"Don't You Fucking Move," Letter from a Feminist Submissive

Didn't I tell you not to strive for
equality in the workplace?

(Hey gorgeous, found this in the backwaters of the blog today and I loved it all over again. Just ignore the highly untimely Fifty Shades of Grey tie-in, and you'll be good.)

Today's letter came in response to a Newsweek cover story on Fifty Shades of Grey, the insanely popular S&M-y mommy porn, unpromisingly spawned by, of all things, Twilight fan fiction.

Reader Submissive and Truly Fine With That was but one of the people pissed off by the article, which tied (yes, and I'm too lazy to think of a better word) working women and feminism to S&M. You can read her response below.

If you are unfamiliar with Fifty Shades of Grey, see this Daily Beast article on the book's 14 Naughtiest Bits (a genius idea!) Here, you can witness Perfectly Good Smut being ruined by a few ill-chosen words. For example, when heroine/virgin Anastasia (she would so be named that) watches Christian's (same deal) "erection spring free" (so far so good), she thinks--unlike a young woman would, but exactly like a middle-aged fan fiction-writing author might--"Holy cow!"

Later, when she takes him in her mouth (again, a good start...) it's described thusly: "He's my very own Christian Grey-flavored popsicle. I suck harder and harder...Hmmm...My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves."

By the time Anastasia's "inner goddess is doing the dance of the seven veils," my own inner goddess is "confused, slightly icked out and ready to go to the kitchen and get a cup of coffee."

But I digress. Please give a warm welcome to Submissive and Truly Fine With That:

Dear IBWMW;
God bless you for being the one place I can send this email. I just finished reading an article in Newsweek about how (or why) today’s feminists have a more-than-passing interest in S&M, or more to the point, being sexually submissive. Now I feel the need to rant because of all the sources they consulted, they neglected to ask one of us, ie. a feminist who craves domination. (To be fair, they did quote Simone de Beauvoir, but, last time I checked, she’s dead.) I thought, what better venue to rant to than this column? (Actually, there is no other option. I really don’t want to disgust any of my friends with details of my sex life beyond relative wang dimensions or whether a guy was “orally efficacious” or not.)

For starters, I have to admit I believe I was born into this desire. My first sexual fantasies all involved bondage; usually, some guy I hated or found grossly unattractive would tie me up and have his way with me. In retrospect, I think it had to be someone I didn’t like for the submission to feel “honest”.  

If I go backwards in my life to my first physical sexual feeling, it was this: a happy little tingle between my legs while watching a TV episode of "Batman and Robin." The boys were tied up in a hot air balloon that was continuously ascending and their ultimate demise was imminent. I didn’t recognize it as sexual excitement at the time, but I do now. The numerous episodes of “Electra Woman and Dyna Girl” that followed elicited the same phenomenon. And they were tied up or trapped at least once per episode. No wonder that was my favorite show.

True Sex Tale: Cici, "We have made love five times this year."

I was working on some boring-ass other thing when this plinked into my in-box from "Cici Sparkle." Holy fuck, this chick can write. Her story is so...dark and true. (Displaced/unfullfilled passion, it is motivating...)

I am just gonna run it without comment except to say that if you want to tell your own true sex story, face up to what's going on and send it in.

Here then, Cici Sparkle:

A “sexless marriage” is defined as one where the couple has sex fewer than 10 times in a year. We may have made love five times this year. It’s September. We have been married for 15 years.

I find him attractive, cute, boyishly, geek-ily sexy. I'm independent, feminist, loud, fun, reformed wild-and-crazy; he is passive, quiet, thoughtful, brilliant.

He doesn’t look at my body, doesn’t try to touch me, never sneaks in while I’m showering or grabs my ass while I’m cooking or talking on the telephone. He has never seduced me; has never unhooked my bra or looked at my body as he removed my panties. Sexy pictures and suggestive text messages make him uncomfortable and angry. He accuses me of being unstable - to whom else are you sending these photos? - and unsafe with technology when all I want is to tap into the primal, animal instinct that he must have… doesn’t he?

I approach him while wearing lingerie, bluesy-sexy music playing in the background, feeling lascivious and tasty, and he turns on the TV. I wrap my arms around him, throw my legs over his lap, gently nibble his earlobe and he freezes, almost as if he is afraid of what I may “do” to him.

He stays up all night either consciously or unconsciously to avoid coming to bed. Lovemaking, when it happens, is only in the morning. That way he can pull away from me afterwards, bounding out of bed to get showered and dressed immediately so I won’t have further expectations to be held or kissed or, heaven forbid, to reach climax. I make him feel dirty, I suppose, but not in a good way. If I’m on top - most times - he doesn’t move, save to hold my hips lightly. Occasionally he’ll cup my breasts and kiss them tenderly if they are right in his face, otherwise there is no foreplay. Perhaps this is my own fault. I am so easily - physically - turned on, so he never had to try very hard.

I can’t help but keep track. very Monday morning, after another weekend that we didn’t make love, I pick a fight. When he is sick or we have overnight weekend guests, I am irrationally angry and bitter: another lost opportunity for intimacy. Every time my period starts I rage, the pain and exhaustion mocking me, Mother Nature marking another month that he hasn’t even tried. When we do make love successfully, I am angry, too, because I know that the next time could be months away.

I don’t think he’s vindictive. He somehow doesn’t know what else to do, can’t read my body language, and follows instruction poorly. We used to have a good time together, even after our children were born. I had a lot of experience with men and sex but not with love. Our relationship was never passionate, but there was always deep caring and trust and a desire to please.

Have I mentioned that my husband is an alcoholic? Over the years he has progressed from being a social/heavy drinker to being a drunk, an habitual drinker, a selfish fuck of a man who drinks steadily until he passes out or until all of the beer is gone. He doesn’t yell or throw punches; instead he leaves a trail of beer cans and potato chip crumbs for me to find the following day, falls asleep in front of the blaring TV, lights blazing, with a beer can in his hand, spilling on the couch and the carpet. He wakes up sticky-eyed and confused just before dawn and rambles to bed as quietly as his lanky 200 pounds can be. He sleeps through his alarm, occasionally getting up in time to walk the kids to the bus stop with pungent, yeasty sweat coming out of his pores. My favorite mornings happen every few months when I wake up to him having pissed on his side of the bed.

Al-Anon tells the enabler not to manipulate situations so the alcoholic will pay bills, eat, go to work, or sleep. We are essentially told to get out of the way and let the train wreck happen. I have stopped fighting with him about his drinking and sleep habits and our terrible, sad sex life. He has worn me down and I can’t bear to be rejected any more. “You know I’ll never leave so the pressure is off. I’m trapped and unhappy and you don’t care. So, you win. I will not pursue you any more.”

There is a specific point in his drunkenness when he can be coaxed into bed. Too little alcohol and he wants to stay up later and party; too much and he is sloppy. Thursday was one of those nights. I was asleep although not soundly, too dead tired at this late hour to greet him but alert enough to hear him close the door and lock it. He crawled into bed and put his arms around me, my back to him. I lay uncharacteristically still and hoped he would get the hint to leave me alone. My instincts told me that if I woke up fully and encouraged him I would be disappointed, left aroused, alone, and wide awake. He nudged and snuggled me until he finally persuaded me to turn over on to my back. Despite myself, my arms went around his neck ... he is my husband, after all, and I love him in an unrequited, desperate way.

We lay quietly, close together. His tongue slithered into my ear, big and wet and invasive. I shuddered and pulled my head away. He kissed my neck and my face with lips that felt flabby and loose, smacking noisily. I tried to kiss him the way we used to - a light touch, gingerly sucking his bottom lip, gentle, tentative tongue - but he was too drunk to follow my lead. Instead he pressed my lips too hard with his mouth, hurting them against my teeth, jamming his tongue inside my mouth, licking and swirling with the finesse of a sixteen-year-old. He tasted like beer and smokeless tobacco, which he probably flipped out of his mouth when he came to bed. My skin crawled and I pulled my face away. He reached his hand between my legs and pushed them open gently, then used one finger to part the outer lips of my labia as he began recklessly jamming his hips into mine, not guiding himself or exploring, just poking until he found a warm spot.

