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.

Gestation

I think this post is going to turn out happier than I expected. I went today to visit the baby that is not mine. A baby conceived within days of our anti-miracle. A baby that was born this week. Not my baby. I did not hold her.

The last few days I have been feeling bad about this. Feeling bad about myself. Wishing my Knight were here to fuck the memories away. Feeling bad about using sex to hide depression.

Tonight I am feeling OK about that. All of it. Someone once told me that touch must be my primary form of connection to other people. That sounds true. Really, though, I don't care what's right or wrong. I don't have to understand.

Gestation is just a phase of life and it comes to an end. Maybe that is what I need to make my grown up decision. To have an end to this phase of my life. I am never going to have another baby.

Yesterday is dead and gone. I can focus on all the pain, or just remember all the kindnesses. So many kindnesses through the years. So many kindnesses to share tomorrow. If we are happy, we need never worry about what is right. Whatever new adventures to come are out of sight. We won't be facing them alone. I won't be facing them alone.

By the time that I get that old.

Lying in bed a few nights ago, with my knight holding my breasts after coming on my belly, I felt so safe. So much in love. So amazingly in love and at peace. So peacefully in love that sometimes I fear it can't last forever. How did I get here? Somebody sure is watching out for me.

I think often of how I wound up here. And even more often, how I can help my kids wind up in a place like this without all the pain in between. I think about them becoming teenagers. I know what I would wish for them. I also know that it isn't my life to live again. It's their lives. They are already five hundred thousand times more amazing than I was.

Then I think of the steps that I took to the dark place. And no matter what I say, remember that I know fully they were MY steps. I was in charge and no one else was at all responsible for anything I've ever done.

So, we talk about my abusive alcoholic father. Perhaps mention that I probably (okay, very fucking likely) have the so called "slut gene". I certainly have all the other behavior traits linked the that gene variant.

Then I think about the first 3 boys I had sex with. Well, the first two boys and one man.

#1 Number One. I wanted it and so did he. Don't think I actually loved him. I wanted him. I wanted to feel something, more like. I was seventeen and he was eighteen and I expected too much of him. That is what I remember looking back from this age. What I expected from him was ridiculous. It was totally unreasonable. I had this idea at the time that he was WAY experienced. Do I really know that? Did I really know? No. Anyway, I was a virgin, he is large in girth and didn't know much about lubrication. He couldn't get all the way in. I was so frustrated. So resentful for years after I learned about lube. I know now how crazy that was. How I let my expectations get the better of me in that situation.

#2 Poor Number Two. That is not kind. I was not kind in this relationship. I sought someone who would give me attention that I felt #1 had not provided. A couple years ago he contacted me, and told me that his friends had warned him against me. Warned him that I was using him, although they did not know the real reason why.

Anyway, I didn't get was I was seeking from him either. He was so small, I could not feel him inside me at all. I treated him worse after our first sexual encounter. I was frustrated by his ability to come when I got nothing. Nothing. I couldn't respect him. That sounds totally bitchy, but it's the truth. I couldn't respect him after I knew how tiny his cock is. I'm a bitch.

#3 Number Three I was in love. I was in love with a man who was not capable of feeling love. He was a great lover. I finally got the sexual release I was looking for. He was older than me. I met him first through a friend while in highschool, but our sexual relationship started a little more than a year after #1.

Number 3 was also very large in girth. Knew all about lubricants, though. It was the first time with him when I discovered I was allergic to spermicide. With him was the only time in my life I took LSD. So many things I did with him--including being homeless in Chicago after he ran through my bank account and stole all my stuff. Yes, number three was abusive.

I went from resentful, to ugly, to abused again. When I crawled out of the hole several months later, I don't think I knew how to properly connect with people. I went straight into promiscuous sex for the sake of sex. For the sake of being sad and alone. By three years later, a few months before I met my knight, i did not believe it was possible for anyone to actual love me. I was only looking for men who could be part of a fantasy for me. I didn't have faith in me or in men. I was so fucked up.

I'm so thankful to get to be this old. I don't have any resentment left. I don't have pain left to feel for any abuse from any man. I only have love and contentment; and a lingering fear that it won't last and I don't really deserve it. The best I can try for is not to see #1, #2, or #3 in any of the boyfriends my daughter will bring home one day. They are not these boys, these men. She is not me. It's all going to be fucking awesome for her, whatever choices she makes.

Just one drink

Is not enough. Transformation complete. I have turned my knight into a power lover. Anything he learns from here on out is PhD level. He can make me come with his mouth, he can find my clit with just his fingers, he can tease me into begging for it, moaning and writhing. I'm living on ibuprofen the last couple days because my body won't listen to my pleas to keep it external. He walks in with that boyish, excited smile and my body screams, "Touch me! Kiss me! Fuck me!"

I normally only write on this blog under the influence--usually of alcohol. Pretty sure I'm love-drunk right now. My body's swimming around me. Better go find the ibuprofen, so I won't cry when he comes back in.

If your thinking I'm crazy to keep wanting him inside me when I'm obviously worn, just watch the Mr. White sing Lovin' Cup with the Stones. Then imagine a smile like that directed at you by your lover, your knight, that makes your whole body sing. You'll be begging for it too, ibuprofen and all!

Listening to my Heart

My knight has been away, but I know everything is OK. People may think that he is being used, that I need a lot of attention. What they forget is that I am not a feminist. I want him to think he owns me. I am his girl. I want him to own me. I feel safe knowing that I am not under my own jurisdiction. My Knight knows everything is OK. They don't even know me. My heart tells me what to do. I am his girl. Everything I do is for him.

