Saturday, August 29, 2015

Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 9

I was learning a lot about pussy, none of it I was willing to cop to.  I remained religiously pious, only allowing my pussy to be used within a relationship which had the potential to lead to marriage, though none of the ultimately did.  I still clung to the deep hope that Gordon and I would eventually be a couple, after he grew up some more.  My religious piety was about to take a turn to the dark side, as my self worth would plummet from recent revelations.  The newly found memory and Ron's escalating abuse of both me and the girls were setting me on a path of self destruction. 

The girls were becoming increasingly reluctant to go on visitation.   They were so terrified of visitation, my eldest hid in a closet, curled up in the fetal position and begged not to go.  There wasn't anything I could do, they wouldn't tell my why they didn't want to go, but seeing my seven year old daughter that terrified was causing me great concern.  When they would go off on their weekend for visitation, I would head off to the bar.  I had to do something to ease the pain of their absence.  I could not imagine what he might be doing to them to cause them such fear.  I had them in counseling as well, but they weren't telling the counselors anything at this point.  I remained at the bar the entire weekend, going home only to sleep, change clothing and apply more makeup.  I spent my time dancing my troubles away. 

One weekend, the pain was more than I could bear.  Some guy paid me attention all night long and I didn't want to go home yet again.  The silence was deafening, even in my sleep.  It had an accusatory sound to it.  I wasn't protecting my precious girls and the accusations were reverberating in my head.  I couldn't do it.  I went home with him, this time trading pussy for comfort.  I don't remember participating much in sex, but it was the first time I learned what "going in the back door" meant!  It really hurt, but I let him do it anyway without complaint.  He even had a roommate and they had separate beds in the same bedroom.  The roommate wasn't there, maybe he hung a sock on the door.  I didn't care what he did.  My body no longer felt like my own.  I spent the night with him and he wanted me to stay with him the next day.  I declined.  I went straight to Amber's house, disgusted with myself.  I was now officially a "slut."   

I walked into her house and burst into tears.  She asked what was wrong and I told her I had a one night stand!  I was devastated.  I had officially become the dreaded slut.  She smiled and said "let's go get some pie."  Amber taught me a slice of pie with a good friend can make you feel better about anything. By the time we were done with our pie, she had me laughing.  She didn’t have the same religious piety regarding sex that I did.   I'm not sure her viewpoint on it was entirely healthy, but she was sexually healthier than I was.  At least she didn't feel the shame I did about it.  This one night stand was the beginning of a descent into many one night stands.  I couldn't handle the demands of an actual relationship, but I wanted comfort in the arms of a man, even if it was only for a few hours.  I learned my pussy wasn't golden at all.  In fact, to my shock and surprise, every woman had one.  Any man could find it whenever he wanted.  All he had to do was to find a soul splintered and damaged enough they were willing to trade it for a few hours of attention.  That became my life for a while. 

Gordon was still calling me intermittently, and I was still hanging onto the fantasy love would one day conquer all.  There came a time when my girls told me just enough about what was going on that I decided to go on the run.  I moved and left no forwarding address or phone.  I intentionally didn't let Gordon know where I was either.  That effectively ended his hold on me.  I could finally go about and live my own life, free of the fantasy.  I have never left a forwarding address since, though these days it is much easier to find someone.  If you are online in any capacity, you will leave a digital footprint.  My address here is available online for anyone to see.  They shouldn't be allowed to do that.  I never gave permission for it, that much is certain.  Had that been the case nearly thirty years ago, I would have had a much more difficult time of disappearing.   

This was a dark time for me.  I was learning just how worthless I was, because I was taught that my pussy was what defined me as a woman.  Here I was so desperate for comfort I was giving it away to anyone who offered it to me.  I didn't want it to blossom into a relationship.  I was learning to separate sex from love.  It would still take me a long time to come to a complete resolution of this, to come to a place where I could own my own sexuality without shame. That's what I was taught, that if my pussy wasn't owned by one man, then there would be shame.  The sexual assaults reinforced that my pussy really wasn't mine at all.  I was completely worthless, and that is how I felt.  I couldn't find a middle ground between worthless and religious piety with regard to my precious and dirty pussy.  I had a lot to learn and it would take years of healing from the childhood sexual assaults and the rapes in order to come to an understanding of what my sexuality was, and how to be comfortable with it.   