He is well-endowed and was hard enough to penetrate me but I knew immediately that he wouldn’t finish. For several long minutes his efforts were on straight fucking, all pelvis and cock, pressing his full weight on me, banging away and breathing heavily. The alcohol rendered him incapable of multitasking so I raised my hips, moving with him, encouraging him, but also reaching for the tiniest bit of pleasure for myself. I was wet but not fully aroused so I wasn’t “open” enough to take his full length; I winced and tried to move away every time he thrust and hit my cervix. Tears rose in my throat as I whispered to him to slow down. He feels claustrophobic when I hold him too closely or wrap my legs around his hips so I lay my open hands lightly on his shoulders, my feet firmly planted on the bed, waiting for him to exhaust himself.

Finally I could feel him getting tired, losing his erection, breathing heavily, slowing down and stopping, at last, to catch his breath. He stumbled out of bed and went to the kitchen for glasses of ice water. When he returned and deposited my glass on the nightstand, I pretended to be asleep and made a small noise when he patted my head. Wide awake now, my back to him in the darkness, feeling light-years away, listening to his breathing as it became deeper, I thought about all of the reasons that I hate him.

Hope you can use this ... thank you for your beautiful blog.

****
Thank you for being such a bad-ass, Cici. And yes, of course, I can use it. Hope it finds its way to who(m?)ever might be needing it in their day today.

xoxo
jill 

(photo source)

Real Sex Lives: Madame Beatrice, "My husband is my submissive pet."

This rerun of a Real Sex lives story came up in my feed and re-struck my fancy, or whatever it is they're calling it these days. (Note: do not call any body part "my fancy.".) If you dig this, check out our other Real Sex stories where people tell the truth about their sex lives.

xoxo
jill

*****
"You are a delight, and I love your blog - we often read it together," writes Madame Beatrice, the "we" including her submissive husband, Heath. Heath "identifies as bisexual and loves to cross dress. He's not yet been with a man, but loves his 'training,' thus far, with my Tantus RealDoe." (It's a big ol' real looking dildo--175.09 bucks worth of strapless cock that comes with this disclaimer: "Don't worry! Your new family member will Not arrive in a truck with 'Dildo Delivery' painted on the side." Which, in a way, is too bad.)

Anyway, this new story a bit more porny than I normally run--I prefer more big picture kinds of things--but I kinda had to run for it for the first sentence alone. Even though I consider myself-reasonably open-minded, I took the first sentence of her story literally and thought "WHAT. THE. FUCK." immediately picturing some poor cat or dog, unsuspecting ass in the air.

I recently took my pet's anal virginity.

I put him on his back, and told him to wait with his legs in the air.
I put on my leather harness, and attached the 7.5 inch dildo that almost perfectly matches my skin tone.
I walked back to the bed, and drenched my cock in lube, then started stroking it.

Fuck, but it felt amazing to stand there, looking down at his tight little asshole, and stroke my cock.
I stroked with the head of it right at his asshole, and told him he didn't really deserve to be fucked. Maybe I should just stroke myself and tease him.

He whimpered. He flat out begged to be fucked.

So I did.

I slid my cock into him in one motion, and I know it hurt. I watched him stretch around me, and I watched his eyes roll into the back of his head. I grabbed the Ovo ring and put it around his head, securing it under the glans. Vibration and penetration at the same time.

Once I started pumping into him, I couldn't stop. I loved watching the veiny rubber sliding in and out.

I've never felt as powerful and turned on as I did while fucking him.
I left so many marks.
I bit, I slapped, I grabbed and dug my fingers into his thighs, ass, and calves.
Nothing existed except my cock and his ass.
My abs were sore, but I just kept going.

I fucked him for almost a half-hour, straight, without stopping.
I don't know how I didn't break him in half.

I ordered him to cum. I told him that he was going to squirt like a good little slut with my cock inside him.

It took less than ten seconds before his navel was pooled with thick, hot cum.

I was shaking. I felt like I was the one who'd just cum all over his belly.

When I pulled out of him, he shook. He collapsed. He nearly fell off the bed.

And once he was cleaned up, he curled into the bed and into my breasts and fell asleep. Out like a light. Completely spent.

So there you go. Someone else's business delivered straight to your screen. And we are done for the day. If you are feeling the pull to share your Real Sex Story, write that motherfucker down and send it on in to:  jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

xoxo
jill

(The Velvet Underground, Venus in Furs, 1967, via You Tube)

Real Sex Lives, Severene: "I just had the most fucked up sexual experience."

Inhospitable

(You have arrived at the end of a grand celebration in which we're running IBWMW's favorite Real Sex Lives, stories in which readers anonymously share the truth about their sex lives, or lack thereof. Please don appropriate viewing goggles.)

*****
This new one is dark and raw, but with some beauty and Life Lessons--just the way I like it.

Here, then, today's entry from Severene: 

I just had the most fucked up sexual experience and I don't know what to do with it.

I'm just gonna write it down because I need to purge it or codify it or maybe just see if written down it makes better sense. Here goes:

I had a fight with my husband and I left. From the car, I called my old lover. The one who three months before had decided he would just never call me again. It would have been nice if he would have informed me of this, but he is not nice. That was part of his appeal.

Since he'd disappeared on me, I had been completely lost, weeping inconsolably every night. Yes. Every. Fucking. Night. For three months. I walked hollow-eyed through my life like a specter, tears welling up at any reminder of him. This happened a lot since my reminders included:  doctors, the city of Houston, pretty much any song on the radio, references to following your instincts/heart, hospitals, any mentions of fucking in general, the entire Jewish people... you get the idea.

Perhaps fleeing was just an excuse to see my lover again. I wanted him to hold me in his arms and tell me everything was gonna be all right--even though it wasn't gonna be all right. He has a big hairy bear-like body and I just so needed to be near him. Physically, close to that big body, like it would heal me.

I called him hysterically crying and asked if I could stay for two nights at his house in Houston. He told me things were going well for him but he could "always fit me in" or something like that that made me feel like shit. He sounded pleased though. He told me it "wasn't going to be free" and I was going to end up licking cum off my tits. It seemed like a good deal to me.

I drove like crazy, speeding for hours, weeping and/or feeling elated that I was going to be well-fucked by this man again. I was a mess. You don't have to tell me that.

I arrived at his house before him and waited out front for a few minutes. He pulled up and, for a moment, smiled and looked happy. I met him in his garage, hugged him and burst into tears.

We walked inside and he sat down at his table and started going through his mail. He looked up at me, as though surprised I was still there. "You look ragged out," he said, disapprovingly.  I had been crying intermittently for several hours--a few months, technically--but he wasn't giving me any slack. I instantly felt a million years old, haggard and foolish in my suddenly too-short skirt. He gave me a sort of dismissive gesture so I left to wander his house.

His house was a smallish McMansion, which is not an oxymoron. It's the kind of place that has a grand showy staircase entry that makes odd-shaped, uncomfortable spaces below to accommodate this bourgeois idea of grandeur. He still lived like he did in college, even though he is a grown man, with milk crates as storage and half-read papers scattered haphazardly on the floor. He was using a loose garbage bag leaning against his kitchen cabinets instead of making the commitment to a real trash can. He was just crashing there, not making a life there, as he probably had in every space he'd inhabited in his 48 years on the planet.

He was incredibly uncomfortable that I was in his space and clearly wanted me to be...not there. This was horrible and obvious and I should have just left immediately, but I desperately wanted to fuck him and win him over and just have him stop wanting me gone. How was this so awful to him? We'd gotten along famously the last time I'd seen him--albeit in the neutral territory of a hotel--how was having me there suddenly so fucking unbearable to him?

