Entertainment for Women- 1980

The thing about being a bookwhore is- you need a designated space just for the plethora of books you’ve picked up throughout the years. Luckily, when we bought our house, my Rockstar understood this, and so did-eth not protest too much when I claimed the third bedroom as the sleeping place for my tomes.

Being the girl who was jealous of Belle when the Beast gifted her with an entire castle library, my vivid imagination has always envisioned my own fantasy-like library. Sadly, my budget is somewhat lacking. So instead of replacing the drop-ceiling nasty-ass foam tiles with a ceiling of pure gold, I opted to cover said ishy tiles with textured wallpaper that will be painted in bronze to match the antique-ish looking loveseat I found for a steal on Wayfair.com. (If anyone who works at Wayfair is reading this- I’m giving you free advertising. Feel free to send some gift cards my way.)

As I was squinting to avoid spider webs and dust from getting into my eyes as I struggled to get ceiling tiles down, a magazine dropped from the heavens (or the water pipes). Imagine my excitement when I stepped down from my dangerously-chosen folding chair step stool and saw that the gazette that had nearly poked my eyeball out was a Playgirl  from 1980. No, my thrill did not come from the thought of becoming engrossed in the pictures of disturbingly-hairy men within; (I prefer the the sight of naked boobies over a man  lounging with his near-flaccid dick pointed at me) my enthusiasm was of the nostalgic nature. Though 1980 was a year before I was born, so I cannot properly pay homage, I take great pleasure in the obscene media of an earlier day. After all, isn’t it always a good time seeing how sex has evolved since the times of a full bush and Burl Chester? (Yeah, I said “Who?!” too.)

Oh yes, believe that I absolutely DID read the thing cover to cover. After balking at the surprisingly low price of such pornography (only $1.95), I took in the not-so-sexy face of Robert Urich- the “hunky” star of TV’s Vega$– a guy I’ve never heard of. I do believe even if I had been of age at the time, I would not have found Robert to be very salty.

Of course, women only read Playgirl for the articles, right? The most interesting article advertised on the cover was “The Joys of Three-Way Sex”; which, when I think about it, I’m not quite certain I want to think about that much bush in one room anyway. Since I am a fan of older men, I thought I might be pleasantly surprised when I saw there was an eight-page photo spread “in praise of older men”. Let us just say I got slightly distracted by the number of Magnum P.I. mustaches and Farrah-Fawcett-ish hairdos. I suppose in 35 years, my kid will look at the current beard craze in exactly the same distaste.

I was slightly appalled and greatly amused to read the letter portion. “Please help me. My cousin and I are having a relationship. Is this considered incest?” and “At the age of 23, I still don’t know what an orgasm is all about.” Oh, the innocence. Were women in the 80’s so naïve? My personal favorite was “I’ve just broken up with my sixth lover in five years. Am I a slut?” My response to such a question would have been, “How many women did that lover sleep with in those five years?”

The best part was an advertisement for “Stud Wear”. Somehow, I really just don’t think  a pair of briefs featuring Pinnochio with a special pocket to show just how long his nose can grow would be very alluring. Although I do laugh my ass off every time I think about my Rockstar donning a pair.

Of course every nekkid dude pictured was quoted to “love long walks and sunsets” and to love “falling asleep in a woman’s arms ” before awaking to go “make love on the beach as the sun rises.” Let me tell you where that gets you- an elbow in the eye and a crack full of sand.

Too, there was a special section on “Men of the Eighties”. It’s good to know that “men of the eighties are beginning to realize that there’s a lot more fun to be had in bed when their lovers fully participate.” What? Did men of the seventies just expect their women to lay there like blow-up dolls while they humped them? Seriously. I wanna know.

I really want to send in my $12 and see if I receive the see-through briefs with the tear-away tabs for my Rockstar so I can “get a piece of the action”.

Trust that this magazine is now one of my greatest treasures and will make an appearance any time I need a good laugh.

Do I Look Fat With This?

So, I’ve never been one of those girls who would dare ask her significant other, “Do I look fat in this?” Mainly, because I expect an honest answer, and chances are, I probably do look fat in it. Instead, I have waited for the surprising squeeze of the tush, or a comment that remarks on my general fabulousness to lay to rest any self-doubts I may have. It has always seemed to work in my favor.