Teach myself, maybe that will be nice

Series of circumstances has made me focus on parts of my life. How one path lead to another. Guess I'm trying to understand who I am? Here what I told someone I probably should have not:

I realized in the traffic home that the (partial) story of the cocaine guy probably left the impression that I was raped. I was never raped. I was NEVER raped. There are times were the condition I was in leaves one to worry about the state of morality among men (young and old), but whatever happened (and I don't always remember) I did invite them back with the definite intention of sex. It was always about power.

So, cocaine guy--lets call him Carlos, as I did then even though that was not his name. I was camping at the beach with my best friend, her sister, some other friends, you get the idea. Lily (bff's sister, 40's movie star) boyfriend was headed down from Austin and bringing a friend. I had recently read an article that said it was bad for women to to sleep w/ 10 or more men before marriage. Currently I had slept w/ 9 (not including giving my friend a blow job one night a couple years before this) and decided the this friend was going to be #10 to put me squarely in the realm of slut. Whenever I decided that I would have sex with this stranger, I couldn't remember his name and started him calling him Carlos. Lily's boyfriend called again when they stopped at a grocery and asked if there was anything they should bring. I called out that they should be sure to bring condoms because i was going to have sex w/ "Carlos" when he got there. I got a blank stare, but then they all figured out who was meant by Carlos. By the end of the night, we had indeed had quite a large amount of sex. According to Maya's (bff) account later, half of (a beach town) could hear it. The next afternoon, we all had breakfast together at a restaurant before heading off in our own directions. I asked right across several tables stuck together what Carlos's actual name was, so that I could write it in my book. (at the time I was keeping a list of men. I later gave up this practice otu of lack of caring or wanting to keep count)

Fast forward several months to Lily's 21st bday party. I am currently with one of my short-term boyfriends (whole 'nother story). Carlos is there and pushes me into a bathroom and locks the door. He wants me to undress so that he can take pictures of me. (long side note: at the time I had a 25 inch waist with practically the same size (although considerably less saggy) breasts and ass. I indeed, as one man put it, had a body like Betty Boop--only longer. For comparison, I currently have a 28" waist. And the wonderful red pubic hair--as you know I feel is the best part of being a redhead.) I kept tell him no, and trying to get back to the door, when he said, "Come on, someone like you?" And he was right. At that point in my life, that was a very accurate expression of surprise and frustration. Even so, I got out of the bathroom w/o ever taking off my clothes and left the party. This is the point in my life where I completely identified, and would be accurately described, as a slut. He was right. A person like me shouldn't care what kind of liberties others take. While I never took money (more's the pity) and I was always in control (for the most part) of what happened to me, it was all out of deep sadness. At the time, I would have become angry if someone said I was acting out from the sadness. Isn't anger a normal response to honesty we don't want to hear?

It was from that time, that Lily has commented on before. She told me once that she never dispared of the woman I have become with (My Knight), because I was obviously never happy then and I am obviously happy now (this was before the current period of sadness).

Know that this is not the worst story. I was not a nice person. (My Knight) came to me when I was tired. So tired. And he held on. Passion doesn't just express itself in one area of life. It is all over, and at that point it was wilder from years of... of something that corresponds to every bad idea about men being confirmed. He held on so tight. Years later, when I realized that he was in some part a normal man in regards to sex, I was able to come to him as an equal, as myself, and know that he is not actually bettter than the rest of us.

In retrospect, and sobriety, I believe it was Lily's 18th birthday. Maybe she will let me know. Nothing about that time is direct to a timeline. I became even more high a week or so ago and told my Knight all about this conversation. He does have the right to know all the ugliness. There is so much ugly back there.

Recently I have seen doubt in others eyes. Doubt in me, doubt in my trust of my knight. I have put all my chips in one bowl and am dependent on another person. I am not afraid of that dependency. Nor am I worried about him being dissatisfied with me. There is no one so amazing to me as my knight. We can exist together simultaneously on an ethereal world where conversations are obscure and intriguing to the extreme; and on the basic world where we love based on sex and consideration. No man I have ever met has lived up to being this close to a true genius. And if he needs to be fucked by a whore, I am just the woman for THAT job. We are both old enough to accept, and revel in, that part of our relationship. We are enough for each other.

Seems like I am teaching myself. Maybe that is nice.

My dreams, they aren't as empty

Maybe this post should be name, "If there is anything good about me". Either way. I don't feel that I can make grown up decisions. Well, really one grown up decision. What's the lesson here? That I can't play nineteen any longer?

I have not closely tracked my ovulation, but it felt like my knight might have made it home in time. Now I know that was not the case. I know for a very obvious reason. What makes it worse is that I woke up thinking that I don't want another baby. I love my life. I am excited about my life. I have an amazing and cool husband who gets my rocks off and is building me a massive high bed (think pool table); two awesome kids; and celebrity lust addiction. My life is moving ahead.

I don't understand why this thing had to happen. The miscarriage thing. Half the month I feel like this baby idea is crazy, and half the month I obsessively take pregnancy tests. My conscience is definitely corrupt. It can't last this way forever. I will run out of thyroid drugs and no one will prescribe for me what I am doing with them.

The problem is that now I can't make the decision not to keep trying. At the same time, my knight cannot make that decision without risking my unconsciously holding it against him. I had moved past any and all anger I felt about the vasectomy before this happen. The miscarriage. Why does this shadow my life? My miracle baby that is never to be. My anti-miracle.