I don't know if it was my "ragged out" appearance, the invasion of his space, my general hysteria or that his heart was now elsewhere (jeez, writing it down now and seeing all those things together, the answer is clearly "e. all of the above"), but he was now clearly Not That Into Me. I was wretched and humiliated but somehow still there like an asshole. I just couldn't accept what was happening and that he didn't love me or want me anymore.

He came over to me, bent me over the couch and hit me on the ass, hard, a few times--something he'd never done before. Then he walked into his kitchen and started looking around in the fridge. He's kind of like that. He will stick his dick in your mouth for a few minutes, pull his hard-on back out, then go sit down and have a bowl of grains or something.

Despite my humiliation or perhaps due to it, I was super turned on and still trying to act like everything was normal. He put a Lou Reed record on the turntable and pulled his dick out of his scrubs, making the universal signal for 'suck this.' I did, willingly and greedily.

His dick is tremendous. My eyes well up just thinking about it, it's really that good. So thick and fat and fucking huge. His dick is like if you took another man's dick, and inflated it with 2--maybe 3--big good puffs of air. I can feel it in my mouth still. I fucking love that thing.

"OK, I will fuck you then," he said after a bit, like I just earned something. He grabbed me and took me up his staircase to his bedroom, shoving my panties into my mouth along the way.

As he took off his clothes, I looked at his wide calves dispassionately. His legs are short, very stocky and nearly hairless. I don't really like them at all. I marveled for the billionth time why I was so fucking attracted to this man who, objectively, was not attractive to me. Unlike him, however, I did not say out loud the leg equivalent to "you look ragged out."

In bed, he asked if I wanted him to hit me again. I said no, and he said, "Beg me." "Please don't hit me," I whispered, not entirely sure that that was actually what I wanted. "Beg me to fuck you," he demanded. That wasn't going to be a problem for me. I really was hysterical, in both the modern and early 20th century interpretations of the word. I completely lost it, crying even more, begging and begging him, over and over. I completely lost my shit. In truth, it was strangely liberating. All that needy open-wound stuff that you try to hide from the world is what I was presenting to him. I was a fucking endless chasm of need and lust and desperate wanting and I let him see all of it. After bearing
witness to that... whatever the fuck it was, he seemed satisfied that I'd begged sufficiently.
He went into the restroom and came out, rolling a condom on. I burst into tears again.. "Why are you so sad?" he asked. "Because you have to wear a condom," I wept. The condom meant he'd been with other women and everything was different now.

He slid inside me and we barely moved. I came quickly and softly, twice. I looked into his huge brown eyes and said, "Can you feel how much my pussy loves your cock?" He nodded. The look on his face nearly killed me. It was so, I don't know, just open and dear. Or maybe I imagined it. It felt like we were making love, but maybe only I was.

Once done with the fuckery, things deteriorated further, if you can believe it. I--like an ass--or you know, like a fucking human being, grabbed on to his big hairy back and hugged him, wanting him close. And he couldn't fucking take it. "Hmmm, I'm oppressing you," I said, letting go and moving to the other side of the bed. But even that wasn't far enough and he got up and went downstairs. After awhile he came back and got into bed, willing me silently not to be there anymore. "You need to sleep, I'll go to the couch," I said. I did and we were both relieved.

He is the head of a serious hospital unit and got calls throughout the night. I could hear him up and down, all night, restless, taking calls, advising the night staff, working on the computer. I saw that his life, brain and probably his soul were filled with agitation and chaos, and it scared me. He wouldn't, or maybe couldn't, allow himself peace or comfort. It was like he was on coke, but without the happy or euphoric part. Two of the patients died that night.

I woke to the sound of him again moving around the house. He finally walked over the couch, pulled his cock out of his scrubs and stuck his huge hard-on into my mouth. "You are so hard," I murmured, taking him in as deep as I could. He pulled back out and said, "Got to go to work." Me, lustful, rejected, miserable, hopeful, and a million other things I still can't figure out, suggested that I could take him out dinner that night after work. He looked pained.

"I am out of sorts. I think you will be happier at a hotel," he said. Oh... We weren't, then, playing some sort of high-level psycho-sexual game, like the ones we played back in college that had turned on us so much. This was real--he really did hate me that much. I went red-faced with the realization and shame. Perhaps reacting to the look on my face--though that would be unlike him--he added. "I'll come tonight after work and stay with you."

Then he took a handful of twenty dollar bills from somewhere and dropped them onto me, one by one. They floated down, landing on me silently.  

Yeah.

And I was completely broken.

It's so beyond humiliating that I hate admitting how it all really happened. But I am telling you, both because it's true and because it has a happy(ish) ending.

That is,

After he left and I was alone in his terrible, tortured space, I finally got it that I could and needed to leave.

As I walked out and saw his yard, covered with gravel instead of grass or anything else living or beautiful or life-giving, I felt elated, like in the final scene of "It's a Wonderful Life." I didn't have to be in that barely lived-in house or try any more with this man I now realized was far too broken for me to fix. I drove home, crying yet again, but this time with gratitude. I had built a rich life and had a real home with gardens and fruit trees and pictures on the wall. I could even sleep through the fucking night. I was incredibly lucky.

In Shamanism, there is this idea of soul loss. That is, that you can lose a piece of your soul or vital essence after a trauma of some sort. Only through a soul retrieval, often done by the shaman, can that part be returned to its owner. I am not necessarily a subscriber to this point of view, but I do feel like for those three months I had lost a part of myself, of my heart, to this man.  And without it, I was so so lost.

But somewhere in our extremely fucked up sexual transaction that night, I got that part back and was whole again.

Maybe I went so low that it somehow circled back and became good. Or maybe my self-esteem got so fucking battered and kicked in the ass that it actually gave me self-esteem. I know it doesn't make much sense but that's what happened. It's like my re-set button was pushed and I was suddenly ok.

I still sometimes dream about his cock and wonder whether the sex, at least, was as hot for him as it was for me. The sex felt huge and dark and sexy and scary and horrible. We'd generated this terrible big awful energy and brought out each other's darkest sides and probably scared the shit out of each other. I don't see how it couldn't have affected him somehow. 

And now that it's really over, he will never tell me how it all was for him and why it was so hard for him. That makes me sad. I guess it doesn't make much difference though. I know have to go forward and not look back. That's what you do.

But I now know I have this huge scary amazing passion inside of me and that I may have a penchant for some fucked up shit. Still not sure what I'm gonna do about all that.

****
Have one of your own? You know what to do. 

xoxo
jill

image: Andre de Dienes, "Nude", c. 1960

Real Sex Lives: Betty Fokker, "Even I, schooled in feminist thought and the rejection of fat-hating bullshit, wonder why he would ever WANT to fuck me"

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're running IBWMW's all-time favorite Real Sex Lives.)

Today's guest post comes courtesy of the lovely Betty Fokker, penner of The Stay-at-Home Feminist Mom. (The slogan on her blog-- and just one of the many reasons I love her so--is: Don't try to oppress me with your patriarchal values. It will not go well for you.) 

Betty is hilarious, smart, and takes my breath away with her adept cussing. She is also fat. Oh, don't worry, she'd tell you the same thing herself.  

Now normally, Betty is well aware of how smoking hot she is, and rails against the whole stinkin' fat-hating society, but in the following post, dear Betty briefly succumbs to self doubt. Here she's talking about fat, but I think a lot of chicks could say the same thing about their stupid straight and/or curly hair, freaky pointy ears, or whatever.

(An aside: It took me like an hour to find a decent image (above left) to convey the concept of sexy zaftig womanliness. By contrast, it took me .00000004 seconds to find an image to convey the idea of "lady with big boobies.")

I also like her post because not only does Betty use the term "asshat" with typical aplomb, but she also lays down this sentence: "Even when I walk out of the shower and he pops a boner that you could club a baby seal with, I still wonder if he likes what he sees."