The difference between those times and now is a little thing, (ok, maybe not so little) called a pregnancy bump. Here’s the thing: I find pregnant women to be adorable. At least the ones you can actually tell are pregnant, and aren’t so overweight you dare not ask them when they’re due. I have also heard from multitudes of men and women that a lot of guys have a thing for pregnant women. (Somewhat creepy, of it’s not their own woman, but who can resist a pair of swollen breasts and a hard belly? Even if it is in the shape of a full-blown balloon?) When I first found out about my Babe, I thought to myself, “Well, I guess we’ll see if my Rockstar has a thing for pregnant women.”

Sadly, he does not. Like, not even a little bit. If my belly were a mini-fridge filled with Budweiser, I still don’t think that would be enough to get him to touch it. Sure, there’s been a few times during the night when he’s accidentally thrown an arm or hand over me carelessly. Apparently such an action trips a silent alarm that only he can hear, because even from a dead sleep, the offending appendage is quickly removed from it’s resting spot as though it’s a vat of acid.

Yeah, ok, I get it. “Pregnant chics aren’t a turn on of his.”- I quote his words. I guess it doesn’t matter one iota that it’s me who is the pregnant chic; the chic he used to do two and three times a night sometimes. Too, it seems to not matter that my ass or thighs have not grown to gargantuan proportions; in fact, I’ve gained exactly seventeen pounds in the last six months- and I’m wearing the exact same yoga pants without my butt bursting the seems. I don’t know if I “glow” as They say pregnant women do, but I even had a dude stop me in the mall, trying to get my digits. (After blatantly ogling my pregnant condition.)

I suppose I should be happy my Rockstar is trying to appease me in other ways. He has been quite amiable about my suggestions to go out to eat, (which he hates to do), and stays silent about the fact that I don’t roll outta bed until at least 8 am. But, alas. Such things do not make up for the lack of sex and affection that is the giant, glittery elephant in the room. (And just to be clear, I don’t know what you’ve heard about pregnant women and their libidos, but this pregnant woman’s libido is working overtime. And you thought I was a horny little devil before….)

Talk to him about it, you say? This is how that conversation goes:

Me: So, um, yeah, are you ever gonna want to do me again? ‘Cause I’m horny as fuck.

Him:

Me: Are you weirded out that there’s a baby in there? Because you know he can’t feel anything, right? He wouldn’t even be able to feel a porn-star dick.

Him:

Me: (Trying a different approach) So… it makes me really sad that you don’t find me attractive anymore.

Him:

You get the picture.

What’s the frickin’ point of having a significant other when you’re pregnant if they can’t even be bothered to do you? I know impotence because of my condition is not the issue, because blowjobs have been issued to ensure that wasn’t the problem. So, what? I’m just supposed to accept that I’m living with an inconsiderate asshat?

I object.

Mr. Fix- It

Before.

Greg observed his own face in his bathroom mirror, and squinted his eyes in a furious glare at the reflection. He gripped either side of the pedestal sink to keep from putting his fist through the glass, and watched his own jaw clench and unclench. He was a fucking coward, and the fact made him completely livid. He pushed himself away from the sink in disgust and flipped the light switch too forcefully on his way out of the room.

Casey had just left, and Greg’s pulse was still pounding with the left-over desire she’d dumped on him. Just the remembrance of her on her knees in front of him in his own kitchen brought another surge of lust through his body, and he flopped down angrily on his worn-out couch. His longing was interrupted by a wince of pain when he felt the springs dig into his back, and he cursed inwardly.

He tried to collect his thoughts, but the feelings left over from Casey’s visit made his brain a chaotic jumble. He took a deep breath and adjusted his crotch, forbidding his dick to erect itself at every thought of her.

Since he’d fucked her in her apartment, he and Casey had made love on several other occasions. Greg snorted at the thought. “Made love” was not what it had been at all; more like, animalistic, savage, licentious fucking. It didn’t matter that Casey looked like a completely innocent, albeit sexy-as-hell school teacher- the feelings she evoked from Greg were baser than anything he’d ever felt. When he wasn’t fucking her, he wanted to be, and when he was, it was like he’d scored a handful of X at a rave; every time was like the height of his existence, but the after effects made him feel like complete shit.

