I've been keeping track of how (in)frequently V and I have sex for some time now. It's not just for libido-tracking purposes, it's also because we are supposedly trying to conceive a child.
The statistics are weird. My maths may be off.
Since I began keeping count (February) we have had penis-in-vagina sex 14 times in 168 days.
The average would appear to be once every 12 days. How can this be? Once every 12 days seems like a sex heaven to me now, even though I would gladly do it every single day, at least once, given the opportunity. It certainly doesn't feel like every 12 days.
The shortest gap is two days, in June, when we managed to get it on a whopping three whole times (whoo!). This, along with the odd five-and-six day gaps, must have brought the average way down.
The longest dry spell, broken last Friday at my absolute insistence, was 45 days. Of sheer hell. I would have thought that this would push the average back up again, but the bog-standard two-or-three week gaps seem to have cushioned the blow.
What's got me mathsing it up is my ovulation. Having just been knocked back for a lunchtime baby-making quickie, seeing as we are both off work at just the right time of the month, I started thinking about how many chances I actually have left to get pregnant.
At a generous estimate (and assuming I am healthily fertile and not due an early menopause or any similar fertility-scuppering nasties) I have five years of reasonable fertility left in me. As I now know (yeah, thanks, sex ed, for not making this clear until I actually needed the information), there are only about two days each month when pregnancy is likely to occur.
Five years x 12 periods/year = 60 chances to get pregnant
60 periods x two fertile days = 120 days in which to get pregnant
Every time he denies me sex at a fertile time, he robs me of one of those 60 chances that I have left to be a mother.
I've just laid out the mathematical facts to him. He says that's not a helpful way to think about it. Not helpful to whom? Sure, it's not helpful to me in that when I think about it I want to cry. It's helpful in that I know what I'm dealing with.
It's not helpful to him because if he knows the facts, he knows that he can't deny that he is robbing me, not only of my right to a healthy sex life, but of my dream of being a mother.
But even that, it seems, is not motivation enough for him to get off his arse and fuck me.
Tuesday 25 August 2009
Wednesday 19 August 2009
Illogical thoughts from a supposedly logical man.
Two conversations, throughout both of which I sobbed uncontrollably.
Conversation one:
V: Every time you're affectionate with me I feel like you want it to turn sexual. I worry that you don't actually love me, you just want me for sex.
B: If I just wanted you for sex I would have left you a long time ago.
::pause::
V: I suppose.
B: It's precisely because I love you so much that this is so difficult. I'm still with you because I love you, I want us to stay together and I want to fix this. I want to have a sex life with you, because I love you.
::pause::
V: I suppose.
::pause::
B: To me, when you love someone, you want to have sex with them, because that's what bonds you together, that's what makes it a relationship rather than a friendship. In refusing to do so, it feels like you're telling me you don't love me, you are pushing me away, telling me you don't love me, and destroying the bond between us.
::pause::
And if we split up because you won't have sex, you'll wind up telling yourself you were right all along about me just wanting you for sex. You'll tell yourself you've proven yourself right, even though the reason I am still here is because I love you so much, not because I'm just after sex.
V: I suppose.
Conversation two:
B: I feel like I've been duped. You pretended you wanted me, you pretended you wanted sex with me, you pretended you loved sex. You enter into a monogamous relationship with someone with the understanding that you will have a sexual relationship with them. It's part of the deal. And now I don't have a sexual relationship with anyone but myself.
::silence::
What can I do? Is there anything I can do to help?
::silence::
Do you want to have sex with other people?
V: No.
B: Can I?
V: I wouldn't feel comfortable with that. If you want to have sex with other people we should probably just split up.
B: But I want to have sex with someone! I want it to be you! And you won't do anything! It's like having something blocking an airway, like I can't breathe. There's a whole part of my personality that can't be expressed without you letting me express it. It's cruel.
V: I know. I'm sorry.
B: I know you're sorry. But what are you going to do?
V: I don't know.
Conversation one:
V: Every time you're affectionate with me I feel like you want it to turn sexual. I worry that you don't actually love me, you just want me for sex.
B: If I just wanted you for sex I would have left you a long time ago.
::pause::
V: I suppose.
B: It's precisely because I love you so much that this is so difficult. I'm still with you because I love you, I want us to stay together and I want to fix this. I want to have a sex life with you, because I love you.
::pause::
V: I suppose.
::pause::
B: To me, when you love someone, you want to have sex with them, because that's what bonds you together, that's what makes it a relationship rather than a friendship. In refusing to do so, it feels like you're telling me you don't love me, you are pushing me away, telling me you don't love me, and destroying the bond between us.
::pause::
And if we split up because you won't have sex, you'll wind up telling yourself you were right all along about me just wanting you for sex. You'll tell yourself you've proven yourself right, even though the reason I am still here is because I love you so much, not because I'm just after sex.
V: I suppose.
Conversation two:
B: I feel like I've been duped. You pretended you wanted me, you pretended you wanted sex with me, you pretended you loved sex. You enter into a monogamous relationship with someone with the understanding that you will have a sexual relationship with them. It's part of the deal. And now I don't have a sexual relationship with anyone but myself.
::silence::
What can I do? Is there anything I can do to help?
::silence::
Do you want to have sex with other people?
V: No.
B: Can I?
V: I wouldn't feel comfortable with that. If you want to have sex with other people we should probably just split up.
B: But I want to have sex with someone! I want it to be you! And you won't do anything! It's like having something blocking an airway, like I can't breathe. There's a whole part of my personality that can't be expressed without you letting me express it. It's cruel.
V: I know. I'm sorry.
B: I know you're sorry. But what are you going to do?
V: I don't know.
Thursday 18 June 2009
It all comes down to what you're prepared to live with.
That's what my counsellor said to me today. God, it was a hard session. Although I started attending counselling for a completely different issue, the last few sessions have been almost wholly about my relationship with V. The situation between us is deteriorating rapidly. I feel like he ignores me much of the time, staring at his computer screen from home time till bed time, then at his book till it's time to go to sleep. When you love someone, surely enjoying spending time with them should be your default setting, but I am last on his list of things to do, wedged in after reading 1001 blogs and a 200-sub Twitter feed, plus Favotter, or whatever the hell it is. The resentment I feel towards him generates in me a constant inner dialogue which makes it hard to enjoy any time we do get to spend together. He avoids me for whatever reason, I avoid him because I'm petrified I'll blow up and scream and scream and scream at him like I did last weekend.
When I cry, he sits passively, then promises to change, promises action. It's all lip service. He never actually follows through with the plans. There's always some excuse.
My counsellor and I have gone around and around trying to work out what could be wrong, why he could be withholding from me like this. In the end we realised that unless he is willing to talk about it himself, there's no way of knowing and, without knowing, no way of fixing it. And as she says, "It all comes down to what you're prepared to live with." Am I prepared to live with such infrequent sex and such poor communication for as long as it takes for him to be ready to explore whatever it is that's holding him back and make the changes necessary to save our relationship?
I don't know.
Probably not.
I am on the very verge of asking him to leave. He knows it, and still he does nothing. I'm running out of options, and I can't control what he does.
I'm going to ask him tonight about attending couples' counselling, and sooner rather than later. It's becoming increasingly clear that we can't - or won't - work this out alone. He agreed to this course of action a while ago. But he's not keen on "airing our dirty linen in public" (ie actually talking about it), so he wanted to try a couple of other things first... then totally failed to do them. Perhaps, as much as he says he loves me and wants to fix this, he's not interested in saving this relationship. Some days from where I'm standing, it looks as though he's doing all he can to wreck it, and to take me down in the process.
If he won't come to relationship counselling, with me or alone, I am going to have to reconsider the whole situation. I can't take much more of this. It is poisoning my love for him.
When I cry, he sits passively, then promises to change, promises action. It's all lip service. He never actually follows through with the plans. There's always some excuse.