Here now, ladies and gentlemen, Ms. Betty Fokker:

Turns out that almost 1/3 of the women of Britain feel that they are too fat to have sex, and that (strangely!) has a negative effect on their libido. Imagine, if you will, the concept that you loathe your physical self so much you don’t feel you should have sex since some poor male (or female, since the Fokker doesn’t care one way or another who shares your bed. I am not an asshat.) would have to look at your nekkid flesh, and touch your smooshy body. I don’t have to image, considering the fact every time my Sweet Babou wants to tear up the sheets doing a nekkid waltz, I am surprised and bewildered.

Even I, schooled in feminist thought and the rejection of fat-hating bullshit, wonder why he would ever WANT to fuck me. I’m fat, therefore I am undesirable.

I have always, in my heart, operated under the assumption that he loves me so much he is willing to make the sweaty pretzel with me despite the fact I am repulsive to look upon. Moreover, I see that love as a sign of his quality as a superior human, not as a function of my worth. I just feel lucky. Like a lottery winner, not someone who invented the next-big-thing in computers and got rich from my efforts.

I was a well-loved and petted preschooler, so I always had the hope, maybe even the assumption, that I would be a lottery-winner in love one day. After all, I had been loved, so it wasn’t beyond the realm of reality. But as all the cultural messages of my ‘ugliness’ because of my obesity hammered at me for years, I assumed it would be one of those miraculous events – like a reverse beauty and the beast. I dreamed that one day a man would love me in spite of my hideous outward appearance. Which is better than the idea that I would never be loved, I guess, but is still all kinds of Fokked up.

Maybe I would have been more sanguine that Sweet Babou desired me is he had been a chubby-chaser. Then it would have made sense to me why he wanted me. But no, his prior girlfriends could be used to skewer cocktail hors d'oeuvres. So I have always believed, on some level, that loving me was a great sacrifice on his part, done because his heart was pure. All the rumpy-pumpy since we met has failed to convince me otherwise. Even when I walk out of the shower and he pops a boner that you could club a baby seal to death with, I still wonder if he likes what he sees.

This is not what I want to feel. I want to believe, as well as understand, that my fat does not devalue me. I do not believe it devalues others, but I cannot shake that feeling about myself. It makes me all the more determined, as a woman and a mother and a feminist, to fight fat-haters on every front, since this is horrible and I don’t want my daughters or any other woman to ever think of themselves as less because their body is more. Fat–hate and discrimination is BULLSHIT, y’all.

But I still wonder if he secretly thinks I’m yucky.

*****

See also: My Wife's Body by An Anonymous Husband, in which a husband examines this phenomenon from the male point of view.

xoxo
jill

(image source: http://lacontessa.tumblr.com/post/907275831/tamara-de-lempicka-le-modele-1925)

Real Sex Lives, Dusky: The Visit to the London Lover

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories. So get comfortable there and have a look.)

This is part 3 of 3 of Dusky's True Wife's Tale. It's so beautifully written and so well captures the shifting tones and moods of the visit to see her lover in London that I really don't want to muck it up with extraneous commentary. (However, if you'd like to get caught up on Dusky's story, start with:  "I Have Had One Great Love and One Great Lover and They Are Not the Same Man" then "I am Going to See That Old Lover")

So sit back, grab a cup of tea or other U.K.-approved beverage, and let's head to London with Dusky to visit that sexy old flame...

Ah hello...

I've been building myself up to writing to you.  Unfortunately things didn't go so well. :(  However, in the end, it hasn't been all bad.  Like everything else with my trip it seems to be a case of not really getting what I wanted, but in the end getting what I needed.  I find it hard to summarise all my feelings and what happened.  So I've just typed out the full story even though it's rather long! Please feel free to edit and post it should it be of interest.  Perhaps as a cautionary tale!

A few weeks ago was my wedding anniversary.  Hubby and I had a lovely day: we went out for lunch and wine tasting at a beautiful winery, drank more wine at home, and had some nice marital nookie.  I was also in the very strange position of spending some of the day packing for holiday and messaging my lover to arrange our date.  The next day I got on the plane to London.

I arrived in London-town on a Saturday morning.  I messaged the lover on my UK number, letting him know I was in town, and receiving a suitably excited response.  I teased that maybe he'd like to catch up while I was in town?  "Gosh, yes, that would be wonderful" replied the man who was already in the process of booking a hotel room for us for the following night.  Sunday I spent the day at a rather posh luncheon with my uncle, chatting as eloquently as I could manage with the men my uncle & late father rowed with at university.  When I got a spare moment I messaged the lover to say how proud he would be of my good-girl act... he responded "if only your polite company knew what was going to happen to you later tonight."  I was SO excited thinking about exactly what would be happening to me that night.  After lunch I was shaking with anticipation as I prepared for my date... putting on my best perfume, applying the make-up I so rarely wear, slipping the lingerie chosen for his tastes onto my recently de-fuzzed body (normally more bear-like in the quantity of hair), and my most striking and flattering dress.  I looked good and felt great.  He was running late from work, but I didn't mind... he was keeping me updated, and I spent the time having a pre-date date with London, wandering around Westminster, admiring Big Ben and the local attractions in the most beautiful summer evening light imaginable.  My lover rang me to arrange the exact spot to pick me up and I heard his soft, posh, sexy voice for the first time in years.  At last he arrived... and from there I have to say my fantasy went downhill.

He looked good, and seemed pleased to see me.  He teased me about the tattoo on my hand and asked after my family... we checked in at the hotel and then went out to dinner.  In the hotel room he said it was good to see me and kissed me.  It was a good kiss, slightly awkward but sensual.  We could well have gone to bed there and then but we were both determined to have a date to build up the tension.  But maybe we should have stayed in.  If I were to do it again it would be just a private, quiet night in a nice room (not a bland little one with no view and barely more than a bed), with a good bottle of wine and some beautiful music and many hours to talk deeply and passionately before eventually making it to bed.  In any case, we went out.  He took my hand as we walked and told me about his work.  I'm a lot older than the starry eyed little thing that fell for this older man a decade ago, and I was surprised at how much he brags about himself.  I suppose he always did, it's just that it used to impress me rather than bore me.  Over dinner we chatted quite mundanely, just general catch-up type things, about work and home life.  We talked about our partners a lot which I'd planned to avoid but found myself doing.  Neither of us got jealous, but it certainly didn't add to the romance of the evening.  We didn't really flirt or seduce one another at all.  We walked back to the hotel in the same manner and then we were there, just stuck in the little hotel room and its bed.  I sat on the bed and he put the telly on, stripped down to his underwear and joined me.  Intimate as spouses.  Ridiculous.  I'm sure he hoped for a positive reaction to his body, but I was waiting for a compliment myself and some attempt at seduction!  In the end we made a few jokes about the movie on the screen, and then I turned onto my stomach so that I was looking up at him and we started making out.  I got turned on by his touch instantly, and so we continued.  He told me in his posh accent that I have "magnificent tits", and we were soon naked. 

Real Sex Lives: Dusky, "I am going to see that old lover." (pt. 2 of 3)

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories. So get comfortable there and have a look.)

This is a True Wife's Tale update on Dusky. In her original entry ("I Have Had One Love Great Love and One Great Lover, and They Are Not the Same Man"), Dusky eloquently and honestly described the frustration of loving her husband but having little sexual connection with him. Yes, the sex was friendly and loving enough, but she was looking for smoldering and intense.

Instead of just jettisoning her sexual energy and figuring that this was what "mature love" was or something, she began a torrid email correspondence with Great Lover From the Past. The two exchanged sexy photos and deliciously detailed descriptions about exactly how they would like to wreck each other's bodies.

And, because she wants to live her life openly and authentically, she told her husband about the whole thing.

Several weeks later, I received an email from Dusky.

