Friday, August 7, 2015

Sex and Pussy: A Journey Through the Decades Part 2


In the early years, especially prior to marriage, I never refused sex with Ron, though I didn't often enjoy it.  It was just something we did, like going to the movies and it was always over pretty fast.  I can't remember when he first asked me for a blow job, but I adamantly refused.  I couldn't believe what he was asking me!  It was certainly gross and unsanitary.  Why would I want to put me mouth upon something he pissed out of?  It didn't make any sense, I had certainly never heard of it before and it wasn't going to happen.  It took a while for him to convince me, and I made him scrub that sucker clean before I would even attempt it.  It wasn't "just like sucking on a Popsicle."  A Popsicle was cool and refreshing.  This was boring and I couldn't wait for it to be over.  He let this sit a while until I got used to the idea before he told me he wanted me to swallow when he was done.  Exactly what was I supposed to be getting out of this?  Swallowing wasn't anything that gave me any benefit, either.  It was salty, slimy and I didn't see the point.  Sometimes, he would push my head down there, and not let me back up until I did what he wanted.  This wasn't my idea of fun, and sex was supposed to involve the precious golden pussy.  I felt used.   

Life goes on as it does, and I got used to it.  Sometimes I would do it because it was quicker getting him off and I didn't want sex.  Sex was always the same, and it was always missionary style.  Sex was so dull and uninteresting, I didn't understand for a second why women would want it in the first place.  It was a chore, something I did to keep him happy.  The marriage wasn't good, but the daughter I had gave me great joy.  I forced myself to be happy with the life I had, and to make the best marriage I could even though by now I knew I didn't love this man and never would.  I read back on what I wrote about him, how I felt about him in high school and sadly realized I had silly high school ideas about what love was.  I never wanted to marry him in the first place, but I didn't see any other choices if I wanted to be a respectable woman.  He was the one who ruined the golden pussy.   

There came a day when I didn't want sex, I didn't want to appease him with a blow job, I just wanted left alone that night.  He cajoled, he enticed, he begged and still I said no.  When that didn't work, he took what he wanted.  I fought a little, futile.  He didn't seem to care.  He did his business and when he was done I fled to the bathroom, locked the door and wept.  I didn't know why I was crying, why I felt such intense shame or why it mattered.  I felt like the dirty tissue they always warned me I would be, and I was married.  My own husband made me that dirty tissue.  For the first time in my sexual life, I felt worse than I did the night I lost my virginity.  My husband wanted to come into the bathroom, he didn't know what he did wrong.  He had no clue, and neither did I.  I knew what rape was, but I also knew a husband couldn't rape a wife, so it never entered my mind for a second rape was what I was feeling.  I took a shower and went to bed, exhausted and defeated.  His touch was never the same after that.  My skin crawled at the mere thought of it.  I recoiled when he did touch me, I became stiff when he hugged me and waves of nausea would ripple through my body when he kissed me.  When he "made love" to me, I didn't fight it, I died.  I died each and every single time after that.  I never wanted to be divorced, but I was dying every day I stayed in the marriage.  One day, there wouldn't be anything left alive.  My pussy was my enemy and frankly I didn't understand what it was good for.   

And still the days went by.  He felt my disgust and asked for sex less and less. This was fine with me.  One day while taking a shower, I pulled down the shower massage and rinsed off, lingering in between my legs.  It felt good, comforting, tingly.  I needed comfort and tingly was a sensation I had never felt before.  The tingly moved out from between my legs, and this wave of pleasure started in my toes and flew through the rest of my body, ending in some sort of an epileptic convulsion.  I was breathing heavily, trying to catch my breath, yet I had done nothing strenuous.  It lasted seconds and forever all at the same time.  I'm a little dull at times, but even I knew I had experienced my very first orgasm, and it was discovered quite by accident.  Nothing my husband ever did came close to making me feel like that.  Now I knew why my pussy was golden, why it was powerful, and it was stunning its glory.  After that, I became the cleanest person alive, sometimes showering 3 times a day. After years of slowly dying, the world suddenly had a new perspective.  My husband didn't know what the fuck he was doing.  I had to find out more about sex and the golden pussy.   

This was a problem since I was married.  I flirted constantly, affirming my value as a sexually desirable object, but it meant nothing.  There was never any follow through, never anything but a playful essence to it.   I was managing a retail store in a small plaza when one day a fellow from the computer store came in to buy some snacks.  The sexual energy was immediate and intense.  I had never felt such a strong and urgent attraction to anyone in my life.  He came within a few feet of me and the hair stood up on the back of my neck, my skin tingled with the anticipation of his touch and butterflies fought the walls of my stomach, sending quivers down my spine.  My legs went weak, and I felt I needed the support of something to lean on anytime he entered the store.  I tried not to flirt with him.  I didn't know what I was feeling, but it was more than I could stand.  I couldn't explain it.  No one had made me feel like this before and it terrified me.   