My counsellor and I have gone around and around trying to work out what could be wrong, why he could be withholding from me like this. In the end we realised that unless he is willing to talk about it himself, there's no way of knowing and, without knowing, no way of fixing it. And as she says, "It all comes down to what you're prepared to live with." Am I prepared to live with such infrequent sex and such poor communication for as long as it takes for him to be ready to explore whatever it is that's holding him back and make the changes necessary to save our relationship?
I don't know.
Probably not.
I am on the very verge of asking him to leave. He knows it, and still he does nothing. I'm running out of options, and I can't control what he does.
I'm going to ask him tonight about attending couples' counselling, and sooner rather than later. It's becoming increasingly clear that we can't - or won't - work this out alone. He agreed to this course of action a while ago. But he's not keen on "airing our dirty linen in public" (ie actually talking about it), so he wanted to try a couple of other things first... then totally failed to do them. Perhaps, as much as he says he loves me and wants to fix this, he's not interested in saving this relationship. Some days from where I'm standing, it looks as though he's doing all he can to wreck it, and to take me down in the process.
If he won't come to relationship counselling, with me or alone, I am going to have to reconsider the whole situation. I can't take much more of this. It is poisoning my love for him.
Saturday 16 May 2009
OK, I take it back.
They have just had an exchange which can only be construed as indisputably flirtatious.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Jealousy. And, probably, total irrationality.
V has become addicted to Twitter. So have I, truth be told, but my addiction is nothing like his. A few weeks ago he had an idea to use it as a kind of self-marketing tool, to get to know, charm and eventually ingratiate himself with the local Twitterati prior to starting his business - drumming up a little network.
Though he never said this, I assumed he meant people in the same business as him. And of course, I watch his tweets, and most of the people he tweets back and forth with do indeed seem to fit that category. But there's one or two that just don't fit. And one in particular who sticks in my craw.
She has nothing to do with V's career area. She's not funny. She doesn't say anything intelligent or insightful. She tweets meaningless drivel every two minutes, most of it conversational stuff aimed @peoplesheknows. She uses "lol " all the time. He hates lollers.
From her Twitter name, I can assume that she's in her late 20s, and she's local. Her picture is a cartoon of a young woman wearing a ball gag and an expression of, to paraphrase my parents' Joy of Sex, "erotic surprise". As far as I can see, there is nothing apart from these two qualities that might endear her to him.
She does "hang out" on Twitter with some of V's career peers, so I suppose there is that - perhaps he needs to read her stuff to know what's going on. Perhaps she's just one of the popular Tweeters around here (though fuck knows how she's swung that) so he wants to stay on her right side.
But it's driving me crazy, and it's the ball gag that's doing it. When V and I first got together, one of the catalysts was a shared interest in BDSM. Our pre-RL-meeting cybersex was full of the stuff, and on the Sunday afternoons of our first few weekend-long dates, he would tie me to various pieces of furniture and spank me. That seems like a distant memory now. Two different people. Back when I was hot and he was hot for me.
He once told me, while we were still doing the online dance of the seven veils, that "it's hard to treat someone like your fucktoy when you respect them". Of course, I thought "Oh, it'll be different with me". But it's not. We couldn't get any more vanilla. We're so vanilla there's actually no flavour at all. If he's unable to get his freak on with someone he loves, is he dipping his toes in the idea of even thinking about someone else?
I suppose half the problem is that we're such homebodies that I've had very little exposure to him having exposure to other women. It's comforting in a way to cocoon ourselves like that. But without testing those boundaries, I have never built up a resistance to jealousy and a confidence that he only has eyes for me. Of course, these days he rarely shows signs of finding me attractive, much less wanting to treat me like his fucktoy, so it's not really surprising that I'm paranoid.
There is no apparent flirtation between them. Of course, my paranoia reminds me that Twitter has the capacity for private messages. Goddammit. Shut up, paranoia.
Though he never said this, I assumed he meant people in the same business as him. And of course, I watch his tweets, and most of the people he tweets back and forth with do indeed seem to fit that category. But there's one or two that just don't fit. And one in particular who sticks in my craw.
She has nothing to do with V's career area. She's not funny. She doesn't say anything intelligent or insightful. She tweets meaningless drivel every two minutes, most of it conversational stuff aimed @peoplesheknows. She uses "lol " all the time. He hates lollers.
From her Twitter name, I can assume that she's in her late 20s, and she's local. Her picture is a cartoon of a young woman wearing a ball gag and an expression of, to paraphrase my parents' Joy of Sex, "erotic surprise". As far as I can see, there is nothing apart from these two qualities that might endear her to him.
She does "hang out" on Twitter with some of V's career peers, so I suppose there is that - perhaps he needs to read her stuff to know what's going on. Perhaps she's just one of the popular Tweeters around here (though fuck knows how she's swung that) so he wants to stay on her right side.
But it's driving me crazy, and it's the ball gag that's doing it. When V and I first got together, one of the catalysts was a shared interest in BDSM. Our pre-RL-meeting cybersex was full of the stuff, and on the Sunday afternoons of our first few weekend-long dates, he would tie me to various pieces of furniture and spank me. That seems like a distant memory now. Two different people. Back when I was hot and he was hot for me.
He once told me, while we were still doing the online dance of the seven veils, that "it's hard to treat someone like your fucktoy when you respect them". Of course, I thought "Oh, it'll be different with me". But it's not. We couldn't get any more vanilla. We're so vanilla there's actually no flavour at all. If he's unable to get his freak on with someone he loves, is he dipping his toes in the idea of even thinking about someone else?
I suppose half the problem is that we're such homebodies that I've had very little exposure to him having exposure to other women. It's comforting in a way to cocoon ourselves like that. But without testing those boundaries, I have never built up a resistance to jealousy and a confidence that he only has eyes for me. Of course, these days he rarely shows signs of finding me attractive, much less wanting to treat me like his fucktoy, so it's not really surprising that I'm paranoid.
There is no apparent flirtation between them. Of course, my paranoia reminds me that Twitter has the capacity for private messages. Goddammit. Shut up, paranoia.
Saturday 25 April 2009
Resetting the clock.
At last! Fucked and fucked good and proper. Last night I asked him if we could have some kind of sex today. He says "Yeeeesss" with the mock-irritated tone of a henpecked husband being nagged to mow the lawn. I asked if he realised that it had been three weeks since we'd been intimate in any way. He had no idea.
This morning, we cuddled together with coffee. He laid his head next to my breast in the crook of my arm and body. I whispered in his ear that I had felt him up in the night, one hand in my own knickers, one hand stroking his growing cock as he slept oblivious. Aroused, I began to toy with my own nipple, and soon he followed suit and joined me, stroking it and pulling, pinching, watching it harden and soften as we varied our touches.
He hauled himself over me, pinning me down, straddling my hips. Through the material of his pyjamas and my knickers I could feel his hardening cock resting between my pussy lips, and I wriggled against it, moaning. He kneaded both my tits firmly, and when my hands went above my head to grip the headboard, he slapped them both at once, full on the nipple, and I screamed.
Then things got a bit crazy - hair-pulling, face-fucking crazy, the best kind of crazy there is. Damn, the man can be good when he wants to be. He stood and pulled off his clothes, grabbed me by the hair as I knelt on all fours on the bed, offered up his cock in his other hand to my open mouth, then jolted my head towards it, giving me no choice. Flashbacks of our first few BDSM-tinged months together... ahhh, memories. We've never again quite reached those intense, uninhibited, lusty heights, but I'm thankful these days when he loses control for just a few seconds and slips briefly back into the master role. Or maybe it's more that he gains control and forces himself to do what he really wants, but feels he can't, not to the woman he loves, no matter how much she wants him to?
Fuck the psychoanalysis, right now I don't care. Whenever there's a semi-spontaneous fuck even half as good as this morning's, I luxuriate in relief. I feel like I've been through a series of expensive spa treatments, my body steamed, scrubbed, stretched and rubbed with precious oils. My mind feels reset - ten years of therapy might last longer but the glow of serotonin that flooded my body today could light up a room and should have me ticking over nicely for a few days.
Oh, the sweet relief! Thank God!