In just under 3 weeks (eep!) I am flying to London.  It is going to be a little 'me' holiday before hubby and I start trying for our first baby.  I will be catching up with friends and family, but also, I am going to see that old lover.

We will go on a date, and most likely it will lead to sex. He has a girlfriend who has no idea what a cheating bastard he is, so it will all be pretty sordid and clandestine.  It upsets me that I am being open and he is lying, but I will take what I can get.  It feels a little pathetic and anti-feminist, but this man is just too important to me to say no to him.

I now define myself as poly-amorous.  I have acknowledged to close friends, to my lover and to myself that this is not just about sex.  I have a relationship with my London lover, and indeed, we love each other.  We also love our partners.  To me it all makes sense and works.  My husband doesn't like that I have a relationship with this man... he wouldn't mind me just shagging someone else, but the love involved is a problem for him.  But at the same time, he has come to understand that I feel a need for this other person in my life, and he has found his way of meeting my needs.  Our basic arrangement is that he knows I contact this man and will most likely be sleeping with him on my holiday, but he doesn't want to hear about it.  We both have full permission for sex with other people, we just have to avoid it interfering with our life together.

I feel very lucky.  I have a wonderful husband, a wonderful lover, plus some very special and completely understanding friends to talk to about it all.

Anywho, that's where I'm at. Let me know if you'd like a post-London update.

Dusky

Well, I don't know about the rest of y'all, but I completely wanted a post-London update.

So, if you're down with it, too...coming tomorrow (dun-dun-DAH)...Dusky meets The Lover

*Real Sex Stories are an occasional feature of In Bed With Married Women--the idea being when someone (originally it was just wives, but really, it can be anyone) tells the truth about their sex life (or lack thereof), we all Learn and Grow, and can thus scamper unfettered out into the world to have smarter, better--I don't know--somehow truer sex. This also means that as fun as it is to mock and or judge someone else's choices, don't be a judgey asswipe in the comments.

Want to share your story? It's easy!  Just rip your soul out and email me the tattered remains.

xoxo
jill

(Photo via LaContessa)

Real Sex Lives: Dusky, "I have had one great love and one great lover, and they are not the same man."

I chose this to illustrate the concept of having two balls in
the air.  However, not quite sure why model has made a
couch fort of those (exceptionally stylish!) throw pillows. 

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Stories. So get comfortable there and have a look.)

Real Sex Lives, nee True Wife's Tales, are an occasional feature of In Bed With Married Women. ("Occasional," as Webster defines it, "whenever I am too fucking lazy to write a new post and/or someone happens to send one in.")

The idea behind them is that when someone (originally it was just wives, but really, it can be anyone) tells the truth about their sex life (or lack thereof), we all Learn and Grow, and can thus scamper unfettered out into the world to have freer, better--I don't know--somehow truer sex.

At the very least, RSTs allow you to indulge in the lower pleasures of Voyeurism and/or Judging.* So enjoy.

We are starting with one of my very favorites, a three-parter, from Dusky, a woman who I love so much we've become virtual friends even though she lives far, far away.

xoxo
jill

*Judge all you want, but keep that $%$# to yourself, please. These are real people being brave and 'fessing up.


Dusky, early 30s.

     Jill, thank you for your blog, it is a great read… and also a great comfort to read different experiences of love & sex. 
     I feel I live with a secret pain... I get a pang of hurt every time it is suggested that great sex & great love go hand in hand.  I feel surrounded by the idea that naturally the greatest sex of your life will be with the love of your life. The implication being that sex is a litmus test of the true inner feelings of two people, that if you really loved one another, the sex would be spectacular.
     I have had one great love and one great lover, and they are not the same man.
     My husband and I had a very romantic story, falling head-over-heels in love almost instantly and moving in together in less than two weeks. We stayed up all night talking, talking, talking… and by day we spent hours on end just sitting, gazing at one another and sighing. In between the talking and the gazing, we did manage some sex too. I don't remember if it was great sex then, it was just part of celebrating our enraptured love, taking our physical closeness and affection to the extreme.
     Since the 'in love' phase of our relationship has faded, we are still a ludicrously happy couple. We are best friends, and true partners. I never thought I would want to live with someone full-time, but having found the right person to live with my life is a constant joy, full of love, affection, fun & laughter. Friends and family consider us soul-mates, strangers can see how compatible we are. And everyone assumes our public physical affection is a sign of the great sex we must be having at home.
     The reality is sex has always been the less satisfying aspect of our relationship, particularly for me. After 5 years of trying to train my well-meaning husband to please me, I have pretty much given up.  We have agreed to an open marriage as I feel it is the only chance to get the satisfaction I crave. We continue to have fun, loving sex within our marriage, but now I can look outside for the intense, smouldering, sensual passion that I have missed.
     I have reignited communication with a man from my past. We never lost contact, but until recently we only shared rare & friendly messages. Now we are all the way back to regular, completely sexual communication: describing in detail what we want to do to one another, even sharing porographic photographs of ourselves.  For now it is a little thrill, in the hope that we will make it a reality someday (we live in different countries). I am sure he is not the only man who can satisfy me physically, but he happens to be the one I have experienced who can. The sex with this man was well beyond any other sex I have had. I've always enjoyed sex, I tend to be quite uninhibited, but this man knew how to really blow my mind. Sometimes I am overcome with vivid memories of that sex and I just ache to experience it again.  For some reason we felt an instant physical attraction to one another, and somehow that translated to an intense physical chemistry and sexual compatibility.
     I believe I have two mates in this life, one that meets all my mental and emotional needs, another who meets my physical needs. And generally, my little arrangement which allows me both makes me very happy. But sometimes I am very sad that they are not the same person, that the man I love can't really experience this sensual side of me. It is hard to have sex conversations (and I do love sex conversations!) with anyone other than people I know VERY well. People probably think I'm being prudish when I fail to join in their talk of sexy times with their partners, when I am just hiding the truth that the spectacular sex I would like to be talking about was with someone else entirely.
     An old friend told me a story years ago, before I met my husband. She said a friend had a most wonderful partner, they all adored him and thought she was the luckiest girl on earth to have snagged such a kind, beautiful person. They couldn't understand why she wasn't sure about the relationship. Then one day she confided in them - he was bad in bed. My friend said they reacted as though she'd said he had cancer - they just felt so sorry for her.
     Well my husband isn't entirely useless in bed, but I know how that woman felt. When you're with a wonderful man who is bad in bed, everyone else sees this perfect relationship on the outside, and don't how much it hurts to hide the frustration you feel on the inside.

Would you like to tell your own story? Just sit down at the computer, rip your heart out, and jot the results down in an email and send it to:  jillhamilton001@gmail.com

(photo source)

On the Benefits of a Smaller Penis by Blue

Oh god, please tell me I didn't send an email last night to
 IBWMW about my lover's ruddy, noble, well-formed penis

Reader Blue sent in the following missive. When I asked her what pseudonym she'd like, she answered, "I can't believe I sent that! I wrote that while drunk a few weeks ago and sent it while drunk last night."

Don't worry, Blue, lots of people write to me when they're drunk, which is probably not at all flattering, but I'm just gonna decide that it is actually highly flattering and be done with it.

Besides, the whole drunk Internet/texting/sexting possibilities available to Today's Modern Drunk makes me so so so happy that my own drunken days were pre-all of that. I can't even fucking imagine the hideousness of waking up all bleary-eyed and hung over and having to face my Sent Mail folder to see what horrors might lie within.