Now I have to digress a bit here, because there is a secret I am keeping regarding my sexuality.  I was also attracted to girls.  It started in junior high. There were a couple of girls in school I thought were just beautiful.  I wanted nothing more than to run my fingers through their hair, to stroke their face, to hug them.  I knew nothing about sex then, I just thought they were exceptionally pretty.  I wanted to be near them, to soak up the flowery smells in their hair.  All I knew was girls weren't supposed to be attracted to girls, so the thought of dating one wasn't even on my radar.  I didn't know what this meant, but it was going to play out in later years.  My attraction to girls didn't stop at junior high, there were some in high school as well.  It would be a lifelong attraction I couldn't begin to act upon.  I usually learn things pretty quickly, but since sex was shrouded in such mystery it would take me a lifetime to learn that sexuality is more fluid than set.  I have come to think we are all born bisexual, but how we grow, develop and perceive our sexuality and gender as well as genetic factors will eventually determine our sexual orientation.  Some of us weren't born to any sexual orientation.  We followed the sexual path we were given.   

I can't tell you how many partners I have had over my life, but it has been more than I can count on two hands.  Once I hit thirty, I decided that wasn't important any longer.  There were other things human beings needed, and sex was one way to get them.  Sex served a multitude of purposes, not just procreation or love.  Love could be a sexual expression, or as in the case of my children, it didn't have to be.  Sex could be done with or without having to love someone or want to be with them.  I was also beginning to believe we were not meant to be monogamous creatures, but polysexual.  I was conflicted.  I wanted a monogamous partner, but I couldn't imagine having a single sexual partner throughout my entire life.  I've learned so much from having multiple partners! I was still religious, and the observations I was making regarding sexuality did not align with what the church was teaching.  It seemed to me the church didn't know much about sex and pussy at all.  Amber was trying to get me to see sex not in any religious format, but as an activity, much like going swimming or shopping.  I was a long way away from that.   

Once I came out of my depression, and my girls were safe, I decided to ignore the conflicts I had with my pussy.  I was a master at hiding things from myself; it had become an art form, really.  So that's what I did, I ignored it.  It brought a measure of peace to my life, and allowed me to maintain a piety pussy if not a golden one.  Piety was something I determined, not the church.  I had begun to break free of the constraints upon my pussy the church imposed on me.  I had found out there is no such thing as a golden pussy, like I had been taught in school.  Pretty much everything I had been taught in sex education was a lie.  I had spent a significant part of my adult life trying to live up to the lies we were taught, and all it caused me was pain and conflict.  It was time to break new ground.  

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Sex and Pussy: A Journey Though the Decades Part 8

The recovered memory sent me reeling, but I had thought it was the worst that happened to me.  This is another coping mechanism, to deny anything else had happened and to marginalize the pain I was in.  I told the counselor I thought my grandfather had "saved" me from further abuse after I told him what had happened.  I suppose I had to believe someone had saved me, otherwise the truth would be too horrific for me to deal with on top of everything else.  My subconscious knew better, and my confusion regarding sexuality and religious piety would bear proof of this.  It was proof I was unwilling or unable to acknowledge.   