He ran his hands down the sides of his face and let out a exasperated breath. She didn’t want anything else from him. The idea was like a shot to the chest with an electric jolt. He knew it was completely ridiculous that she would want anything serious from him, given the huge gap in their ages, but he just wanted to get to know her. He knew exactly what her excited cunt felt like to his fingers, and he knew how glorious it felt to have her near-perfect lips wrapped around his cock, but he knew next to nothing about her, and it bugged the shit out of him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to find out, but she kept her distance, and even after she’d come quivering to orgasm, she maintained her independent attitude.

Greg’s anger was at himself, for not forcing her to open up, or at least for not being able to control his incredible lust enough to turn her down. Casey was clearly emotionally damaged; he’d never met a woman who was able to separated sex from feelings, but she did exactly that. He knew that continuing their liaisons  as they was not the way to heal that damage- he felt proud of himself that, as a man, even he knew that. He was also aware of the fact that Casey perhaps was not looking for someone to take care of her hurts, but Greg couldn’t help it. He wanted to. Her beautiful face and her buoyant persona made him want to fix it. The problem was, with her luscious tits and gorgeous ass, he kept forgetting that.

642 Things to Write About: Hands

It’s been awhile since I’ve picked a topic out of my handy dandy writing prompt book, but I figured today would be a good day to do so, since I have limited time in which to write, and no ideas in my head. This one caught my interest immediately:

Write a love scene from the point of view of your hands.

Of course I would pick this one!

We itched, my partner and I, as our owner looked at her man lustily. I, the right hand, reached out and caressed his cheek, and the two-days-worth of whisker growth was not unpleasant; it reminded me of velvet- freshly cleaned, rust-colored velvet. My partner, the left hand, couldn’t resist mimicking my act, as our collective body of nerves spoke. She touched his other cheek, and I saw her move her thumb repeatedly over the plush forest of reddish beard. We pulled the beloved face toward that of our owner, and as her lips touched his passionately, a thrill passed through us, urging us to move lower.

I ran my forefinger down the man’s neck as Left moved into the grove of thick, longish hair that was almost identical in color to the whisker grown. She slid the hair between her fingers again and again, pulling just slightly, enough that I could feel the man’s reaction. His pulse started to speed up under the finger I had placed on his neck, and I moved my other fingers into a grip. I and Left once again pulled him forward to meet our owner’s lips, and we heard a quiet moan of desire emitted from him.

Left was planted firm, with no intention of moving from her lush cradle of hair, but as I moved down the man’s body, she loosened her grasp, knowing we together would produce a stronger reaction in our victim. His shirt had been removed already, and we slid down to his chest, admiring the solidness beneath our palms. Our fingers instinctively curled ever so slightly, pressing the tips of our newly manicured fingernails into the ivory skin. Gooseflesh was raised beneath our fingertips as we scored our way down the ribs and past to the waistband of the man’s jeans. He shivered, and our owner smiled, knowingly.

I wanted so desperately to feel what affect we’d had on the man’s cock, as I was sure it was straining against the zipper of his pants, but I resisted. Instead, I flipped over and ran the back of myself back up the way I had come, as Left did the same. Once again, we grazed the pale skin, raising rosy trails as we went. I couldn’t bear it, and tweaked a nipple as I passed, a little harder than I should have. The man inhaled sharply at the unexpected pain, but his breath was cut off as our owner covered his mouth with her own.

We couldn’t wait longer, Left and I, and I stuck two fingers into the waistband of the jeans, tempting Left. She responded by moving a thumb and forefinger over the fly, undoing the button and lowering the zipper achingly slow. We slipped our fingers around to the back, and as we pushed the jeans off, we stopped to grope the luscious ass that was now exposed. I went around to the front, and was not disappointed when met with a throbbing piece of manhood, which I gripped firmly, causing another moan. Our owners lips were there then, and I held a good portion of erection as her tongue met the tip of it before it disappeared within her mouth.