To her credit, Blue is not the incoherent mess of a drunk I was, so I reprint her story here in its full glory. Enjoy.

a few weeks ago i saw your invitation to "Just sit down at the computer, rip your heart out, and jot the results down"  and started writing this.  i don't know if this is what you want, and that was awhile ago but here's my story: 

i started writing this because of the part of dusky's letter where she writes "the idea that naturally the greatest sex of your life will be with the love of your life."  for me sex was indeed "a litmus test of the true inner feelings of two people" although love has always been a Big Deal for me, sex had never been the highest on my list of priorities.  i had attributed my lackluster sex life to my complete disinterest, not the other way around. it had kind of escaped my notice that the way people feel physically and the way they feel emotionally have a lot to do with each other.  there is no aphrodisiac like love... 

so i didn't know this but not everybody is ...you know... anatomically compatible.  there is such a thing as too much of a good thing.  sorry guys, but now you know.  it CAN be too big.  but i didn't learn this little secret until i cheated.  and let me tell you, for those lucky people out there who have never cheated on anybody: it a repulsive experience, don't do it!  but then, the marriage sucked and sometimes you don't know the grass is greener until you get on the other side of the fence.  sure it looks greener, but.... now i know.  

there are people in the world who are really good at having sex.  just like mozart was a great composer, da vinci was a master painter, and stratavarius made the best violins ever, some people are really REALLY good at fucking.  

Real Sex Lives: Lucia, "Not all infidelity automatically makes you a jerk."

The following Real Sex Lives* arrived in my inbox with no explanation, save for the subject "Musings for the blog." It was from someone I'll call Lucia.

When I post these, I generally pull a quote from the essay for the title, and when I asked a friend what he thought of the one above, he said, "I think it sounds delusional." Meaning, any and all infidelity did indeed make one a jerk. Period.

But...what if your spouse was...oh, in a coma or something for a long time and mentally and physically unavailable?  Or what if they had no interest in fucking you--and in fact, would not fuck you--for 23 years? Or what if they were a loving spouse, a terrific parent and all that, but just didn't really get sex? Can you create chemistry where none lives? Is it wrong to yearn for the kind of passionate fuckery that makes your whole body hum? Is it all wrong, or is there some sort of continuum of wrongness with some points being...not so wrong.

I am more in the gray area on the subject, but maybe that's because I'm reading Dan Savage's latest book, American Savage: Insights, Slights, and Fights on Faith, Sex, Love, and Politics, particularly the chapter, "It's Never Okay to Cheat (Except When It Is)." In it, Savage argues that we are "monogamish." "I believe we should place a higher value on marital stability than we place on marital monogamy," he writes. That is, tossing out a largely working, good marriage over an infidelity is not always the only and best choice. We pair bond, mostly. And maybe we should figure out a way to work with that. Savage writes "as a society we have a responsibility to adjust people's expectation about marriage."

Tell me where you are on this lately. Not necessarily on Lucia's situation, but the issue in general. If your spouse cheated, would you toss them to the curb? Does infidelity automatically make you a jerk? Is it, indeed, all wrong?

Anyway, here's Lucia:

It sounds funny to say but I don't really remember exactly how we met. I know one of us posted to Craigslist, but I don't remember which of us or whether it was in Strictly Platonic or what... I think it must have been because I knew from the get-go that not only was he married and 20+ years older than I was, but that he was also... not attractive to me.  I had like, zero draw to him in "that way."  But he was smarter than pretty much everyone else I knew, was incredibly interesting, and always picked up the check at lunch.

For years it went on, meeting for lunch, talking about life.  He never, ever did anything inappropriate. Occasionally there would be some innuendo, but it was never overdone.  I got engaged and moved away; his goodbye kiss had more oomph than I was expecting and I flipped out a little.  In retrospect that wasn't fair of me to do... he'd just lingered a little more than I'd wanted.  But, I was moving 1500 miles away and it was hard to say goodbye and maybe being mad made it easier.  I left him behind and we didn't talk for two years.

By the time I came back, my life had changed: I was still married, but it wasn't a happy marriage, and my husband was living in a different country. I found myself thinking about my friend and missing him, which I hadn't in the years I'd been away.   I reached out with an e-mail, and he responded within minutes.  It wasn't even awkward: when I saw him, I gave him a big hug and we just stood there for a long time, with the hostess waiting to seat us, probably tapping her foot the whole time.

It wasn't awkward but it was different.  I didn't realize it at first, but it was there: we were looking at each other differently. My 20s were over, I was much more comfortable in myself, and I saw him differently too: he wasn't just an amusing way to pass two hours over lunch. I found myself thinking about him and about what it would be like to touch each other. I was pretty sure it wouldn't go very far, he'd been faithful to his wife their entire marriage (despite opportunities) and they'd been married since I was 12--but I was curious what would happen if I hit on him.  So... I sent him a suggestive e-mail, and he responded with a hard-core explicit one.  And we talked like that, via e-mail, about stuff we'd never talked about through all the years that had passed.  And then... I invited him over.

I think we were both shaking when we laid down together.  This was the only time we'd ever really been awkward around each other, ever.  And when he kissed me, that line got crossed.  We both knew that but it felt so good, and it'd been well-considered and accepted.  I asked him to go slow, and he did, and we just kissed and petted for a few weeks.  I don't know how long that would have gone on, probably a long time.  But then something happened, and I got hurt.  And it was him that I called, he came and got me and took me home from the hospital.  And something switched in me, and all the awkwardness was gone, and I wrapped myself around him that night.  

That was two years ago.  Our friendship remains--we rely on each other for advice and honesty, levity and Words With Friends and of course, wonderful, amazing sex like neither of us has had before.  We both work in fields where we can help each other personally with our professional knowledge and resources; we go to endless movies when we can.  We're working through Sons of Anarchy.  We send each other e-mail "status updates" frequently.  But there are places we don't go: I know he is in love with his wife; that doesn't bother me.  Because he loves her, she is just a topic we don't really discuss, except in passing--he feels that it would be an intrusive violation of her privacy to discuss her (I agree).  I even saw her once, at a distance, at an event we were all attending--and I didn't really have a response, it just... was.  Their relationship is a lifelong commitment upon which a family and an entire life has been built.  My role is different--I'm an escape from that, a chance to do something that is only for him, that doesn't benefit them in any way... just his.  And as far as I can tell, I'm the only thing he does for himself.  I make it my goal to appreciate him for who he is, to be a joy to him the way he is for me: again, something just for him, not his wife or kids or coworkers, just him.

And for me?  Well, the sex is truly amazing (yeah he's not the hottest guy ever, but it turns out those 20+ years of additional experience count for something!) not the least of which because he is so turned into me that I don't ever have to ask for anything, he just knows to do it.  But also, I'm single now (marriage ended in there somewhere, for reasons unrelated) and I don't want to be in a full relationship yet.  He gives me the perfect middle ground: a strong, long-term friendship, someone to talk to but with all the space I need for me.  Obviously this is not a long-term thing, eventually I will want more from a guy, but for now, I don't.  

We made an agreement that when it came time to end things, either one of us could do it without drama.  Neither of us are dramatic people, so though I am sure one of us will feel a little stingy for a while, we'll get over it.  Unless something catastrophic happens (read: wife) I think we'll find our way to another type of relationship, without the whole sex component.  I know this is a dangerous game, and I don't take it lightly--but I am so grateful for him, and he for me.  He is truly my friend, and proof that not all infidelity automatically makes you a jerk.  If this guy is a jerk, there are no nice people out there.   

***
There you have it. If you want to share your real sex story--be brave and go deep!--send it to jillhamilton001@gmail.com

xoxox
jill

*The name True Wife's Tales has become too limiting for these real life sex story things. You're smart and clever--what should we start calling them now?

(photo: Lady Cheeky)

True Wife's Tale: Beatrice, "On Varied Love: An Open Letter to My Husband/Pet on Polyamory"

Yes, Ma'am

Today's True Wife's Tale comes via Beatrice, a 29 year old Domme, married a year to Heath, 34. It's a been a weird week for the couple because not only did Beatrice present the letter below to her husband in real life, their private BDSM/poly thing might have possibly become public via a Twitter mishap. Heath was pretty wigged about it--such an arrangement is still pretty stigmatized and could carry real repercussions if they're outed--but Beatrice writes, "I told him that poly, kinky, whatever--it's all legal. It's all OK. And that I love him. And that I will bury anyone who tries to hurt him or our family." Since she's a Domme, I would take her word on that.

