’t have responded, as his message was generic. The first few guys had the advantage in that I had zero expectations towards communication. And the amount of communication I received in being so direct in just wanting sex was staggering.

We exchanged messages, and then kik (which I created because he suggested it). He was respectful, left openings in the conversations, but didn’t come across as aggressive or desperate.

We met at my place, the place I went back to to pack up the remainder of what I could gather in the home my husband and I had shared – all the way across country (this time I flew back). It was still in the same week my husband had turned me away, and I figured that I needed to empty the house belongings before I looked for a job since I couldn’t guarantee my husband would help me move later. (He did offer to help in about 2 months, but that was no guarantee with two people divorcing.)

I stuck out a hand and introduced myself at the door – how does one make an introduction to an online hookup…a kiss, a hug, a handshake? He was my first ever hookup in such a manner. I asked if he wanted to go into the bedroom; he smiled and said yes, eyes widened in surprise at my directness, but he was there for one reason only and I didn’t want to engage in small talk – I was still crying daily and the smallest things set me off.

I hopped up on the bed and began undressing, he complained he was bloated before removing his clothes. I laughed at his self consciousness as I admired the incredibly gorgeous body that was being revealed. He sat next to me on my big bed, and leaned forward to kiss me. I pushed him back so he was laying on the bed and kissed his neck. He gripped my hair and pulled me onto my back.

He hands were often forceful around my throat or in my hair, an unusual move for someone new who had zero discussion of my comfort with kink. He tried to penetrate me without a condom, even though I stated condoms were to be used before he even arrived. I kicked out from under him and reminded him of the condoms.

He had a hard time staying hard but we were certainly all over the bed when he was erect. I was on top. He was top. He pulled out, put his face down and spit between my legs – the first ever to spit on me and one I tried to not laugh at – it seemed so porn-like; I disliked it but said nothing. He rolled me over for doggy style, where he almost spanked me but instead his hand came down hesitantly, softly down upon my ass cheek; again the hesitation surprised me considering that I found a hand around my throat more risky than a spanking.

Then I was back on top.  I marveled at his strength, couldn’t keep my eyes off of his arms as he picked me up and fucked me standing, lifting me up and down with such an ease. After some time, I was laid back on the edge of the bed.

Again with the spitting – so strange to me, lube is far more effective if we needed it (and I almost never need it) and it was almost a show with its line of slow spit. Too much porn?

Almost face slapped, and just like his spanking, his hand came down softly on my cheek, the movement tentative. Then he told me to “spit on it, jerk me off,”. Apparently it was my turn to spit, but I just couldn’t do it – I don’t spit for starters. I gave him head instead until he took control right before he came and stroked himself furiously. He came in my face and down my body. The first man to ever do it and an experience I could have done without. It felt a bit rude and a day afterwards (when he contacted me) I recommended he ask someone first before gushing over their face.

Too much porn? I thought that far too often with this man.

He suggested a shower afterwards, complained his butt was big (it was gorgeous like the rest of him), and then asked so many questions about me that I had no inclination to share but didn’t want to be rude. He was sweet and respectful, soft spoken in contrast to his sexual dominance. He laid in the middle of the bed and reached out for me, not necessarily to cuddle but just to be near. I stroked his chest and felt the prickly shaved hairs, thought what a shame – I prefer a hairy chest.

It was not a bad first encounter for a hookup. I liked his dominance – an unknown factor, though some discussion would have been nice. When he left hours later, he was expressed more self consciousness – this time of his hair. I joked he was pretty, that he was slightly obsessed with how he looked.

He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and I shut the door after him, locking it.

*As a follow up, we kept in contact a good month after the fact; he would occasionally begin contact, and I genuinely liked what little I knew of him, though I kept the conversations short.

 Posted by at 8:42 am
Apr 232016
 

T is for talking, for my A to Z Challenge, something I wish far more partners did with each other. There is something delicious in talking beforehand about plans and building anticipation, and talking afterwards and finding out what really worked.

The road trip friend and I have known each other for awhile, perhaps it is for this reason that I am getting specific feedback through communicating long after the fact. Some of my favorite texts from him (and we talked too, but I can look back on the texts):

I loved when you asked me to fuck you.

I loved making your body tremble.

I loved when I was stroking my cock and you were rubbing my nuts and under my nuts

I loved taking you from behind

…you making me cum in your mouth

I did really enjoy it

I love the way you felt

I loved being in your mouth

Really what I took away from this most of all is he liked fellatio from me. Noted if there will ever be a next time.

 Posted by at 8:12 am
Apr 222016
 

S is for Sorry, for my A to Z Challenge.

My aunt taught me that when I wanted to respect how the other person was feeling, regardless of if I understood, I was say: “I’m sorry you feel this way.”