Left was relishing the feel of firm buttocks clenching and unclenching as I stroked my assigned body part. It has always amazed me that something so marble-tough can feel so soft at the same time. I enjoyed myself until I was pulled around to copy my partner, sinking my nails into the pliable flesh as the man’s hand groped the hair of our owner. She moaned and took him in as deep as she could in her mouth, causing him to growl animalistically in his throat before tensing. Left and I held him there tightly, until we knew his pleasure was over.

Charlie

Previously…

An almost inaudible sound came from his throat when I did it, and I knew I had him. I felt his cock straining against the fly of his pants, but when my fingers pulled his zipper down, he moved out of my reach. His fingers slipped out of me once again, and his other hand left my breast. My body felt absolutely bereft from the loss of his touch, and I couldn’t help the whimper that happened to come. I should have known better.

Charlie demands complete control- during fucking and everything leading up to it. Not that he’s into S&M, though he isn’t above a playful bite or spanking every now and then. I mean that every move, every act no matter how small, must be his decision. He will allow me to undress him, but I am only permitted to once he decides it is time. To so blatantly disregard this rule sets the mood for everything that follows. I’ll tell you a secret: I didn’t forget on accident.

I watched his face in the mirror; I saw him struggling with the thought of breaking his own rule, and I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t. I felt a moment of relieved anticipation when I saw his jaw firmly set, but I was not expecting what happened next.

His hands were on the neckline of my dress, and the next second, a bold ripping sound filled the silence as he forcefully tore my dress from neckline to hem. My Urban Decay’d lips formed a surprised “o” as I and Charlie looked at my now mostly-nude body in the mirror. I felt gooseflesh run up and down my skin in the split second before Charlie’s hand pushed my upper body down against the table in front of me.

He entered me roughly, but I was ready. So ready. His very first thrust left him so deep inside that I cried out, from pain or pleasure, or maybe a little bit of both. He withdrew, then again thrust himself into me. His hands gripped my hips, not gently, and I felt the familiar pleasure already beginning to rise in me. My right hand pressed against the mirror, causing it to fog there, and I pushed my rump ever so slightly into Charlie. I was immediately reprimanded with a welcome slap on my rear, warning me to stay still. His cock buried so deeply inside me, and the thrill of his spanking heightened my excitement; I wriggled against him, inviting another smack. The second one stung, and Charlie drove himself into me again and again, not waiting for me to further taunt his itching hand.

With every thrust, he reached the end of me, and my pleasure blossomed. I tried to move in such a way to prolong it, but my lover held me firmly in place, and was unrelenting. He knew what he did as he repeatedly pulled himself out of me and then pressed himself in again, hard and at an unwavering pace. It was clear he meant to punish me for my slip with his zipper, and I relished every moment until he pushed himself into me once again and pressed my hips harshly to him. He was as deep as he could go, and he filled me so completely that my growing pleasure exploded, and I let out a heartfelt moan. Charlie shuddered, and spent himself inside me. From my bent-over position, I could feel every throb of his cock. I used my inner muscles to squeeze him, and he moaned loudly before pulling back.

“Damn you, woman.” He said it because rough sex hadn’t been what he was in the mood for, but I couldn’t help giggling when he said it, because of the irony of his words. I made eye contact with him in the mirror, and when I saw the amused sparkle there, I knew he wasn’t really pissed.

I stood up as Charlie put himself back together and assessed my torn dress. There was no saving it. Damn. I hadn’t even gotten to wear it out in public yet.

Charlie eyed me, reading my thoughts. “I’ll call Nina and get you another dress, ” he assured me, and I smiled, because it amused me that not only did this man know who the designer of my dress was- he also knew her well enough to call her up out of the blue. Yet another reason to adore Charlie.

Smell

If you were to ask me

“What is your favorite smell?”

I would smile,

and offer you a seat.

Such business

should not be discussed

in haste.

You would look at me

in disgust, maybe,

when I begin with,

“Raw onions and horses.”

It cannot be helped.

I wish I lived in the age of the

Wild Wild West,

just so I could bury my nose in

my trusty steed’s dust-filled mane.

There’s really no explanation for the onions.