I had this reoccurring nightmare/memory.  In it, I remember being a child going to bed at dusk, just as the sun was whispering it's gentle goodnight to the horizon.  Like that summer July day, I can see the coming of nightfall clearly through the window.  I am in my bed when a shadowy figure walks from the left side of my bed to the end of it where it pauses for a little while.  I equate this figure to the devil as a child.  I am terrified.  I am so terrified, I cannot move, I am frozen in fear.  As a child, I prayed to God fervently for safety.  I kept repeating "The devil can't harm children, the devil can't harm children."  I repeated it desperately, hoping it was true.  As the devil came closer to the right side of my bed, I could feel the heat from his body.  As he leaned over closer to me, I could smell the stink on his breath.  The devil remained in the shadows, I never saw his face.  As his face came within inches of mine, I passed out.  I would always awaken the next morning as if nothing had happened.  In my little girl mind, nothing had happened.  Jesus saved me because I recited Psalms 23, verse 4.  It is the most recognized verse in the entire bible; though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.  I was afraid. I was so terrified, I would not see or know the face of that evil until three decades after he appeared at my bedside.  It would affect how I saw myself, my sexuality, my self worth and how I used my pussy, but I didn't remember anything beyond that one memory of me as a six year old child.  I clung to the unsubstantiated belief that my grandfather had saved me from further sexual abuse.  I had to believe I was saved from worse horrors.  I had to believe in a hero and that God had answered my desperate prayers.  The devil cannot harm children.   

I clung to religion during this time, like the lost clutching the final unraveling thread from the rope just before falling to their inevitable death.  Religious piety shaped how I viewed my pussy, and how I justified it's use outside of marriage.  I had serial monogamous relationships I subconsciously hoped would lead to marriage.  With Gordon, I had hoped the relationship would eventually end in marriage, because doesn't true love conquer all?  I clung  to the night Gordon professed his love for me.  I used it as a glimmer of hope this is where the relationship would end up.  I simply had to give it time.  I wasn't yet divorced, so time was the one thing I had to give.   

This was a very confusing time for my pussy.  Amber had some points regarding sex I couldn't rebut.  Pussy was a tool, useful to gain many things, not the least of which was money.  I didn't understand it at the time, but using my pussy was the only path I knew through which I could become loved.  I didn't care about money, I wanted to be loved.  I was soon to find out yet another use for pussy, safety.   

I was dating a number of men, so many I couldn't keep track of them all.  At this point, I was dating three Mikes (it's a popular name) and the only way I knew the difference was to ask them how work went that day.  It's how I kept them apart, to know which one was calling me.  One day, a fourth Mike entered the picture.  This Mike came from a rather unexpected source, my soon to be ex sister in law.  I can't recall where Denise met Mike, but they were friends. He had heard a lot about me, none of it good.  I suspect he wanted to engage in some covert work for my husband.  He called me and we talked for a little while, but I couldn't determine which Mike he was.  Finally he asked "Do you know who I am?"  Embarrassed, I had to admit I did not.  He told me and I nearly hung up on him, but he convinced me to talk to him a little while longer. He told me I was nothing like he expected.  He started calling me every few days, and we would talk for a long time.  We had a lot in common.  He was going through a nasty divorce as well.  He may have initially contacted me to be a spy for my ex, but my charm soon convinced him to jump the fence.  He began to tell me what Ron was planning, and it was terrifying.  He offered me safety and security against those threats, and we soon began to sleep together. 

I didn't love Mike, I knew that much.  Mike had resources to help me with my divorce from Ron and he seemed to be a powerful ally.  My pussy ensured he remained my ally and not Ron's.  One Friday, he told me of Ron's next plan on terrorizing me and he came to get me out of town for the weekend.  At least, that's what he told me.  Now I am not so sure he wasn't using my terror and the real violent acts of Ron to gain an access pass to my pussy.  I suspect we were both using each other for something.  His parents had a cabin on the shores of Lake Erie, and we would be safe there.  It was a nice enough weekend, but Monday came and I had to return to real life.  The threats from Ron continued, and since the rape I had more reason than ever to be terrified of Ron.  Mike's usefulness as a spy in Ron's camp came to a close one day when Ron called me and asked to speak to Mike.  Ron knew Mike had jumped the fence and was on my side.  I can only imagine how frustrating that must have been for him, but it certainly made the potential for violence escalate.  I needed someone willing to protect me, and Mike was the only one volunteering for the job.  I equated safety and protection with love.  It is clear I had no idea what the ideology of love consisted of and what it meant.  Although I didn't love Michael as I loved Gordon, I thought there were other types of love which included the need to be safe. 