Here then, Beatrice:

My darling pet, my devoted husband, my best friend, and the father of our beautiful child,

I love you more than I thought it would be possible to love another human being. You have given me a life, a family, and a home that, without you, would not have been possible. You teach me, every day, what it means to be a Partner. You help me, every day, to be the best Domme I can possibly be.

Because I love you, and because you have given me such varied gifts of love, I believe it is right and salutary that I present this letter, to you, in a way that shares my messages of love for you, and revelation within myself, in a public venue.

I need you to understand what it means when I talk about polyamory.

Polyamory is not based in greed, dissatisfaction, or narcissism. It is based in the personal and interpersonal knowledge that Love can exist between more than two people and still be True.

(I have been trying to find an accurate way to express this for over a decade. Being able to finally do so, in a moment of writer's clarity, is one of the great reliefs of my life.)

After ten years, ten long years of trying to figure out what in thunderfuck my brain needed in order to feel whole and complete and sane and at peace, I am finally comfortable saying, "Yes, I am poly."

Yes, I want to enjoy the bodies, minds, and junk of other people.
Yes, I want to lap at a woman's cunt until she loses her mind.
Yes, I want to feel the security of submitting to a man who knows his way around a flogger and the female mind, from a sensually sadistic standpoint.

It's not easy to make these statements, nor are they statements that I make lightly.

I realize that making these statements, and doing so in a public manner, may have intense repercussions in my own home and with you, my own devoted partner.

I also realize that, in order to be the best Domme, wife, and partner possible, all cards must be on the table. All truth must be transparent and accessible.

Is this terrifying? Yep.

I'm scared-near-shitless to be speaking my truth. But, the Truth has a funny way of making itself heard, and of leaving Peace in its wake.

Here's to Love, and to being honest with those to whom we give it.

Yours,

Beatrice

*****

Heath responded with a heartfelt letter of his own which seemed--and I can scarcely believe I am writing these words--somehow too personal for me to want to run, but the gist is that he's down with the idea, kind of, or at least willing to give it a go. 

Wrote Heath, in part:  "Honey, I cannot promise you I'll get there overnight. A week, A month. Longer. What I am promising you is that I am going to give it my all to understand, accept and be at peace with everything. My biggest fear is losing you. Remember: no secrets. I love you no matter what you tell me about yourself. You can tell me anything; just be prepared to help me understand and to tend to my emotions and yes, sometimes confusion, as a result."

So there you go. Someone else's business delivered straight to your screen. And we are done for the day. 

If you are feeling the pull to share your true sex story, write that motherfucker down and send it on in to:  jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

xoxox
jill

(Photo: Wicked Knickers)

True Wife's Tale: Billie, "My Lover Is A Stonewaller"

New True Wife's Tale via Billie. True Wife's Tales, as you recall, are real people talking about their real sex lives and we want to respect them and their choices, so don't get all up in her grill.

If you want to write up one of your own (you don't have to be a wife, or a woman, for that matter. Just need to have a sex life, or lack of one that you're willing to tell the truth about), see instructions at the end of the post.

Here then, please welcome Billie:

********

Yesterday my lover left me.

Or at least I think he did.  He didn't actually bother to tell me.

My lover, you see, is a stonewaller.  Stonewallers, as I learned via a teary, surreptitious Googling session last night, are people who don't acknowledge, honor or respond to your concerns. In my case, my "concern" was whether we was coming to visit me today, as he'd repeatedly said he was going to.

He lives in Washington and I live, well, somewhere else, and he was going to visit me for two days to give me the sex I sorely lack in my marriage. I didn't feel guilty about it. I'd made my peace with it as something I needed. Judge me if you'd like, but I know what I did was right for me. I had learned so many things with him and for the first time in 20 years--20 years!--I'd been able to express my sexuality and passion to a man without shame. I gave my body and self to him freely and I'm glad I did. I'd do the same thing again in a second. In a second! Plunging deeply and fearlessly into love--that's right, just jump straight the fuck in--is only way I want to love.

Anyway, I know you can't see in my house right now, but he is definitely not here.

That he is not here is how I had to figure out that he was not coming.

Writes Steve Becker in Love Fraud:

The stonewaller’s absence of empathy for the stonewalled party, perhaps even the relish the stonewaller takes in messing with the stonewalled party’s head, in watching her twist and squirm and perhaps make humiliating efforts and bids to be heard—there can be something actually sadistic about this.

Stonewalling will tend to elicit some common feelings in the stonewalled party—among them shame, anger, rage, infuriation, humiliation, desperation (to be heard), helplessness, and a sense of being driven crazy.

No shit.

Stonewalling is what abusive people and sociopaths do. Meaning--*sigh* what a drag--I have to remove myself from the situation.

So today, the day he would be fucking me, I allowed myself one last fantasy of him. In preparation of his "visit," I am in fine shape--all toned, waxed, the proper ratio of slim and curvy. I'd been tapering my antidepressant (sexy!) for weeks so I could actually have an orgasm and I hadn't touched myself since 18 days ago when we'd had amazing, amazing phone sex.

"My passion for you is near violent," he'd texted.

I needed to come.

So I locked the door and hopped into bed. Naked, I thought of him and his fine, fat Jewish cock and how much I was going to miss the way he paused in the middle of sex to fuck me slow and smooth.  His cock seemed to go on forever as he drew it slowly in and out of me. "God. It's so good, isn't it?" I whispered to him. He nodded, looking me in the eye and I thought I saw wonder there.

That look, that humanity that he couldn't seem to access in regular life is probably why I stuck around so long--more than two years. I thought I could get to it.

But I couldn't.  And maybe it wasn't even there. And that's why, in the middle of my ceremonial jerk-off, I burst into tears. Fingers stopped between my legs, I burst into deep, racking sobs--the kind of sobs that come from some deep ancient place.

I was sobbing for all of it. For the way he couldn't come to me with an open heart. And for how there was nothing--absolutely nothing--I could say or do that would make him respond openly and truthfully to me. Or even respond at all--which is just so, so...well, see above, "common feelings in the stonewalled party." For how much I would miss his thick Jewish cock. For what a stupid masochistic cunt I was to put up with so much shit. And how much I would miss him and his version of love and the way he kissed me deeply and well--the way I needed to be kissed. For how I would have to put my passion and sexuality...somewhere.  It wasn't going to fit back inside me hidden away and I didn't know what the fuck to do with it and who--if anyone--would ever again feel it with me. Ever. God. Fuck! 

I cried and cried and cried.

I slid my fingers back between my legs and thought about sitting on top of him, fucking him, and how he got almost a panicked look in his eyes before he came and shouted out my name.

In my own bed, I came too, big waves of orgasm juxtaposed with sobs.

It was maybe overwrought and stupid and overdramatic but real and necessary.

Passion is a strange thing. I have never felt so much passion for someone and perhaps never will. I don't know if I wanted him so much because he was harmed or in spite of it. I don't even understand, exactly, why it was him. He was kind of overweight, didn't "get" me in the slightest and made no attempt to try. The last time we met, it was in a sleazy hotel called The Sagamore (could there be a more depressing name?) We fucked on top of the bed spread which as anyone can tell you is about the filthiest place on the planet.  He wore black footie socks while he was fucking me. And I didn't care. I just wanted him inside me, all overweight and black footie sock-wearin', fucking me like I yearned to be fucked.

Anyway, now I am pretty well fucked metaphorically and not at all fucked literally.  Hoping for the opposite, but right now I am just...wrecked.

 ******

Thank you to Billie for today. If you have some love/sex purgery of your own to do, get your fanny over to the computer and jot it all down. Pretty it up and send it on it to jillhamilton001@gmail.com.