I continue,

“When you’re performing some monotonous task,

like grocery shopping,

and a man, (or a woman) walks by

smelling of sensuous perfume,

and the only thing you want to do is

trail behind them throughout the store,

just so you can get one more whiff.”

You nod, and smile,

we are on the same page now.

The words fall out of me now.

“The smell of last night’s sex

when you wake up.

The odor of lilies on a breeze

when you walk through Gramma’s garden.

Burger King, and McDonald’s, and even White Castle,

when you drive by them starving.

Puppy breath, and baby breath,

both horrible, really,

until you connect them with

innocence and everything good

left in the world.

Bleach,

because it’s clean.

Mud,

because it’s dirty.

Old people,

who were once young,

and the smell of my lover’s skin.”

You laugh,

because you never expected

such a simple question,

to have such a complicated answer.

A Break From Monday

 

I began today with a to-do list of unending proportions. I have accomplished eight of the fourteen things on my list, (because I did, indeed, write an actual list for the day) and have decided that’s about enough work for now. So, as I logged into my blog account, I thought to myself, “Self! What better way to relax than to write some good old-fashioned smut?!”  What an excellent idea! I know I’ve said it before, but let me just give Mr. Grey and his Fifty Shades a run for his ill-earned money:

 

I remembered my training- how it felt when the cool links of the silver choke chain tightened around my neck, and how Professor’s massive hand spread across my exposed rear felt red-hot as he chastised me after I’d been too eager when I’d had him in my mouth. My refusal to stop fellatio had caused him to spend himself more quickly than he’d wanted, and I drank him in hungrily before he pushed me away. I saw the lust and indignation mingled in his eyes just before the leash connected to my collar was yanked forcefully forward, making my behind the perfect distance away for a good beating. The spanking wasn’t the reason I’d disobeyed him, though it was delicious in its agony, but what came after that I’d been insubordinate for. Professor always felt contrite after his punishments, and the severe hands that administered such harsh disciplines were as equally tender afterward.

That had been Professor’s flaw.

The chain around my neck was the same, a gift from Professor. He’d lowered it over my head that final day, and as the links fell cold around my collarbone, Professor had twisted the end loop around his meaty fingers slowly until it was cutting off my air. I’d hoped for one last time with him, a farewell, and my body responded as it had so many times before. Professor looked into my eyes, and I saw the almost imperceptible smile touch the corner of his well-formed lips. He knew his effect on me. He had taught me well.

He whispered in my ear, and his breath burned like fire on my skin, igniting an invisible trail of sensual gunpowder down the length of my body.

“Do not shame me.”

I would not. But the curiosity of what such brazenness would bring was always in the back of my mind. With my new master, I knew the chastening would be exquisite torture.

He stood before me now as I knelt, my leash lying loose in his hand. He saw me looking at it, waiting for his fist to close and the length of it to tighten, but instead, he dropped it.

No, this one would not feel contrition.

I think I made a small whimper when I realized it, which made him smile wickedly. Professor had said he was a venerable master, and I had not doubted it. I knew the satisfaction would be superb, but I could tell already that the waiting would be excruciating.

“Come here.” His voice was liquid-smooth, a deep sound that washed over me. I crawled forward, feeling a void at the end of my leash where a hand should have been. I kept my eyes downcast.

“Look at me.” His hand, the one that had dropped the end of my leash, cupped my chin and pulled it up until I saw his eyes gazing into my own. They were blue. The blue of an icy winter sky.

“You will look at me while you please me.”

This was new. A master had never before required such a thing. I did as he said.

 

 

Dance, Baby, Dance

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Like Romeo, I’ve been making an effort to have my Rockstar forget any other home than ours; sadly, I work completely opposite hours from him, and so see him (if I’m lucky) a total of about eight hours a week. I have feared that leaving him to his own devices so regularly should cause a rift between us that cannot be repaired.

Fortunately, the both of us wish our home to be ripe with bright colors and pleasant comforts, so neither of us has a chance really to become bored and listless. While my days at home with the dog are filled to bursting with painting of walls, and thinkings of painting of murals, his nights are filled with thoughts of luscious fertilized grass without bald spots. Our little time that is spent together is spent these days at Home Depot and Menards, where we have spent unmentionable sums of money.