This morning, we cuddled together with coffee. He laid his head next to my breast in the crook of my arm and body. I whispered in his ear that I had felt him up in the night, one hand in my own knickers, one hand stroking his growing cock as he slept oblivious. Aroused, I began to toy with my own nipple, and soon he followed suit and joined me, stroking it and pulling, pinching, watching it harden and soften as we varied our touches.
He hauled himself over me, pinning me down, straddling my hips. Through the material of his pyjamas and my knickers I could feel his hardening cock resting between my pussy lips, and I wriggled against it, moaning. He kneaded both my tits firmly, and when my hands went above my head to grip the headboard, he slapped them both at once, full on the nipple, and I screamed.
Then things got a bit crazy - hair-pulling, face-fucking crazy, the best kind of crazy there is. Damn, the man can be good when he wants to be. He stood and pulled off his clothes, grabbed me by the hair as I knelt on all fours on the bed, offered up his cock in his other hand to my open mouth, then jolted my head towards it, giving me no choice. Flashbacks of our first few BDSM-tinged months together... ahhh, memories. We've never again quite reached those intense, uninhibited, lusty heights, but I'm thankful these days when he loses control for just a few seconds and slips briefly back into the master role. Or maybe it's more that he gains control and forces himself to do what he really wants, but feels he can't, not to the woman he loves, no matter how much she wants him to?
Fuck the psychoanalysis, right now I don't care. Whenever there's a semi-spontaneous fuck even half as good as this morning's, I luxuriate in relief. I feel like I've been through a series of expensive spa treatments, my body steamed, scrubbed, stretched and rubbed with precious oils. My mind feels reset - ten years of therapy might last longer but the glow of serotonin that flooded my body today could light up a room and should have me ticking over nicely for a few days.
Oh, the sweet relief! Thank God!
Wednesday 22 April 2009
Hah! Hormones.
Having just read my last post, from just a minute ago, I can't help but wonder - how likely is it that starting my period just a few hours ago has had some effect on how I feel?
I don't really think of myself as a slave to my hormones. I don't really get PMT... at least not like my mum, who once threw a toaster at my dad in a hormonal tizzy. Perhaps my concept of what constitutes "affected by my hormones" is a little higher than most people's.
I'm not pregnant. That sucks.
But... a fresh, clean womb, a fresh, clean start. Mm-hm. Interesting.
I don't really think of myself as a slave to my hormones. I don't really get PMT... at least not like my mum, who once threw a toaster at my dad in a hormonal tizzy. Perhaps my concept of what constitutes "affected by my hormones" is a little higher than most people's.
I'm not pregnant. That sucks.
But... a fresh, clean womb, a fresh, clean start. Mm-hm. Interesting.
I love him, I love him, I love him.
When he comes through the door, my heart leaps and my face splits with an uncontrollable smile. When he kisses me on the top of my head as I tap away at the computer, my insides dissolve. He enfolds me in his arms and I feel like a child, in the nicest way. He is the funniest, smartest, most interesting man I've ever met. I am happy and grateful that he is mine, that he loves me.
He's the only man I've ever loved.
To wish all that away, for the sake of my fractious, greedy, needy cunt and my broken and bruised self-image, is ridiculous.
I should be healing myself. It's not his job.
He's the only man I've ever loved.
To wish all that away, for the sake of my fractious, greedy, needy cunt and my broken and bruised self-image, is ridiculous.
I should be healing myself. It's not his job.
Tuesday 21 April 2009
I dream of cheating.
Last night, my dreams gave me what my real life will not.
I got my pussy filled twice in quick succession by two different men. The first was nameless, faceless, and he fucked me hard from behind, grabbing my hair and pulling my head back. I sent him out the back door as I saw the second coming down the street. Number two was almost a decade younger than I, a well-hung, boyish-faced and hot-bodied graduate I had a BDSM-tinged one night stand with four years ago. He threw me down on the edge of the bed, held my feet over his shoulders and pumped his cock into my cunt, sloppy with the first man's come. He put his hand round my throat and bit his lip, watching his cock disappear and reappear. He slapped my tit and called me a delicious little slut as he shot his come into me. I smiled, delirious with being desired. V was due home at 5.15pm - I remember very precisely - and the danger of discovery added a frisson. I jettisoned my second into the street a few seconds before V put his key in the lock. I welcomed him, flushed and smug, half-hoping for discovery and a realisation that his neglected woman was indeed wanton and wanted by someone, if not by him.
Next, a public toilet somewhere, kissing a petite woman with short blonde hair. She perched on the lid and I straddled her awkwardly, scooching her body forwards till our pussies could meet. I ground my pussy down on hers till my legs ached and I felt like I was going to fall over. Her trimmed pubic hair felt rough and rubbed delightfully against my open, delicate skin, but neither of us could get enough purchase to send us over the falls.
Then, briefly in the moments before waking, another woman, lying on her back. I did not see her face, I only saw the pussy open before my face. It looked red, inflamed and almost angry, not at all similar to mine in tone or texture. Shiny wetness spread over it and onto the tops of her thighs. I was excited and nervous, anxious to please, but confused as to what to do. I flattened my tongue and worked it on her clit like an eraser. She seemed quiet, still and bored, though she was very wet and her clit was hard. A lightbulb moment! I slid two fingers into her, pads up, and beckoned "come hither", hoping to find her G-spot. She squirmed and yelped, jumping her hips upwards. I wondered how I would know if she'd come, or if she was about to. My tongue ached, but so did my pussy.
I was already semi-awake when my alarm sounded midway through the scene. V having left already, I reached for a trusty toy to make the most of those precious few minutes when you're half awake, half asleep, and dreams feel real. I hadn't come in any of my dream encounters. I did shortly afterwards. So did my lady friend.
I'm in a state of constant arousal at the moment. I am masturbating three or four times a day, minimum. I need to go again, just writing this. No matter how much I wash my hands, they still have that distinctive musky scent. Out, damned spot! I can smell my own cunt through my jeans, out in public. I am sure others can tell.
V is not relenting. It's been almost three weeks. Last night, half asleep and sick, he grudgingly agreed to a quickie, but I'd rather have nothing than his charity fuck. What am I to do? My need to be the object of real lust is becoming ever stronger.
I have been sniffing around the "casual relationships" section of our local Craigslist equivalent, mainly checking out girls - for some reason this seems physically safer, less like cheating, and less risky in terms of meeting someone who'll judge my body negatively or to whom I won't be attracted.
I have clicked "reply" then panicked and closed the browser many times. I know that once I pop, I can't stop, and I'll get addicted to the thrill. But oh, I want that thrill.
I am a disgrace for even considering peeling the lid off this Pandora's box.
I got my pussy filled twice in quick succession by two different men. The first was nameless, faceless, and he fucked me hard from behind, grabbing my hair and pulling my head back. I sent him out the back door as I saw the second coming down the street. Number two was almost a decade younger than I, a well-hung, boyish-faced and hot-bodied graduate I had a BDSM-tinged one night stand with four years ago. He threw me down on the edge of the bed, held my feet over his shoulders and pumped his cock into my cunt, sloppy with the first man's come. He put his hand round my throat and bit his lip, watching his cock disappear and reappear. He slapped my tit and called me a delicious little slut as he shot his come into me. I smiled, delirious with being desired. V was due home at 5.15pm - I remember very precisely - and the danger of discovery added a frisson. I jettisoned my second into the street a few seconds before V put his key in the lock. I welcomed him, flushed and smug, half-hoping for discovery and a realisation that his neglected woman was indeed wanton and wanted by someone, if not by him.
Next, a public toilet somewhere, kissing a petite woman with short blonde hair. She perched on the lid and I straddled her awkwardly, scooching her body forwards till our pussies could meet. I ground my pussy down on hers till my legs ached and I felt like I was going to fall over. Her trimmed pubic hair felt rough and rubbed delightfully against my open, delicate skin, but neither of us could get enough purchase to send us over the falls.