My husband hates this statement. He will be the first to tell you he is powered by emotions, and they are swift and intense for him. I tend to be the calmer, more even tempo during our heated talks (though not in our relationship overall).

So when he yelled and ranted on all the reasons why he disliked me, why he couldn’t be with me, why he didn’t want us to work out anymore, I just got to a point where nothing I said was good enough with his mind made up, and despite how horribly it was killing me in heartbreak, I respected his emotions and his feelings in the moment (and years, months, days that led up to his declaring he wanted to quit our life together).

I didn’t understand them, I didn’t share them, everything in me wanted to tell him how stupid he was being, how emotionally caught up in something that would pass, how he was throwing away the best thing, how he was demeaning and rewriting something that was so beautifully shared, how we would get beyond this, grow from it, learn from it, become stronger.

And I did share those things too, I defended and debated our love and marriage…to no avail.

“My mind is made up,” he repeatedly told me, and when midnight peaked and a new day threatened, I accepted those words and that decision, though there was nothing easy about it.

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” I muttered, head down in defeat and face stained from hours of tears; he hissed how much he hated to hear that.

But I am…so damn sorry.

I’m sorry…
I wasn’t the person he deserved
That I wasn’t the same person he married
That I’m not the woman he wants me to be
That I’m not the woman I want to be
That I’m complicated
That I’m scared
That I couldn’t make it easier
That I couldn’t be more accepting
That I needed more than what he could give me
That I pushed for things I wanted
That I was selfish
That I needed patience
That I am so far from perfect
That I am flawed
That I am damaged goods
That I asked for what I want
That I demanded what I need
That I am guarded
That I make mistakes
That I am defensive
That loving me wasn’t easy
That we had so many ups and downs
That to make myself vulnerable is terrifying
That I was vulnerable to him
That I am hurting
and breaking
and feel lost
and confused
and don’t know what to do
or how to fix this.
That he won’t give us another chance
That despite my honesty, he doesn’t trust
That he won’t have hope in me, in us.

I’m sorry he feels the way he does. I’m sorry I do not share his viewpoint or decision. I’m sorry I feel this way.

 Posted by at 8:55 am
Apr 202016
 

Q is for quickly, in my A to Z Challenge, as the very next day after my husband turned me away I sought solace with another.

I haven’t been single in forever and I don’t do alone well.

The day after I was turned away from my husband, with a ridiculous amount of tears shed, empty and exhausted, an ex called me up. He had heard what happened (I took my family back to my hometown, half a day away from where my husband was living, and apparently word travels fast).

My ex’s timing couldn’t have been more perfect, or imperfect, depending on how one was to look at it. His call came through as I was on the phone with my husband, crying hysterically and begging him to give us a chance. After I hung up the phone, rejected and defeated, I called my ex back.

“Do you want to come over for tonight? You probably don’t want to be alone.” How true that was, though I had a family member – it wasn’t the same solace or distraction – she was giving me sympathetic looks and shrugging her shoulders. He would provide a distraction and didn’t give a damn that my marriage ended – wouldn’t even mention it. He was comfortable, safe, and if I wanted a further distraction of sex I knew I could have that too. I debated for all of a minute and agreed, immediately headed over.

He poured me a glass of wine, put on a movie. I fell asleep, finally crashing from all the turmoil and travel. He woke me up to cuddle in his bed.

“You should just ride me,” he suggested in a nonchalant way. I discussed STI tests (he had one since his last partner) and how I don’t get off on top even as I straddled him and slipped him inside of me, no foreplay apparently necessary. Sometimes memory makes me forget how a partner feels inside of me, but I still remembered a position and tempo that he liked that I moved into, clenched down when I began to feel tired again, and he came. He blushed a little under me, “oops,” he said, “I’m sorry.” We both knew that he was done for the night, his drive was completely incompatible to me, and while I could’ve requested his mouth and fingers to make me climax, I simply didn’t care at the moment.

“It’s okay,” I leaned down and gave him a quick peck on the lips as I raised my hips and slowly made him withdraw from inside of me. “I knew it was about you this time. I don’t mind,” and I truly didn’t. I cuddled into his arms and my fingers stroked up and down his chest hair, loving the feel of it before I became too hot and rolled over to go to sleep.

During the night, sometimes he made brief movements to cuddle in his sleep, which woke me – unused to his body beside mine anymore, and I would gently extract myself to go back to sleep. Just being there beside a lover soothed me enough; I did actually sleep for about four hours, and I even stayed until about halfway through the next day, enjoying the easy companionship as he cleaned around his house and I sipped coffee, surfing on my phone.

The next night I spent alone, though I knew I could have called my ex to come over. I was a wreck and my husband and my conversations made me feel that much more alone.

 Posted by at 8:04 am