I was so desperate for his protection, I willingly gave up my pussy to him though I didn't love him and had no real attraction to him other than security and safety.  It was the first time I began to realize pussy didn't have to be about love at all.  Amber was right.  Pussy was merchandise to be negotiated.  Men wanted pussy, and women traded it for a number of reasons.  I was still unwilling to admit (even to myself) that I didn't love Mike.  It is only in hindsight I can clearly see I used my pussy to garner safety for myself and my children.  I didn't know it, but Mike only provided safety against Ron.  It didn't mean he was safe.  In the coming weeks, I was to learn a great deal more about Mike's own divorce.  His wife Kim was probably not the slut he made her out to be. They had a son together name Joey, and she was keeping him from seeing his son.  This touched a nerve with me, as I could not imagine Ron keeping my girls from me.  My girls were my whole life.  They were the reason I kept on living.  I would have certainly killed myself had they not needed someone to protect them.   

Mike's divorce proceedings from Kim were even more acrimonious than mine were from Ron.  At this point, I had no idea Ron was harming the girls during visitation.  I naively believed all of Ron's violence and anger was directed at me.  When Mike told me Kim was on the run from him to keep Joey from seeing his father, I believed him.  When Mike stalked Kim to find out information on her, I accepted this as a normal part of getting divorced because that's what Ron was doing to me.  My view of normal was shaped by how I was treated by my father and by my relationship with Ron.  Mike had never raised his voice to me, much less laid a hand on me, so when Kim accused him of domestic violence, I believed Mike when he told me it was all a lie.  When she pressed charges, I believed Mike when he told me she was being vindictive.  I was still very much into denial about spousal abuse.  Though I was going through the same thing myself, I believed Mike and blamed Kim.  It was an easy sell.  I wanted to believe Mike was the victim.  It created a bond between us since I felt like a victim myself.  We broke up after Mike was sentenced to two years in prison and he left to serve his sentence.  Now I know it is very difficult to get a two year prison sentence from domestic violence.  I truly believed he was being set up by his ex-wife.  My counselor had her work cut out for her.  I had narrowly escaped becoming Mike's next victim, all because I wanted to be safe.  Being in the midst of domestic violence myself, I couldn't see it when it was right in front of my own eyes.  It wouldn't be until years later that I realized Ron never raised his voice or laid a hand upon me until after we were married. Though I was selling my pussy for safety, I was far from being safe.   

Monday, August 17, 2015

Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 7

Not long after the rape I went to the Canton City prosecutor to discuss bringing charges.  I didn’t have hope for actual charges being levied against Ron since I had waited to report the rape, but I didn't expect the answer I received.  The prosecutor told me he wouldn't pursue charges.  It wasn't that I had waited a couple of weeks or so (that's how traumatized I was, I couldn't begin to discuss it until then) but that we were still legally married.  Even though we were separated, divorce papers had been filed and I maintained a separate residence with Schedule A visitation, he maintained a legal right to my body according to the prosecutor.  That was somehow more shocking than being raped.   Being raped by my husband didn't surprise me, but that answer certainly did.  He wouldn't even look me in the eye when he said it, and promptly dismissed me after.  I tried to get a discussion on the matter out of him, but he wouldn't listen.  He left the office and told his secretary where she could reach him.  I sat there momentarily, stunned.  His secretary asked if I was all right.  I said "no" and told her what had happened.  She just shrugged her shoulders.  I don't think she believed me any more than the prosecutor did.  After all, I was a bitter wife trying to gain an edge in the divorce.   A rape never happened.   

With the unfairness of the world spinning around me, I went on with life.  The anger of the rape itself is long past, but as I write this, the anger from the prosecutor's response remains.  It isn't fresh, it's a long simmering ember.  I wasn't believed, I had no rights and it was vindictiveness which drove the complaint, not the fact I had been raped.  Was there no end to what abuse Ron could legally get away with?  The custody battle for my children was overwhelming and expensive.  I had an accident settlement and every penny of it went toward ensuring the children's safety. I paid the attorney monthly from some cleaning jobs I had.  Every extra penny I had went to the attorney.  I spiraled into a depression which made living very difficult.  Even now, my pussy was not my own.  I considered suicide, but every time I looked at my children I knew I couldn't condemn them to a life living with a rapist.  I had no idea he was molesting them.  Later I would learn the pussy of a child does not belong to them either as I learned what he had been doing to my girls and I remembered what had been done to me.   

