I won't forsake my husband too

Somewhere along the way I became a full-fledged groupie. Well, except for one aspect of that word. This post is about words.

Often I think that Mr. White's new penchant to frown is a way to deter women from falling in love with him. He must have realized that his smiling face is near irresistible. It doesn't work. We all love him anyway.

How do we love him? I want to meet him this weekend. He will be in town again. It is SXSW after all. And now I have the most amazing groupie pants. A friend agreed to dye the fabric for me when I could not find the right colors in the right fiber content. Today, when I started sewing the fly, I felt about to orgasm. I was getting dizzy! I had to take a break, drink some water, take a few deep breaths before I could start sewing again. They turned out too hot. Maybe they only make me hot thinking about them. Left leg is red. Right leg is black. Even the waistband is split along those lines. But that is not all. They are not a direct copy of Mr. White's jeans. These are riding breeches, otherwise know as "full seat breeches". The "full seat" is heart-shaped, white microsuede. Oh, and they are skin tight twill. Probably I will be laughed at wearing them in public. It is unlikely that they will make Mr. White want to meet me. I would like to meet him. In my absolute wildest fantasies, I refuse his sexual advances.

What is it about me that I want everyone to lust for me. I don't really want EVERYONE to lust for me. I fantasize about it, though. And then there is the word. The word I use here. The word that described me for years of my life. A word that I am no longer afraid of. Slut. I was a slut. Some people don't like that word at all, but I get to label myself. Slut. I was a slut. And that was okay.

Don't get me wrong, I haven't changed my position on what I hope for my children. I don't think the choices I made were "right". Just that they were the choices I made. Those few years of my life were not a black hole of misery. Yes, I was very sad through most of it. There were kindnesses. There are happy memories. It was life--good and bad. I don't have to hate the good, just because it was the result of bad choices. I don't have to hate anyone--including myself. I don't have to be afraid to call slut to my past self. I was a slut. I get to say it. I get to own it. I am no longer a slut.

I am no longer a slut, I just have an overactive libido and a husband, a knight, who mans up to fulfill my desires. I will not forsake him. I will not forsake my babies. It is so great being over thirty and in control of what you want. And whatever else he is, smile and all, Mr. White is not Black Jack Devey.