Then, briefly in the moments before waking, another woman, lying on her back. I did not see her face, I only saw the pussy open before my face. It looked red, inflamed and almost angry, not at all similar to mine in tone or texture. Shiny wetness spread over it and onto the tops of her thighs. I was excited and nervous, anxious to please, but confused as to what to do. I flattened my tongue and worked it on her clit like an eraser. She seemed quiet, still and bored, though she was very wet and her clit was hard. A lightbulb moment! I slid two fingers into her, pads up, and beckoned "come hither", hoping to find her G-spot. She squirmed and yelped, jumping her hips upwards. I wondered how I would know if she'd come, or if she was about to. My tongue ached, but so did my pussy.
I was already semi-awake when my alarm sounded midway through the scene. V having left already, I reached for a trusty toy to make the most of those precious few minutes when you're half awake, half asleep, and dreams feel real. I hadn't come in any of my dream encounters. I did shortly afterwards. So did my lady friend.
I'm in a state of constant arousal at the moment. I am masturbating three or four times a day, minimum. I need to go again, just writing this. No matter how much I wash my hands, they still have that distinctive musky scent. Out, damned spot! I can smell my own cunt through my jeans, out in public. I am sure others can tell.
V is not relenting. It's been almost three weeks. Last night, half asleep and sick, he grudgingly agreed to a quickie, but I'd rather have nothing than his charity fuck. What am I to do? My need to be the object of real lust is becoming ever stronger.
I have been sniffing around the "casual relationships" section of our local Craigslist equivalent, mainly checking out girls - for some reason this seems physically safer, less like cheating, and less risky in terms of meeting someone who'll judge my body negatively or to whom I won't be attracted.
I have clicked "reply" then panicked and closed the browser many times. I know that once I pop, I can't stop, and I'll get addicted to the thrill. But oh, I want that thrill.
I am a disgrace for even considering peeling the lid off this Pandora's box.
Sunday 19 April 2009
I am rarely attracted to anyone these days.
The cod-psychologist in me tells me it's my brain's way of acknowledging the futility of the situation - stuck in a sexless relationship with someone you love and don't want to leave, there's nothing more frustrating and dangerous than taking a fancy to someone who's definitely out of bounds.
Weirdly, when I masturbate, I rarely think of V, or even of men. I think about girls. My experience with women is limited to a one-shot deal - an ill-advised guest role in a threesome with a couple I wasn't remotely attracted to and didn't even like. But still, girls feature heavily in my fantasies. More cod-psychology - it's so painful and alien to me to imagine V, or any man, being attracted to me, so far removed from real life, that I focus my attentions on something so unlikely to become reality that it's actually less threatening and more believable. I know, I know, I'm full of psychobabble bullshit. Dan Savage believes in a kind of in vino veritas (in masturbato veritas?) - the gender you wank to is the one you really want. But for once I disagree with him. In fact, I've rarely been attracted to women in real life past the point of "Ooh, she's nice/pretty."
But yesterday, out at a little music event in town, I spotted a girl who turned my crank so far it nearly broke right off.
I'd be the first to admit she wasn't your classic beauty. A good 40lbs overweight, her yellow t-shirt clung to her belly tightly enough to see the dint of her tummy button, and her jeans were a bit too small and low cut for her wide hips. She had long, auburn, centre-parted wavy hair, pale skin, and a little rosebud mouth which frequently spread into an apple-cheeked smile. She was manning a table full of leaflets, bands playing on a little stage next to her, and she danced behind it with a complete lack of self-consciousness.. It was the way she moved her hips that did it for me - she shook them left and right, occasionally grinding out a full circle and hip-drop like a belly-dancer, but not for sexual effect, just for the joy of moving her body. She was having fun, smiling, laughing, chatting. I just couldn't take my eyes off her. Once I'm sure she smiled in my direction - she probably thought she knew me, I was staring so much - but I was with friends and didn't dare go over, although my pussy was throbbing with attraction and I could feel my nipples poking through my bra. I felt embarrassingly obvious, like there was a huge sign over my head - "Bea has a lady-crush!"
V's away for the weekend, visiting family. For once, the whole flat is my playground - no quiet, subtle, two-digit masturbation under the duvet once he's asleep. As soon as I got home, I stripped and flung myself into relieving the tension. Kneeling up, knees apart on the bed, I pushed a pillow between my legs, imagining the girl's plump body beneath me. I kneaded and stroked my own breasts and her imaginary ones. I visualised her legs around my hips, and as I rocked my hips back and forth, drawing my pussy across the pillow over and over, it became her own pussy, wet and open with a fine covering of soft red hair, mashing up against my cunt, her clit rubbing against the rough lace of my underwear and teasing me until I couldn't take it any more. I pulled off my knickers and dove my left hand deep into my cunt, covering it in my juices, then fell forwards onto my elbows, licking and lapping at the pussy-scented wetness on my hand, imagining us a 69 position, her clit hard against my tongue. I slurped and drank at her juices. My right hand became her tongue lashing into my own slit and over my clit. When my shoulders began to ache, I lay back to grab my big yellow dildo and work it into my pussy with one hand while I circled my clit with the other. In my mind's eye her hands controlled the toy and rubbed me, and she was squatted above my face, legs apart and her pussy inches from my lips. My tongue flickered out of my mouth and I imagined darting it over her clit, then pushing her gently forwards, parting her magnificent ass cheeks with both my hands and swirling my tongue over her asshole as two of my fingers screwed with determination into her cunt, hooking forwards to find her G-spot, and my thumb rested on the nub of her clit, holding firmly as she bucked and rolled her hips against it. When my imagination conjured up her orgasm, and her asshole and cunt throbbed on my tongue and fingers, my own orgasm contracted my body, jerking me almost into a V-shape and pushing the dildo right out onto the bed.
I am supposed to have been doing homework this afternoon, but this experience - the attraction and the subsequent vivid fantasy - were just too earth-shattering not to document. I still haven't got it out of my system - I've been thinking about her all weekend, and have masturbated several times, even while writing this. I doubt I'll do anything more about it - I have no idea who she is, no way to find out and, frankly, wouldn't want to risk the reality not living up to the fantasy. But in a way, while I feel mildly disloyal for fixating on a real person rather than a kind of faceless generic woman, it might be quite nice to be able to masturbate visualising a real person, with an aura and an "imperfect" body. And it's quite reassuring to experience strong physical attraction to someone so far removed from society's ideal - it gives me hope that someone, somewhere, might feel the same way about my imperfect form.
Weirdly, when I masturbate, I rarely think of V, or even of men. I think about girls. My experience with women is limited to a one-shot deal - an ill-advised guest role in a threesome with a couple I wasn't remotely attracted to and didn't even like. But still, girls feature heavily in my fantasies. More cod-psychology - it's so painful and alien to me to imagine V, or any man, being attracted to me, so far removed from real life, that I focus my attentions on something so unlikely to become reality that it's actually less threatening and more believable. I know, I know, I'm full of psychobabble bullshit. Dan Savage believes in a kind of in vino veritas (in masturbato veritas?) - the gender you wank to is the one you really want. But for once I disagree with him. In fact, I've rarely been attracted to women in real life past the point of "Ooh, she's nice/pretty."
But yesterday, out at a little music event in town, I spotted a girl who turned my crank so far it nearly broke right off.
I'd be the first to admit she wasn't your classic beauty. A good 40lbs overweight, her yellow t-shirt clung to her belly tightly enough to see the dint of her tummy button, and her jeans were a bit too small and low cut for her wide hips. She had long, auburn, centre-parted wavy hair, pale skin, and a little rosebud mouth which frequently spread into an apple-cheeked smile. She was manning a table full of leaflets, bands playing on a little stage next to her, and she danced behind it with a complete lack of self-consciousness.. It was the way she moved her hips that did it for me - she shook them left and right, occasionally grinding out a full circle and hip-drop like a belly-dancer, but not for sexual effect, just for the joy of moving her body. She was having fun, smiling, laughing, chatting. I just couldn't take my eyes off her. Once I'm sure she smiled in my direction - she probably thought she knew me, I was staring so much - but I was with friends and didn't dare go over, although my pussy was throbbing with attraction and I could feel my nipples poking through my bra. I felt embarrassingly obvious, like there was a huge sign over my head - "Bea has a lady-crush!"