Life went on, despite the trauma.  The memory of the rape remains vivid nearly thirty years later.  The pussy never forgets an assault like that, and it has a better memory than I do.  Repeated rapes does something to your sense of self worth.  I had broken up with Gordon, and I meant it yet again so I stopped sitting next to him in class.  Unknown to me, there was someone else who was watching me.  His name was Mike and he was in my abnormal psychology class too.   

Mike waited a little while after I stopped sitting next to Gordon to start talking to me.  He asked me what classes I was signing up for in the coming semester, we sat together in the cafeteria and we developed a little friendship before we started seeing each other.  I seem to be attracted to damaged men.  Mike was living at home and he described a terrible home life.  He also disappeared a great deal of time and wouldn't tell me where he was.  He said he worked for a detective and was doing surveillance.  Sex with Mike wasn't as adventurous as it was with Gordon.  Gordon taught me a lot of new things, "going down" on me being the least of them.  Mike was pretty standard, though his enthusiasm for sex made up for his lack of imagination.  One day, he stopped by my house unexpectedly and without a word grabbed my hand, led me to the bedroom and pushed me up against the wall.  We had sex and it was pretty intense.  It was the first time I had angry sex.  He wasn't mad at me.  He said he had gotten into some pretty deep stuff and he didn't know what to do.  He had just had a fight with some of the people he was involved in.  To this day I don't know what he was doing, but he never brought it to me.  I certainly don't think it was detective work, nor do I think it was legal.  This was to be another on again, off again kind of relationship.  In a way, these relationships suited me since they weren't as emotionally intense but they still caused me a lot of pain and anguish.  I didn't know what to do with them, or how I was supposed to protect my pussy.  I began to wonder if it needed any protection at all.  I seemed to be doing perfectly OK with it, and I hadn't fallen into the hell-fires of damnation.   

Meanwhile, Amber and I continued to have talks about sex and pussy.  She always referred to her vagina as pussy.  I couldn't say the words vagina, pussy or any of the other descriptions.  I simply said down there.  I was coming down off my religious piety one grain of sand at a time, but I would have a very long way to go before I could accept sex was a natural part of adult life which was  nothing to be ashamed of.  I deluded myself into thinking I had real relationships with Gordon and Mike, which is how I justified having sex with them.  I was also ignoring the fact I enjoyed sex immensely, not willing to admit it to anyone but Amber of course.  When Mike disappeared the last time, he stayed gone but Gordon was different.  He continued to float in and out of my life for a while to come.  I let him use me and my pussy as an open door policy. There was one thing abstinence only classes had right; open door policy results in shame.  I began to feel ashamed I let Gordon use me in this way, though I didn't know that was what was happening.  I still equated my golden pussy as an expression of love, and love hurt.  Amber was trying to get through to me love had nothing to do with it, but I couldn't give up the Disney dream.  I still believed Gordon and I loved each other and maybe we did, but being used didn't make me feel good and sex was no longer the same with Gordon as what it had been at the start.  Years later I would come to find out my pussy wasn't the problem.  It was my sense of self worth. 

Self worth has a lot to do with sex and pussy.  Those women who have very little self worth tend to view pussy as a way of affirming they are worth something, because we are taught the value of and wicked allure of pussy.  Women who have been sexually abused as a child by someone who is supposed to love them do equate sex with love.  It is how we are taught what love is.  If you are a good person and love someone, you have sex with them.  A child always sees a parent as a good person, no matter what the truth may be.  It takes a long time to shatter that image of the parent.  After the rape, the counselor was getting a little closer to pulling out the information from me. More and more pieces were coming together and I started to remember a little bit.  The fog was lifting, and the result would send me into a tailspin and it would take some time to recover.   