Love to you all.

xoxox
jill

P.S. In Bed With Married Women was named a Sex Blogging Superhero by Kinkly.com. I'm not really sure what superpowers this comes with (maybe this?) but a huge thank you to whoever it was that nominated the blog!

(photo via Lady Cheeky)

Real Sex Lives: "Having no intimacy with her for 23 years is killing me."

Store your sexuality away in that box. It'll keep. Maybe.

(You have arrived in the midst of a grand celebration in which we're re-running IBWMW's all-time greatest Real Sex Lives stories.)

Today's truth teller is crazy madly in love with his wife, but his wife is physically--and possibly emotionally--unable to have sex with him.  And that's pretty much been the story for the last 23 years.Where does that leave him? That's what he's trying to figure out.

********** 

Ever hear of “vulvodynia”? Me neither until I read about it. It’s one of those woman-things that’s quite real but insurance companies don’t pay for diagnostics or treatment for whatever excuse they’re using on a given day. The scuttlebutt is it can take up to ten grand to find out. Then there’s not a whole that can be done about it. She doesn’t have an official diagnosis. But when you’ve been around Her for over a decade and you both know the exact nature of the problem, when you read the symptomology, it’s not rocket science, no matter what the insurance bastards have to say.

All those blissful billions of nerve endings sistas have, in Her they experience a massive malfunction when stimulated. Instead of pleasure, they send PAIN! to Her brain. And they don’t all agree with each other across the topography of Her magic places; up near the clitoris, they say PAIN!, along the outside of the labia 5 mm from the bottom they say YAHOO!, inside the all-powerful opening, they say everything from WTH? to PAIN! To YAHOO to JEEBUS WTF ARE YOU DOIN’?! So yeah, so much for the science lesson and now that we know the problem has a medical name, my husband-guilt goes into overdrive—I may NEED sex, most preferably with Her, but if it hurts Her, then “sex” just turns into the thing I have to “sacrifice”—or else I’m a selfish male asshole, isn’t that how it goes? Once sex is out of the equation, all the “other” problems that come with 23 years married and quarter century living with Her go into a slow nuclear burn.

She was the girl I “did the right thing” by… I was abstinent until our wedding night, because that was how She wanted it and I wanted to be with Her more than any other girl I’d ever been around, let alone those I’d been with before Her. She rolls her eyes every time I say it, but it’s the authentic truth: I saw Her in her younger sister’s dorm room and that was it, no other female human being had any appeal to me whatsoever. It wasn’t my “other brain” that sang, it was the whole deal, head to toe, both brains included. I must have done something right that first night out because we began to see each other a lot, She drove five hours to see me, I moved to her town first chance I had so five hours was five minutes. I wrote her mammoth love letters, I wrote songs for her that my band played at gigs, I photographed the daylights out of her although she protested (a lot). We got married [too] young. Her mom wrote her a letter trying to talk her out of marrying a 23 year old musician/photographer/writer —“dreamer” was what her mom said, and I think “loser” was in there somewhere; thankfully FIL-to-be loved me. I was working-class like him but college educated and could spend hours under the hood of an old car with him and honestly have a great time. He’s quite possibly the most honorable guy I’ve ever met.

Then came the wedding night. She was the fourth virgin I’d been with out of a dozen others from the time I was fifteen (I know that makes me a high school and college boy-slut jerk, right?). The other three virgins, things worked out fine, I actually went and found out how to make those first times better than the way most women describe them—maybe they lied to me. I’ll never really know. She brought me with her to the “lady doc” and She did her homework assignments with me as prescribed. I did extra homework to make sure everything was going to go well, because I’d waited and She deserved nothing but my very best.

So we were both a little shocked after I came up grinnin’ like fool from giving Her a nice and loud, jumping-all-over-the-damned-place-orgasm, when intercourse, after appropriate recovery and well-earned snuggling, was impossible and waaaay more painful that it should have given all the conscientious preparation—in retrospect, we were both shattered. Unfortunately we were too ashamed and scared to tell each other just how shattered we were— for the first decade or so that we were married. The honeymoon wasn’t the intimate emotional-physical-sexual discovery and bonding experience we’d planned. Instead it was just another one of our many trips together, except that this trip was an emotional nightmare and we talked very little and we only tried to have sex one other time, again to failure and a lot of me apologizing for letting Her down. I was convinced it must be my fault.

Our marriage was publicly known to our friends and family as the model for “doing it right” but in private, in our bed, it was emotionally tortured and sexually just awful. In the first year I kept trying to get her to take this all to her doctor. I was a fix-it guy, something doesn’t work you go fix it. In the meantime you work around it. I had a vocabulary, I had some experience with a bunch of other fun things to do with two human bodies. I didn’t know what “vanilla” meant back then but I discovered She was a vanilla’s vanilla. Missionary only or nothing, well, almost nothing, She’d let me go down on Her, which I was all too eager to provide because all I wanted was to make Her happy. I couldn’t help but wonder it that was a response to our wedding night shocker or if She just really was “not into anything else” as She told me that first year. Over the first few years we tried to have sex and failed. Eventually intercourse, as brief as possible and as an afterwards She endured, was possible. Bottom line, She refused to go see a doctor and refused to try any workaround. I just wanted Her to be happy so I settled. That’s what a “good guy” does. I loved Her.

I was devastated but I loved Her. And it hurt even worse that Her body was (and is to this day at late forty-something) rockin’. It was like coming to the table every meal, every damned day, where the table is loaded with chocolate covered strawberries and champagne and never being allowed to even touch any of it, well, one strawberry, a couple times a year, and I had to down it quickly so it wouldn’t hurt her too much. That’s been our “sex life” for 23 years.

Somehow we managed to have two kids. We were stupid, thinking: well, maybe this will be something we can do right, in spite of the “problem.” Economics put me home as the Stay-At-Home-Dad. It was kinduva “choice” for me, I had already bailed on my arts careers in favor of a desk job but the economy was tightening up around the millenium, both of us wanted to raise our own kids and, since we couldn’t afford daycare anyway even with both our jobs, I had the time so I downshifted. Ha! More like “shifted-sideways” because any SAH parent knows kids are never “down” even when they’re unconscious.

Now that our kids were a distraction from our intimacy crisis, our silence about the “problem” continued until I went back to college to finish whatever-degree-was-cheapest-and-fastest-to-finish and could get me back to an arts-based career (I was always a better artist than a paralegal), and when our eldest entered kindergarten. One day, out of the blue she tells me matter-of-factly, no tears or anything, our wedding night devastated her. “It was one more thing in my hard life that was hard. I always believed sex was going to be something easy, natural, organic I could count on to not be more work. But it wasn’t and it isn’t and I’m done with sex for good.”

I was devastated, hell, beyond shattered all over again. I felt numb, surely She didn’t mean it. After two kids, birthed the way evolution geared it, she still had a body that was rockin’. That table filled with chocolate covered strawberries and champagne I was not allowed to touch? Not even on the table anymore. I blamed her for waiting until she was married. I kicked myself for being stupid for breaking the Rule for Her that I established when I was still in high school: no moving forward with a girl without sexual compatibility being established. It was a socially unpopular Rule (one my fundamentalist parents would have freaked out over had they known) but it had always weeded out girlfriends who liked the idea of me more than me. Until Her. And here we were thirteen years married, I broke my Rule for Her and I was getting’ spanked for it (not even the fun kind).

I had a shitstorm to deal with because I was around younger twenty-somethings every day on campus and four different women (older twenty somethings) made me an offer no man could refuse, except me. I was still head over heels in love with Her. I had thirteen years emotionally invested in Her and the last thing I wanted to do was complicate that—it was plenty complicated already, dammit—and I already knew Her shit; why would I want to have to learn to deal with another woman’s? And I kicked myself for it while simultaneously glad I still wanted Her more than those very appealing other women. I was noble, it’s what a “good guy” does, right?