V's away for the weekend, visiting family. For once, the whole flat is my playground - no quiet, subtle, two-digit masturbation under the duvet once he's asleep. As soon as I got home, I stripped and flung myself into relieving the tension. Kneeling up, knees apart on the bed, I pushed a pillow between my legs, imagining the girl's plump body beneath me. I kneaded and stroked my own breasts and her imaginary ones. I visualised her legs around my hips, and as I rocked my hips back and forth, drawing my pussy across the pillow over and over, it became her own pussy, wet and open with a fine covering of soft red hair, mashing up against my cunt, her clit rubbing against the rough lace of my underwear and teasing me until I couldn't take it any more. I pulled off my knickers and dove my left hand deep into my cunt, covering it in my juices, then fell forwards onto my elbows, licking and lapping at the pussy-scented wetness on my hand, imagining us a 69 position, her clit hard against my tongue. I slurped and drank at her juices. My right hand became her tongue lashing into my own slit and over my clit. When my shoulders began to ache, I lay back to grab my big yellow dildo and work it into my pussy with one hand while I circled my clit with the other. In my mind's eye her hands controlled the toy and rubbed me, and she was squatted above my face, legs apart and her pussy inches from my lips. My tongue flickered out of my mouth and I imagined darting it over her clit, then pushing her gently forwards, parting her magnificent ass cheeks with both my hands and swirling my tongue over her asshole as two of my fingers screwed with determination into her cunt, hooking forwards to find her G-spot, and my thumb rested on the nub of her clit, holding firmly as she bucked and rolled her hips against it. When my imagination conjured up her orgasm, and her asshole and cunt throbbed on my tongue and fingers, my own orgasm contracted my body, jerking me almost into a V-shape and pushing the dildo right out onto the bed.
I am supposed to have been doing homework this afternoon, but this experience - the attraction and the subsequent vivid fantasy - were just too earth-shattering not to document. I still haven't got it out of my system - I've been thinking about her all weekend, and have masturbated several times, even while writing this. I doubt I'll do anything more about it - I have no idea who she is, no way to find out and, frankly, wouldn't want to risk the reality not living up to the fantasy. But in a way, while I feel mildly disloyal for fixating on a real person rather than a kind of faceless generic woman, it might be quite nice to be able to masturbate visualising a real person, with an aura and an "imperfect" body. And it's quite reassuring to experience strong physical attraction to someone so far removed from society's ideal - it gives me hope that someone, somewhere, might feel the same way about my imperfect form.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Another door slams shut.
Since my last post we have had sex exactly six times - an average of about ten days between each awkward, embarrassing fuck. I guess I got a little overexcited thinking that a new motivation might actually be motivating.
I admit I'd been using Project Knock Me Up as an excuse to badger him into sex, or at least a new reason to bring it into our sphere of reference. What could turn a man on more than "We need to have sex, I have egg white mucus and I think I'm ovulating"? Yeah, I know. Not the sexiest. But if all the usual reasons to fuck - bonding, attraction, wanting to help your partner feel happy and desired and loved, wanting to feel happy and desired and loved in return, blah blah blah - aren't enough, if both my caresses and my plaintiff and blunt "When can we have sex?" are met with blank indifference, then surely he can't argue with science? He's a man, for fuck's sake, men love science. So I've been all about the luteinizing hormone surge and the cervical mucous, and boy doesn't he know it. I'm a trying-to-conceive junkie, a babyvangelist.
But it would appear that this, too, is an unwelcome approach. The night of my ovulation, I got a blunt rebuffal (I can't remember if it was "too tired" or "sore throat") and a ticking off. Apparently, all this sexy medical talk is offputting. And yeah, I can see that might be the case. But, I explained, it's important that he understands what is happening to me so he knows when and why it's important to fuck. And while trying to be seductive and sexy, you know, kissing him and trying to turn him, on has zero effect, talking to him about fertility matters is a way for me to segue the subject of sex into our conversations.
He said he just didn't want me to talk about it right before sex, and that I should carry on trying to be seductive and sexy, it isn't pointless. Yes, I said, it is, and constantly getting knocked back is horrible. Embarassing, awkward, demeaning and depressing. How, I asked him, does one arouse the unarousable man? At which point he went stony-faced and silent, and I went off to the bathroom to cry.
So I'm back to blatantly asking, because I don't know what else to do, and I feel more anxious than ever about it. I've been promised (and denied) sex "tomorrow" every day for the past eight days. Every single day he's found an excuse. And just when I thought I'd found a new way to gently trick him into talking about, or even having, sex, a portal through which I could ask him to address this issue without putting my self-esteem on the chopping block, he's taken it away from me. Time to find another door, and hope he has the strength to hold it open.
I admit I'd been using Project Knock Me Up as an excuse to badger him into sex, or at least a new reason to bring it into our sphere of reference. What could turn a man on more than "We need to have sex, I have egg white mucus and I think I'm ovulating"? Yeah, I know. Not the sexiest. But if all the usual reasons to fuck - bonding, attraction, wanting to help your partner feel happy and desired and loved, wanting to feel happy and desired and loved in return, blah blah blah - aren't enough, if both my caresses and my plaintiff and blunt "When can we have sex?" are met with blank indifference, then surely he can't argue with science? He's a man, for fuck's sake, men love science. So I've been all about the luteinizing hormone surge and the cervical mucous, and boy doesn't he know it. I'm a trying-to-conceive junkie, a babyvangelist.
But it would appear that this, too, is an unwelcome approach. The night of my ovulation, I got a blunt rebuffal (I can't remember if it was "too tired" or "sore throat") and a ticking off. Apparently, all this sexy medical talk is offputting. And yeah, I can see that might be the case. But, I explained, it's important that he understands what is happening to me so he knows when and why it's important to fuck. And while trying to be seductive and sexy, you know, kissing him and trying to turn him, on has zero effect, talking to him about fertility matters is a way for me to segue the subject of sex into our conversations.
He said he just didn't want me to talk about it right before sex, and that I should carry on trying to be seductive and sexy, it isn't pointless. Yes, I said, it is, and constantly getting knocked back is horrible. Embarassing, awkward, demeaning and depressing. How, I asked him, does one arouse the unarousable man? At which point he went stony-faced and silent, and I went off to the bathroom to cry.
So I'm back to blatantly asking, because I don't know what else to do, and I feel more anxious than ever about it. I've been promised (and denied) sex "tomorrow" every day for the past eight days. Every single day he's found an excuse. And just when I thought I'd found a new way to gently trick him into talking about, or even having, sex, a portal through which I could ask him to address this issue without putting my self-esteem on the chopping block, he's taken it away from me. Time to find another door, and hope he has the strength to hold it open.
Sunday 15 February 2009
What's my motivation?
So the coil is out. We are now officially "trying for a baby", that whiney little phrase which has always made me cringe when I've heard anyone else say it.
I've told a few people - my mum, one close real-life female friend, a few online friends. I kind of want to keep it on the downlow. I don't want everyone waiting on tenterhooks for "the call", because I'm fairly sure it'll be a while before we conceive. I'm in my mid-30s, so my fertility may or may not be up to scratch, but while this was something that worried me a few years ago, now I'm more concerned that it will be the infrequency of our fucking will slow us down in the up-duffing stakes, and I don't really feel like explaining that to people when they ask why I'm not pregnant yet.
Of course, this could put rather a new and interesting spin on how we approach our sex life. I've been arguing for months for the concept of planning sex, booking time in to do it rather than waiting for spontaneous passion to overwhelm us. When you have the winning combination of a low-libido man, a woman whose confidence is stifled by his lack of desire, and the calcifying build-up of misunderstandings and assumptions clogging up the lust flow, spontaneous passion is few and far between. Even when it appears to be present, my unhelpful internal dialogue unfurls and spreads itself out like a damp tea towel on a chip-pan fire. V has been singularly ambivalent towards the planned approach, though as far as I can remember he's never really said why.