The day I remembered a tiny bit of what my father had done was enough to send me underneath the counselor's desk and it took her a long time to coax me back out.  She had comfy chairs and sofas in her office, and she rarely sat at her desk.  She sat with me, as if we were friends chatting about our lives instead of a professional digging into my mind.  She never "planted" any ideas in me, as was popular in the time, but let them come out in fragments. She never told me where the fragments were leading and it left me confused as to what they meant.  All she would say was the memories would come in their own time.  She was working with me on my self esteem, and letting men use me. My entire self esteem was built upon how sexually desirable I was to men.  I had nothing outside of it.  I would learn this is common in women who had been sexually assaulted throughout childhood, and sometimes in women who had been repeatedly raped.  In childhood, sex is equated with love.  In repeated rapes, you learn you aren't worth anything outside of your pussy.  Fortunately, I was her last appointment of the day.   

I can talk about the first part of the abuse.  I have lived with the memory much longer, since my twenties.  I have come to an understanding of it, an acceptance of where it was in my life and what it meant.  I did not remember the rest of it until I was in my late thirties and early forties.  The final part of the memory was so traumatizing, I have only told two people the extent of it.  One of them was a counselor.   

One week we were discussing the picture I drew of the hallway in the farmhouse. The fog had been lifting.  I remembered an old refrigerator in the hall where my dad kept some of his tools, and where he kept his pornography.  I remember sneaking a look at them once, although getting into this refrigerator was strictly forbidden.  I added a picture of my dad and me, my curly little head was all I saw in it.  The addition was as if I was seeing the image from above, not at eye level, like the spider was.   The week after I drew my dad and I into the picture was when the memory came back.   

One day I bounced into the farmhouse living room, a happy little girl coming in from playing outside.  I don't remember what I was doing, only what happened next.  My father was in the hallway with a certain look in his eyes.  I froze, knowing what that look meant, and what was going to happen next.  He crooked his finger at me, motioning me to come to him.  He didn't say anything to me; I knew what he wanted and I was afraid.  I remained frozen, although my feet started moving toward him.  I didn't want them to do it, they did it all on their own.  Everything seemed to be happening to someone else, it held a dreamlike quality, even in the memory.  As I got closer to my dad, he unzipped his pants. I took his penis into my mouth and started doing what he wanted.  The memory was clear; this wasn't the first time.  I was six years old, I wasn't turning seven until December of '69.   

From there I separated from my body and floated away.  This is called dissociation, which was why I drew my father and me from an aerial view.  It was how I saw what was going on.  My spirit was flying up above me, waiting for it to be over.  As I recounted the memory to my counselor, I referred to myself as "the girl" the entire time I was disassociated.  While the girl was forced to perform oral sex on my father, I watching how brilliantly the sky shone in crystal blue hues, and how the fluffy white clouds decorated it with the glorious yellow glow of the sun.  It was a beautiful day out.  The was a light cool breeze which whispered against my skin when I was playing.  My spirit saw my mother coming in the front porch, off the kitchen.  She was humming.  My spirit was panicking, screaming at the girl that my mother was coming!  Mother would find out and she wouldn't love us anymore! I screamed and screamed but the girl couldn't hear me.  My mother walked in and caught the girl and my dad.  There was a scream, and my mother ran into the bedroom, crying.  My dad zipped up his pants and in an instant I was back in my body again.  My dad didn't say a word as he glared at me, as if I had done something wrong and I had.  He warned me never to let mom find out or there would be trouble and she wouldn't love me anymore.  I tried to warn them, I screamed but they didn't listen and now I was in trouble.  He went out through the kitchen and I looked at the calendar.  I stared at the picture, and July 1969 for a long time.  It was a pretty picture, a landscape with flowers.  I walked over to the sink and stared at the spider.  Though it scared me a little when I drew it, I had no fear in the actual memory.  I turned on the cold water (we didn't have a water heater in the farmhouse) and it pattered away, up the wall and out of sight.  I looked in the mirror at the bad, bad girl.  I lathered up from a bar of Ivory soap and washed my father's cum off my face.   