I didn't know where it was going, but I didn't have to wait long.  Nothing provocative was ever said between us, no endearing words, no playful double entendres.  He walked into the store one day during a slow time.  He said nothing to me, he just grabbed my hand and walked me to the back room.  I asked what he was doing, what he wanted, but still he said nothing.  When we got to the back room, he kissed me hard and with a passion I had only read about.  My head was spinning, but I kissed him back with a passion I didn't know lived within my flesh.  Our hands were all over one another, our clothes in a scattered disarray on our bodies.  I had a dress on.  As his hands slid up my thighs he ripped off my panties and thrust into me with all the force and passion of his kiss.  I don't know how long it lasted, but the climax was exquisite.  We got our clothing put back together, walked out of the backroom as if nothing had happened and went on with our day.  After that, we met as frequently as we could, having sex at every opportunity.  There was never any talking, I know nothing more about him than where he worked, I never had his home phone number and I never wanted to know more about him or have a relationship deeper than what already was.  It was pure, animalistic, thrilling, exotic sex.  I finally knew what all the books were talking about, and why people were so afraid of sex.  It was magnificent!  I knew I had much to learn and the days of my marriage were dwindling fast.  The affair ended just as it began, without words and without any clear reason.   

I first learned on homosexuals as an adult.  I can't remember what the first realization was that men had sex with other men, there was no "ah ha" moment. I didn't think much about it except like my first reaction when I heard about blow jobs, it was "gross."  Other than that, it didn't affect my life so it was filed under things to be observed.  I heard a lot of things being said, but as sex education had taught me, not everything I heard could be believed and what you were taught isn't always reality.  I never imagined homosexuality would enter my world head on, forcing me to deal with my marriage on an entirely different level.  Homosexuals, whatever the debate may be, were someone else's problem.  I had enough of my own.   

I was pregnant with my second child when my husband insisted I go out shopping.  I didn't get it.  I wasn't feeling well and I had no money.  I didn't know where he expected me to go, how I was supposed to shopping without any money, but he thought I should get our for a couple of hours and "window shop."  He thought it would be good for me.  I had been feeling down and there was little joy in my life.  It seemed I had little choices at home, he often and easily became violent.  I didn’t' know why he wanted me out of the house, but it seemed like a good enough idea.  I wandered around Massillion, OH, but it was a small town without much in it.  Canton wasn't far away, but I had no money and even less energy.  I came back home about an hour after I had left.   

As soon as I walked into the house, I knew something was wrong.  It was painfully, deadly quiet. It was the kind of quiet where the air was heavy with pain.  Ron was nowhere in sight, and it was a two bedroom trailer.  I told my daughter to wait in the living room and I walked step by step down the hall, to the bedroom.  I felt like I was in a dream, like real life was someone else's life and I was the screenplay in it.  I opened the bedroom door and I saw my husband and our very married friend Ken naked in the room just before it was slammed in my face.  I went to the bathroom door to our bedroom, and that was slammed in my face as well.  I started crying, hysterical, really.  Of all the things I could have imagined, my husband in bed with another man wasn't one of them.  I wasn't mourning the death of my marriage, I wasn't jealous, I couldn't tell you why I was crying.  In retrospect, I was crying because I knew I was in a marriage with a homosexual and I was pregnant.  I was trapped with no way out.  At least I knew why he was so bad at sex though.   

After that, I couldn't stand for him to touch me on any level.  The thought of it made me physically and violently ill.  It wasn't that he was a closeted homosexual, or bisexual, it was that now I knew his touch wasn't genuine.  He was using me and it explained why sex never felt right or good, why my body felt like a dirty doormat, why it felt like a used tissue and why I hated sex with him.  After my affair, I knew it wasn't me.  I was capable of enormous passion, of free and uninhibited sexual desire.  I could have glorious, earth shaking orgasms which exhausted the muscles in my thighs so I had difficulty walking afterwards.  It was him.  I had carried years of shame with me, thinking I had failed somehow as a woman and it didn't have anything at all to do with me.  It had everything to do with him.  The marriage went from bad to worse after that.  Before this discovery, I was docile when he wanted sex, now he repulsed me.  I fought him violently when he tried to touch me.  He became angry with me and the violence continued to escalate.  He raped me when I couldn't fight him off, and still I felt trapped.  I was working with a counselor on an escape plan because I knew leaving a violent man was not going to be easy, or safe.  Sleeping was not safe.  He tortured me every chance he got because I refused him sex.  I would lie in bed and he would violently masturbate next to me, screaming profanities the whole time.  If I tried to leave the room, I paid the price.   

1 comment:

  1. https://www.facebook.com/chimera.onelife

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