But now we have not only a brand new reason to fuck like bunnies, but also a damn good imperative to plan it into our schedules. The patterns of fertility are such that there's a relatively short window each month when conception is most likely. However, as it's technically possible to conceive any time, most experts recommend making love (OMG, "making love"! what a weird concept that is to me) at least a couple of times a week. He jokes, like all men probably do, that it'll only take one go with his super-strong über-sperm, but he doesn't seem overly opposed to the idea of planning in sex dates. Having said that, he hasn't actually said yes. Or no. I think I need to talk to him about it when he's in a peak state, get a proper answer out of him and, if he is willing, actually make a plan.
Of course, this is a wee bit complicated by the fact that he has only just started coming around to the idea that having kids might actually be a fun and fulfilling thing to do. Perhaps I should pitch his motivation to him - a well-fucked and pregnant B is a happy B, a B that's moving towards a future she wants. A happy B is the B he fell in love with. Surely he wants that girl back?
Last night was our first unprotected fuck, and very strange it was too. He was tired and didn't feel like it - quelle surprise - but had been promising me all week and I guess he knew he had to put out eventually. Jesus, that makes me feel like a rapist. We kissed and caressed standing up in the bedroom, and our undressing was awkward and methodical, but kind of exciting. We joked and chatted throughout - I can't remember about what, but it lightened the mood.
I laid him down and began to kiss his body, lightly drawing my hand over his cock and balls. He gasped and moaned loudly, but he didn't feel too hard under my touch. Was he faking, or genuinely enjoying while his body failed to catch up to what his mind was doing? For an instant, the movie in my mind unravelled and I glimpsed a future where erectional dysfunction combined with low libido into a big old mess of sexual dissatisfaction and childlessness. I reached a hand between my own legs and turned the voices in my head down. He tried half-heartedly to touch my pussy, but half-cocked is worse than no-cocked, and triggers the feelings that he doesn't really want me, so I shifted my body down and sucked his cock enthusiastically. It had been a few weeks and, God, I had missed his cock in my mouth. I love the looseness of the skin over the grainy firmness of the flesh underneath. Feeling it swell harder and hearing his groans turned me on far more than a missing-the-mark hand on my pussy. The voices in my head exalted - I am a sexual being! He wants this! He wants me! I felt giddy at my power and skill. My hips bucked and twitched of their own accord. Suddenly I was wet where before I'd felt embarrassingly dry.
By the time we finally fucked, he seemed to have joined me in the mental space where it felt right. I lay back, drawing a cushion under my hips and hooking his towards me with my heels. He grabbed his cock and lay it over my open pussy, stroking it over my clit a few times before redirecting it into my cunt and pushing hard into me with an "Oh, fuck!" His face scrunched up and, one hand on the headboard to hold himself up, he grabbed a breast and massaged it roughly, then slapped it across the nipple. I yelped with pleasure, but laughed silently at his change of tune - my god, there was actually passion there. He moved with more determination inside me, and my hand went right to my clit, clockwise circles the way I have for years. He was ready to come soon, and he thoughtfully stopped, rigid inside me, and waited. To my amusement, the climax-inducing images in my head were not the usual pornographic standbys, but sperm penetrating eggs and cells dividing. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud, but it did the trick. I fell over the edge and cried out, and when he felt my cunt squeeze and my back arch as I came, I felt his cock pulse against my G-spot as he poured his come into me, buckets of backed-up no-orgasms-for-a-week come. Peter North quantities. My cunt was actually full, and even the tops of my thighs were dripping wet and covered. He looked down at my pussy and said "Well, that's that done, then".
I wouldn't be surprised but, as much as I want to be pregnant, I kind of hope not. I want more of the same, please. Lots more.
I've told a few people - my mum, one close real-life female friend, a few online friends. I kind of want to keep it on the downlow. I don't want everyone waiting on tenterhooks for "the call", because I'm fairly sure it'll be a while before we conceive. I'm in my mid-30s, so my fertility may or may not be up to scratch, but while this was something that worried me a few years ago, now I'm more concerned that it will be the infrequency of our fucking will slow us down in the up-duffing stakes, and I don't really feel like explaining that to people when they ask why I'm not pregnant yet.
Of course, this could put rather a new and interesting spin on how we approach our sex life. I've been arguing for months for the concept of planning sex, booking time in to do it rather than waiting for spontaneous passion to overwhelm us. When you have the winning combination of a low-libido man, a woman whose confidence is stifled by his lack of desire, and the calcifying build-up of misunderstandings and assumptions clogging up the lust flow, spontaneous passion is few and far between. Even when it appears to be present, my unhelpful internal dialogue unfurls and spreads itself out like a damp tea towel on a chip-pan fire. V has been singularly ambivalent towards the planned approach, though as far as I can remember he's never really said why.
But now we have not only a brand new reason to fuck like bunnies, but also a damn good imperative to plan it into our schedules. The patterns of fertility are such that there's a relatively short window each month when conception is most likely. However, as it's technically possible to conceive any time, most experts recommend making love (OMG, "making love"! what a weird concept that is to me) at least a couple of times a week. He jokes, like all men probably do, that it'll only take one go with his super-strong über-sperm, but he doesn't seem overly opposed to the idea of planning in sex dates. Having said that, he hasn't actually said yes. Or no. I think I need to talk to him about it when he's in a peak state, get a proper answer out of him and, if he is willing, actually make a plan.
Of course, this is a wee bit complicated by the fact that he has only just started coming around to the idea that having kids might actually be a fun and fulfilling thing to do. Perhaps I should pitch his motivation to him - a well-fucked and pregnant B is a happy B, a B that's moving towards a future she wants. A happy B is the B he fell in love with. Surely he wants that girl back?
Last night was our first unprotected fuck, and very strange it was too. He was tired and didn't feel like it - quelle surprise - but had been promising me all week and I guess he knew he had to put out eventually. Jesus, that makes me feel like a rapist. We kissed and caressed standing up in the bedroom, and our undressing was awkward and methodical, but kind of exciting. We joked and chatted throughout - I can't remember about what, but it lightened the mood.
I laid him down and began to kiss his body, lightly drawing my hand over his cock and balls. He gasped and moaned loudly, but he didn't feel too hard under my touch. Was he faking, or genuinely enjoying while his body failed to catch up to what his mind was doing? For an instant, the movie in my mind unravelled and I glimpsed a future where erectional dysfunction combined with low libido into a big old mess of sexual dissatisfaction and childlessness. I reached a hand between my own legs and turned the voices in my head down. He tried half-heartedly to touch my pussy, but half-cocked is worse than no-cocked, and triggers the feelings that he doesn't really want me, so I shifted my body down and sucked his cock enthusiastically. It had been a few weeks and, God, I had missed his cock in my mouth. I love the looseness of the skin over the grainy firmness of the flesh underneath. Feeling it swell harder and hearing his groans turned me on far more than a missing-the-mark hand on my pussy. The voices in my head exalted - I am a sexual being! He wants this! He wants me! I felt giddy at my power and skill. My hips bucked and twitched of their own accord. Suddenly I was wet where before I'd felt embarrassingly dry.
By the time we finally fucked, he seemed to have joined me in the mental space where it felt right. I lay back, drawing a cushion under my hips and hooking his towards me with my heels. He grabbed his cock and lay it over my open pussy, stroking it over my clit a few times before redirecting it into my cunt and pushing hard into me with an "Oh, fuck!" His face scrunched up and, one hand on the headboard to hold himself up, he grabbed a breast and massaged it roughly, then slapped it across the nipple. I yelped with pleasure, but laughed silently at his change of tune - my god, there was actually passion there. He moved with more determination inside me, and my hand went right to my clit, clockwise circles the way I have for years. He was ready to come soon, and he thoughtfully stopped, rigid inside me, and waited. To my amusement, the climax-inducing images in my head were not the usual pornographic standbys, but sperm penetrating eggs and cells dividing. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud, but it did the trick. I fell over the edge and cried out, and when he felt my cunt squeeze and my back arch as I came, I felt his cock pulse against my G-spot as he poured his come into me, buckets of backed-up no-orgasms-for-a-week come. Peter North quantities. My cunt was actually full, and even the tops of my thighs were dripping wet and covered. He looked down at my pussy and said "Well, that's that done, then".