Friday, August 14, 2015

Sex and Pussy: A Journey Through the Decades Part 6

I was in love for the first time in my life.  It wasn't the school girl crush I had on Ron.  It was borderline obsessive and probably would have been obsessive had I not had children to care for.  I wanted to spend every waking moment with him. We sat together in class and he waited for me in between our other classes. I was having the experiences I should have had in high school.  Amber told me what she knew about sex, and it was plenty.  She didn't see sex as an emotional connection.  She saw it as power.  She saw it as a way to get what she wanted. Like me, she had been sexually abused, but we didn't talk much about that yet. Sexual abuse changes you forever, in ways no one else will ever comprehend. Some of the changes are straight out of a book, while others no one could predict.  Amber saw sex as something she could use.  I never once heard her say she actually enjoyed it, nor did I ever hear her term it as "making love." 

I can't remember the first time Gordon and I had sex, but it was the first time in my life I had been made love to.  He was gentle, tender and kind.  He paid attention to me and my body.  It was also the first time a man performed oral sex on me.  I didn't know men did that!  Amber had a lot yet to teach me I suppose, she never said anything about it.  I went with it, but I didn't like it.  He seemed to like it and I acted like it did too.  As I lay in the afterglow, I didn't know what to feel.  I didn't know what I was supposed to feel, but I felt wonderful.  I still didn't know if we were in a relationship, but I wasn't worried about it either.  I was simply happy.  I was opening up sexually in ways I never knew possible.  I doubt Gordon loved me at this point, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but how I felt in that moment. There were to be many more moments like that with Gordon.   

Sex just wasn't any one way with him, like it was with my husband and like it was with Mike.  Mike was always twelve degrees above passionate, no foreplay needed.  I was to learn from Amber this was what was known as "fucking." Well, that explained a lot about my relationship with Mike.   I had no desire to be with him outside of fucking him.   With Gordon, I was vested in him and the blossoming relationship.  I learned to use sex as a tool to get what I wanted from him, and the only thing I wanted was more time.  I loved being with him.  It didn't feel like I was trading or bartering my pussy, I loved his touch, the scent of his body.  I loved him being inside of me and I loved how his hands felt caressing me.  I used sex to spend time with him after he had already said he was busy doing other things.  Gordon was a party boy and I had children.  I couldn't be in his world and still be a good mother.  We both knew the relationship could not lead anywhere, but seemed unable to break up with each other.  I was willing to wait until he got over this phase he was going through. He was fairly fresh out of a divorce himself and I still wasn't legally divorced. Gordon was confused about a lot of things and somehow this made him more attractive to me.  I thought I could be his strength, his anchor, his port in the storm of life.   

The day came when I offered him sex and he said "no."  We had broken up, but I wanted to lure him back in.  I was still desperately in love with him.  I came to realize I was trading much more than my pussy to be with him.  I had begun to trade myself as well.  We had an on again, off again relationship.  I was there whenever he needed me to be, and when he didn't need me, he was with someone else.  This was the first hint my pussy wasn't as magical as I thought it was.  It certainly wasn't enough to keep a man, and as I was finding out, I wasn't enough to keep Gordon.  I thought if I was there enough, if I was good enough, me and my magical pussy would win out in the end.  After all, isn't that what we are taught?  I lived in a fantasy world carefully crafted by romance novels and Disney movies that true love always conquered all.  I was finding out that like abstinence only teachings, there were other lies to be uncovered.  How many more lies about life was I to discover?  How much of my life was built on lies?  I knew Gordon loved me.  He told me and I felt loved by him.  If I was just patient enough, we would be together in the end.  It was a painful lesson to learn.  The balance in the relationship with Gordon was beginning to weigh in as more painful than pleasurable and even a Disney ending couldn't comfort me.   

