If you want to write up one of your own (you don't have to be a wife, or a woman, for that matter. Just need to have a sex life, or lack of one that you're willing to tell the truth about), see instructions at the end of the post.
Here then, please welcome Billie:
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Yesterday my lover left me.
Or at least I think he did. He didn't actually bother to tell me.
My lover, you see, is a stonewaller. Stonewallers, as I learned via a teary, surreptitious Googling session last night, are people who don't acknowledge, honor or respond to your concerns. In my case, my "concern" was whether we was coming to visit me today, as he'd repeatedly said he was going to.
He lives in Washington and I live, well, somewhere else, and he was going to visit me for two days to give me the sex I sorely lack in my marriage. I didn't feel guilty about it. I'd made my peace with it as something I needed. Judge me if you'd like, but I know what I did was right for me. I had learned so many things with him and for the first time in 20 years--20 years!--I'd been able to express my sexuality and passion to a man without shame. I gave my body and self to him freely and I'm glad I did. I'd do the same thing again in a second. In a second! Plunging deeply and fearlessly into love--that's right, just jump straight the fuck in--is only way I want to love.
Anyway, I know you can't see in my house right now, but he is definitely not here.
That he is not here is how I had to figure out that he was not coming.
Writes Steve Becker in Love Fraud:
The stonewaller’s absence of empathy for the stonewalled party, perhaps even the relish the stonewaller takes in messing with the stonewalled party’s head, in watching her twist and squirm and perhaps make humiliating efforts and bids to be heard—there can be something actually sadistic about this.
Stonewalling will tend to elicit some common feelings in the stonewalled party—among them shame, anger, rage, infuriation, humiliation, desperation (to be heard), helplessness, and a sense of being driven crazy.
No shit.
Stonewalling is what abusive people and sociopaths do. Meaning--*sigh* what a drag--I have to remove myself from the situation.
So today, the day he would be fucking me, I allowed myself one last fantasy of him. In preparation of his "visit," I am in fine shape--all toned, waxed, the proper ratio of slim and curvy. I'd been tapering my antidepressant (sexy!) for weeks so I could actually have an orgasm and I hadn't touched myself since 18 days ago when we'd had amazing, amazing phone sex.
"My passion for you is near violent," he'd texted.
I needed to come.
So I locked the door and hopped into bed. Naked, I thought of him and his fine, fat Jewish cock and how much I was going to miss the way he paused in the middle of sex to fuck me slow and smooth. His cock seemed to go on forever as he drew it slowly in and out of me. "God. It's so good, isn't it?" I whispered to him. He nodded, looking me in the eye and I thought I saw wonder there.
That look, that humanity that he couldn't seem to access in regular life is probably why I stuck around so long--more than two years. I thought I could get to it.
But I couldn't. And maybe it wasn't even there. And that's why, in the middle of my ceremonial jerk-off, I burst into tears. Fingers stopped between my legs, I burst into deep, racking sobs--the kind of sobs that come from some deep ancient place.
I was sobbing for all of it. For the way he couldn't come to me with an open heart. And for how there was nothing--absolutely nothing--I could say or do that would make him respond openly and truthfully to me. Or even respond at all--which is just so, so...well, see above, "common feelings in the stonewalled party." For how much I would miss his thick Jewish cock. For what a stupid masochistic cunt I was to put up with so much shit. And how much I would miss him and his version of love and the way he kissed me deeply and well--the way I needed to be kissed. For how I would have to put my passion and sexuality...somewhere. It wasn't going to fit back inside me hidden away and I didn't know what the fuck to do with it and who--if anyone--would ever again feel it with me. Ever. God. Fuck!
I cried and cried and cried.
I slid my fingers back between my legs and thought about sitting on top of him, fucking him, and how he got almost a panicked look in his eyes before he came and shouted out my name.
In my own bed, I came too, big waves of orgasm juxtaposed with sobs.
It was maybe overwrought and stupid and overdramatic but real and necessary.
Passion is a strange thing. I have never felt so much passion for someone and perhaps never will. I don't know if I wanted him so much because he was harmed or in spite of it. I don't even understand, exactly, why it was him. He was kind of overweight, didn't "get" me in the slightest and made no attempt to try. The last time we met, it was in a sleazy hotel called The Sagamore (could there be a more depressing name?) We fucked on top of the bed spread which as anyone can tell you is about the filthiest place on the planet. He wore black footie socks while he was fucking me. And I didn't care. I just wanted him inside me, all overweight and black footie sock-wearin', fucking me like I yearned to be fucked.
Anyway, now I am pretty well fucked metaphorically and not at all fucked literally. Hoping for the opposite, but right now I am just...wrecked.
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Thank you to Billie for today. If you have some love/sex purgery of your own to do, get your fanny over to the computer and jot it all down. Pretty it up and send it on it to jillhamilton001@gmail.com.
Love to you all.
xoxox
jill
P.S. In Bed With Married Women was named a Sex Blogging Superhero by Kinkly.com. I'm not really sure what superpowers this comes with (maybe this?) but a huge thank you to whoever it was that nominated the blog!
(photo via Lady Cheeky)