I wouldn't be surprised but, as much as I want to be pregnant, I kind of hope not. I want more of the same, please. Lots more.
Happy Valentine's Day.
I was surprised this morning by V presenting me with a dozen roses and a card which was extremely "us" in nature, plus two tickets to see a show. Sadly, the lovey-dovey ended there. I spent the day cleaning the house. He spent it playing video games and complaining of a headache.
Late afternoon, I announced that I was heading to the bedroom to play with a rather extraordinary new toy, and did he want to come with me. He stopped play for a second to look up at me, remote control in hand, with a smile at half-cock and exaggerated sleepy eyes. And unpaused the game.
"I guess that's a no, then."
Quite literally, go fuck yourself. And I did, loudly and vigorously, and in front of a mirror.
Round two, ding ding. I wandered back into the living room in just my T-shirt, to debrief him on the performance of my new plaything. Perhaps sir would be interested in a demo?
No, sir would not be interested in a demo, even if the demo is a visibly aroused, wet and slippery young lady, hard nipples poking through her T-shirt, sliding a large buzzing dildo into her cunt right in front of him. See how much I can take, sir? Sorry, sir, I can see now that you're busy. With Mario Kart.
I give up, I honestly do. Except clearly I don't, because I like sticking rusty pins into the rotten cabbage of my self-esteem.
So Valentine's Day and the ensuing evening passed much as most Saturdays do, and it was fucking boring and depressing and not at all romantic, and I had another good cry, though not entirely for the state of our relationship. Ho hum. Yeah, it's probably just the intensifying ray of Valentine's Day thowing a spotlight on the shitty, but today has really bummed me out. Hope springs eternal. I promise to endeavour to make tomorrow better. Maybe even he will too.
Late afternoon, I announced that I was heading to the bedroom to play with a rather extraordinary new toy, and did he want to come with me. He stopped play for a second to look up at me, remote control in hand, with a smile at half-cock and exaggerated sleepy eyes. And unpaused the game.
"I guess that's a no, then."
Quite literally, go fuck yourself. And I did, loudly and vigorously, and in front of a mirror.
Round two, ding ding. I wandered back into the living room in just my T-shirt, to debrief him on the performance of my new plaything. Perhaps sir would be interested in a demo?
No, sir would not be interested in a demo, even if the demo is a visibly aroused, wet and slippery young lady, hard nipples poking through her T-shirt, sliding a large buzzing dildo into her cunt right in front of him. See how much I can take, sir? Sorry, sir, I can see now that you're busy. With Mario Kart.
I give up, I honestly do. Except clearly I don't, because I like sticking rusty pins into the rotten cabbage of my self-esteem.
So Valentine's Day and the ensuing evening passed much as most Saturdays do, and it was fucking boring and depressing and not at all romantic, and I had another good cry, though not entirely for the state of our relationship. Ho hum. Yeah, it's probably just the intensifying ray of Valentine's Day thowing a spotlight on the shitty, but today has really bummed me out. Hope springs eternal. I promise to endeavour to make tomorrow better. Maybe even he will too.
Friday 13 February 2009
We took a shower together on Sunday, the first in months.
I don't know why he agreed to it - a time-saving exercise, I suspect. He stood awkwardly a good foot away from me, awaiting his turn under the water. It's the first time in a while that we have been close and naked together, but he averted his eyes from me. I soaped my breasts, ashamed at my own desperation to arouse him and tearful that I was most likely failing. I squeezed past him, playfully sticking my soapy arse out to slide it over his crotch - "Ooh, not much space in here, I'll just have to... Ooh, sorry!" My advances towards him have evolved into a mockery of flirtation and desperation, a self-conscious chubby woman trying to pique the interests of a dispassionate and irritated man. My need for attention is pathetic and churns in my stomach. I try to turn down the chatter in my brain so I don't spoil any actual potential for intimacy by bursting into tears. I feel clunky, awkward and obvious. But there's no space left for eroticism or seduction - how can I be erotic and seductive when it's clear that he has no desire for me, and when I have no confidence in my own ability to make him want me?
The utilitarian shower continued. I reached out and washed his back. He didn't wash mine. I swiped a soapy hand across his chest, mock-naughtily refusing to let him rinse off, and began to do it myself, rubbing his skin and looking up at him. I kissed him once, and again - both times he responded with the kind of kiss I dread. I know that kiss. I loathe that kiss. To me it means "Not now". It's a smacking, chaste, childish kiss, the kind one might give to a toddler as you drop him off at nursery.
I gave in to the hopelessness, and began to cry. I leaned into him and his arms went mechanically around me as I sobbed and shook noisily against his chest. I admit, I laid it on a bit thick - who wouldn't? I know it's pointless, even cruel, it just fans his guilt and dampens his libido further, but I want him to know how much this hurts me.
Again I told him our relationship was in trouble, how rejected, ugly, hopeless and helpless I felt, how intimacy is the cornerstone of a relationship, blah blah blah - I'm so tired of repeating it. I felt like a selfish bitch for even bringing it up considering what he's been through this last month, and I told him so, with an apology. He looked down at me, silent and impassive. He got out of the shower. I thought that was it, but he eventually gave me his latest version of events. He says his libido is even worse since his recent trauma, and if it seems sex is at the bottom of his list it's cos he's working hard to build his career to support our future kids. Immediately he backtracked "I know there won't be any kids if we don't have sex." "No, actually," I retorted, "there won't be any us if we don't have sex, because unless you start making an effort to improve things we are going to split up."
He acquiesced, kind of, and said we could make a date for that night, for time to be naked together, and true to plan, it went ahead. It culminated in some of the most tender, emotional sex I've ever experienced and the first orgasm ever to make me cry. But even through this, I can't help wondering if I'm simply projecting an aura of romance and love onto the act. For all I know, for him it was a singularly detached experience. While it was easy to imagine, while he was inside of me, that it meant as much to him as it did to me, he certainly didn't seem emotionally moved in any way. But this is half of the problem - he's such a cool customer that it's impossible to know what's going on for him unless he opens his mouth and talks. And that's rare.
So that was last Sunday. It's Friday now. There's been no sex all week, and last Sunday hasn't been mentioned. No promises have been made, but it's the weekend now, the time of the week when the chance of us actually getting together raises from a flatline to the vaguest glimmer of possibility. I haven't decided if I'm going to play it cool or attempt to push through my self-disgust and pounce. It's Valentine's Day so the pressure's on. Let's see how it pans out.
The utilitarian shower continued. I reached out and washed his back. He didn't wash mine. I swiped a soapy hand across his chest, mock-naughtily refusing to let him rinse off, and began to do it myself, rubbing his skin and looking up at him. I kissed him once, and again - both times he responded with the kind of kiss I dread. I know that kiss. I loathe that kiss. To me it means "Not now". It's a smacking, chaste, childish kiss, the kind one might give to a toddler as you drop him off at nursery.
I gave in to the hopelessness, and began to cry. I leaned into him and his arms went mechanically around me as I sobbed and shook noisily against his chest. I admit, I laid it on a bit thick - who wouldn't? I know it's pointless, even cruel, it just fans his guilt and dampens his libido further, but I want him to know how much this hurts me.
Again I told him our relationship was in trouble, how rejected, ugly, hopeless and helpless I felt, how intimacy is the cornerstone of a relationship, blah blah blah - I'm so tired of repeating it. I felt like a selfish bitch for even bringing it up considering what he's been through this last month, and I told him so, with an apology. He looked down at me, silent and impassive. He got out of the shower. I thought that was it, but he eventually gave me his latest version of events. He says his libido is even worse since his recent trauma, and if it seems sex is at the bottom of his list it's cos he's working hard to build his career to support our future kids. Immediately he backtracked "I know there won't be any kids if we don't have sex." "No, actually," I retorted, "there won't be any us if we don't have sex, because unless you start making an effort to improve things we are going to split up."