I became Gordon's shelf pussy.  That didn't feel very good.  He only called me when he wanted it, not to be with me, not because he missed me (though that is what he said) and not because my pussy held some powerful mojo.  I didn't feel like that infamous dirty tissue, I felt used.  I somehow justified allowing myself to be used because I still had a faint glimmer of hope I would have my fairy tale ending.  I wasn't sleeping with anyone else, but one day about a week after we had been together he called me to tell me I had given him crabs.  I was grossed out.  I didn't know such a thing existed!  I assured him he could not have gotten them from me, but he insisted I was the only one he had been with recently.  His new girlfriend Karen had broken up with him about 3 weeks or so prior.  I didn't know anything about crabs, but I was about to.  I shaved every bit of hair off my precious and potentially infested pussy over some white paper, looking for any inhabitants.  There were none.  I then scrubbed it until it was sore, just in case any might be hiding in one of the many flowery folds. Once I got back to school, I looked up crabs in the library to find out it took more than a week for gestation.  It took about three weeks, about the same time period he was with Karen.  Karen had been cheating on him.  I wasted no time telling Gordon, thinking this new information would making him come running back to me.  I was wrong, it didn't.  I still couldn't give him up, and he couldn't seem to let me go, either.  I remember talking to him on the phone, begging for him to just let me go.  I needed him to tell me it was over, tell me he had no feelings for me so I could move on.  He couldn't.  I cried for days.   

During this time, the violence with Ron was growing in frequency, the threats were almost constant.  One day when he was supposed to have the girls, he called me, speaking calmly, rationally.  This was a change.  It gave me hope we could resolve this like adults and move on.  He asked if he could come over, to iron out the details of the divorce.  I agreed.  He had no intention of ironing out anything.  As we were talking, he said "I don't think I could ever take you back now."  I thought this was an odd thing to say, especially since I didn't want him to take me back.  I knew better than to provoke him by saying he disgusted me to the very core of my being, his touch made me want to vomit or that I cringed at the thought of it.  I simply replied "You don't?"  No, he replied.  He walked over closer to me and bent down to kiss me.  I turned away and tried to change the subject, creating some physical distance between us.  He closed in, this time grabbing my arms forcefully so I couldn't back away.  He tried to kiss me again.  Again I turned away.  He didn't stop, pushing me up against the wall. He had me pinned.  He kept kissing me, and I kept turning away, protesting, telling him to stop.  His hands went underneath my blouse, roughly playing with my breasts.  I knew I was in trouble.  At 6'4" to my 5'4", he outweighed me by nearly a hundred pounds.  He already had me pinned against the wall.  I was going to be raped, and I knew it.   

He threw me down on the floor with such force the impact almost made me pass out.  I might have hit my head on the coffee table on the way down, I'm not sure but I had to fight to remain conscious.  I wasn't going to let him take me easily.  He managed to get my jeans off in the skirmish and when he finally did penetrate me I stopped fighting.   It was over.  I lay there as if dead, and it was how I felt, dead.  I finally knew why I had fled to the bathroom crying years earlier.  He had raped me then and many times after that inside of the marriage.  It was the same way I felt now, and there was no other explanation for what was happening. I was being raped.  When he was finished, he told me how no one would want me now.  I was nothing more than a slut and I deserved what I got.  He spat in my face as he zipped up his jeans, then he left me on the floor.  I was unable to get up on my own.   

I don't know how long I lay there, I can't remember having any thoughts.  I existed there in that space, that period which had become frozen in some sort of a time freeze.  There was nothing.  I didn't even bother trying to dress myself, to make myself more comfortable, to change positions, nothing.  There were no tears this time, I was beyond tears.  After a while, I got up and took a bath.  There was no conscious thought about this, either.  My movements were mechanical, as if programmed into my brain, hardwired by centuries of evolution.  I got dressed and went to bed, where I stayed until my children were returned to me.  I can't remember having a single thought the entire time. There was nothing.  I was nothing.  My movements through the rest of the coming days and weeks were mechanical, forced.  There was no single moment when I came back to being something.  It happened slowly, as if in a fog.  It cleared a little each day, and didn't fully dissipate for years after.