He acquiesced, kind of, and said we could make a date for that night, for time to be naked together, and true to plan, it went ahead. It culminated in some of the most tender, emotional sex I've ever experienced and the first orgasm ever to make me cry. But even through this, I can't help wondering if I'm simply projecting an aura of romance and love onto the act. For all I know, for him it was a singularly detached experience. While it was easy to imagine, while he was inside of me, that it meant as much to him as it did to me, he certainly didn't seem emotionally moved in any way. But this is half of the problem - he's such a cool customer that it's impossible to know what's going on for him unless he opens his mouth and talks. And that's rare.
So that was last Sunday. It's Friday now. There's been no sex all week, and last Sunday hasn't been mentioned. No promises have been made, but it's the weekend now, the time of the week when the chance of us actually getting together raises from a flatline to the vaguest glimmer of possibility. I haven't decided if I'm going to play it cool or attempt to push through my self-disgust and pounce. It's Valentine's Day so the pressure's on. Let's see how it pans out.
Thursday 5 February 2009
I am Bea.
Or Beatrice. Or B. But obviously I'm not really. It's a nom de plume, so it makes no odds, as long as you spell it right.
I've been blogging my life elsewhere for a few years now. I've built up quite the little support network of online friends, some of whom have crossed over into real life, and some of whom have made the reverse journey from real life into online, joining me in my virtual home. It's all lovely and cosy and mutually supportive, but one of the problems of online transparency is that when writing about your life becomes your therapy, there are some things you just don't want to spout out to everyone you know.
I love V. We met online a few years ago through our blogs, love bloomed and we moved in together quickly. It was fait accompli before our demiversary. We've been together now for going on three years and plan to start a family together soon.
Yet while I adore him, and he me, and we have a lovely little life together, ours is not a bed of roses, and my need to write it all out cannot be fulfilled in my usual spot without me hanging out my dirty laundry all over my friends' desktops, and that wouldn't be fair on anyone. I've tried talking to my friends in real life - it was equally as unfair as public blogging and, frankly, embarrassing for all concerned, not to mention the advice I got was more or less useless and discounted the fact that I love my man and want us to stay together. Besides, I'm far more articulate with my fingers than I am with my mouth, hence this blog.
V has no sex drive. While the start to our relationship was heavily sexual, a whirlwind of cyber, phone sex, and dirty cellphone pics as long-distance things tend to be, his desire slid quietly out the door a short while after he moved all his stuff in through mine, and two years later it shows no sign of returning from its extended break. It's now been just over a month since we had any sexual contact bar desultory kissing. This is only slightly longer than the usual gap - normally I am able to wrestle one half-hearted fuck out of him every two to three weeks, if I'm lucky. What's different this time? A couple of things - firstly I'm giving him a break. He's just gone through a traumatic family event and I know full stop that sex is even further from his mind than it usually is, which is pretty fucking far. And secondly, I just can't take the rejection any longer. Putting myself through the agony of trying to wrench some sexual interest out of him is sapping at my dignity and self esteem, so I just can't pick at that scab any longer. I have to let it heal before I start digging my nails into it again.
I, on the other hand, have a love and need for sex greater than almost any other drive in my life. I've always been fascinated by it, and since I discovered orgasms at the age of 14 there's been little more important to me than using my body to feel good, and feeling desired by others. Without these twin energies my confidence plummets and every area in my life suffers, even though I know I am truly loved. My brain and my cunt are still abuzz with lust and desire, and images and fantasies constantly float across my mind's eye. But V has shut down from me and will barely discuss it, much less work on it. And knowing that I will be stonewalled and the damage that the repeated rejection has already done to my self esteem, I have all but shut down from him, and my sex life is reduced to the inside of my head, and my own hand rocking under the elastic of my knickers while he snores gently beside me, and I try not to wake him. Mostly. Sometimes I don't care, and I wank vigorously out of spite, hoping he knows exactly what I'm doing, and exactly why. Sometimes I hate him, through the overwhelming sense of love, for what he's putting me through.
So that's what this is all about. I love my boyfriend more than anything in the world and I desperately want us to stay together. But I need a place to spill and share and - oh god how I hate to use this as a verb - journal about how I feel about this relationship. Perhaps I'll be able to reconcile my need for sex with the knowledge that I am, for the first time in my life, truly in love with someone who loves me, and learn to make do and mend with a near-sexless relationship. Perhaps, and preferable to me, I will find ways to get our sex life, and with it, my own self esteem, back on track. Perhaps I'll just use this space to scream and shout and whine and write the odd bit of filth and get some much-needed attention. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But I know from experience than ignoring a problem won't make it go away, so I have to do something. Without his help and on my own, this is the best I can do right now.
I've been blogging my life elsewhere for a few years now. I've built up quite the little support network of online friends, some of whom have crossed over into real life, and some of whom have made the reverse journey from real life into online, joining me in my virtual home. It's all lovely and cosy and mutually supportive, but one of the problems of online transparency is that when writing about your life becomes your therapy, there are some things you just don't want to spout out to everyone you know.
I love V. We met online a few years ago through our blogs, love bloomed and we moved in together quickly. It was fait accompli before our demiversary. We've been together now for going on three years and plan to start a family together soon.
Yet while I adore him, and he me, and we have a lovely little life together, ours is not a bed of roses, and my need to write it all out cannot be fulfilled in my usual spot without me hanging out my dirty laundry all over my friends' desktops, and that wouldn't be fair on anyone. I've tried talking to my friends in real life - it was equally as unfair as public blogging and, frankly, embarrassing for all concerned, not to mention the advice I got was more or less useless and discounted the fact that I love my man and want us to stay together. Besides, I'm far more articulate with my fingers than I am with my mouth, hence this blog.
V has no sex drive. While the start to our relationship was heavily sexual, a whirlwind of cyber, phone sex, and dirty cellphone pics as long-distance things tend to be, his desire slid quietly out the door a short while after he moved all his stuff in through mine, and two years later it shows no sign of returning from its extended break. It's now been just over a month since we had any sexual contact bar desultory kissing. This is only slightly longer than the usual gap - normally I am able to wrestle one half-hearted fuck out of him every two to three weeks, if I'm lucky. What's different this time? A couple of things - firstly I'm giving him a break. He's just gone through a traumatic family event and I know full stop that sex is even further from his mind than it usually is, which is pretty fucking far. And secondly, I just can't take the rejection any longer. Putting myself through the agony of trying to wrench some sexual interest out of him is sapping at my dignity and self esteem, so I just can't pick at that scab any longer. I have to let it heal before I start digging my nails into it again.
I, on the other hand, have a love and need for sex greater than almost any other drive in my life. I've always been fascinated by it, and since I discovered orgasms at the age of 14 there's been little more important to me than using my body to feel good, and feeling desired by others. Without these twin energies my confidence plummets and every area in my life suffers, even though I know I am truly loved. My brain and my cunt are still abuzz with lust and desire, and images and fantasies constantly float across my mind's eye. But V has shut down from me and will barely discuss it, much less work on it. And knowing that I will be stonewalled and the damage that the repeated rejection has already done to my self esteem, I have all but shut down from him, and my sex life is reduced to the inside of my head, and my own hand rocking under the elastic of my knickers while he snores gently beside me, and I try not to wake him. Mostly. Sometimes I don't care, and I wank vigorously out of spite, hoping he knows exactly what I'm doing, and exactly why. Sometimes I hate him, through the overwhelming sense of love, for what he's putting me through.
So that's what this is all about. I love my boyfriend more than anything in the world and I desperately want us to stay together. But I need a place to spill and share and - oh god how I hate to use this as a verb - journal about how I feel about this relationship. Perhaps I'll be able to reconcile my need for sex with the knowledge that I am, for the first time in my life, truly in love with someone who loves me, and learn to make do and mend with a near-sexless relationship. Perhaps, and preferable to me, I will find ways to get our sex life, and with it, my own self esteem, back on track. Perhaps I'll just use this space to scream and shout and whine and write the odd bit of filth and get some much-needed attention. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But I know from experience than ignoring a problem won't make it go away, so I have to do something. Without his help and on my own, this is the best I can do right now.
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