This past weekend, we hurried to Menards for their Memorial Day sales and spent a goodly part of our morning navigating the aisles for things to make our house a castle. While I had the intention only of buying a few color-changing solar lights to brighten our sidewalk, my Rockstar insisted on buying a little bit of everything. $400 later, we exited the store with a lovely flower rug (which was his choice), 20 solar lights, garden edging, yard soil, and an outdoor swing. Sadly, I had to rush off to work for the day, so I was to enjoy none of our purchases immediately.

After spending a lovely day with my Auntie on Sunday, I arrived home to my Rockstar and his Daughter, who had decided that we must grill steaks on our new adorable grill. He approved of my mixing of alcoholic beverages for the two of us, and while his Daughter ran around with our Pup and her friends, we proceeded to get happily tipsy.

No drunk evening would be complete without a little Rock-N-Roll, which was filtered through our walk-out screen door. R and his Daughter have this little dance they’ve been working on since long before I was around, and I watched from our beautiful swing as they spun and twirled.

“You’re turn! Dance with dad!” His Daughter urged when the song ended.

I arose from my swinging, and it didn’t take long for R to realized that Phil Collins stole his song title I Can’t Dance from me.

“You’re so stiff! Loosen up! Yeah, you’re not graceful.” His responses to my awkward gamboling just made me giggle. Well, that, and his forceful grip on my drunken ass.

A dancer I may not be, but hey. I cannot be perfect all the time. I do, however, know the steps to the waltz (because I am very cultured) and also the snake-like arm movements of bellydancing, so I coached R and his Daughter on these finer points of dancing. I chose to don a pair of my taller heels to better match R’s height, only to have him say I was better at my own height, because my belly more perfectly bumped up against his man-parts. (This too made me giggle.) When he tired of my unfluid movements, I danced with myself among my many rainbow solar lights, pretending that I was in an enchanted forest.

There comes a time when One has had enough drink, and must retire. When my time came, I crawled into my bed, intent on passing out until the morning, only to be wakened by a hard chomp on my ass. Too, no drunken night is complete without having a long-haired Rockstar whisper in your ear, “I want to hear you come.”

XOXO

It Is You

 

It is no one else  I see

except you

when I feel you stir inside me.

Your heated breath on my neck

sends shivers down my spine

and the placement of your palm

on my hip

ignites the fire deep within.

Because you know that,

to me,

sex is just sex,

The way your hand

gently guides my face

to look at you

as you ease yourself into me

again and again

endears you to me,

and I love you just a little bit more

as I gaze into your eyes

and watch you come.

A Letter to My Mother

Since my blog is the reason my parents haven’t talked to me in over half a year, it seems only right that I would post the letter I’ve written to my mother this day.

To Mom,
I know it has been a long time since we’ve talked, but honestly, I haven’t known what to say. The last time we spoke, you were concerned about my mental health, but would take no responsibility for the reason I am the way I am. I read the letter you sent me, and Aunt Bonnie and Gramma have mentioned just a few things you guys have discussed in conversation concerning me, and I realize a lot of my feelings toward you and dad are because of things that happened long ago, but they did happen, and helped to shape who I am, whether you want to admit or not.
I know that you planned me. I know that you both gave me everything you could as I was growing up. You showed me how to have faith in God, and I always do and will,  despite the fact that dad thinks I’m “fallen so far from the Lord.” Believe me, my faith is the only thing that kept me from killing myself when I was a teenager, or doing something worse.
I appreciate that you loved me so growing up, and did what you thought was best for me, which is why I refrained from telling you both about my blog. I respected you enough to shield you from the things that would have caused you pain or sadness, but I realize now that not being straightforward with you wasn’t honest, so I will be honest in this letter.
I know that you and dad both felt you made mistakes with the past relationships you had. Which is maybe why it was that your three older children felt mistreated or unloved. I can understand why my sister would have been jealous of me, because I know the pressures felt by being the “good child”. I understand why you felt you had to keep me distanced from my brother, though I don’t agree with it. I am blessed to have a brother who loves me so unconditionally, because his is a love I have never felt from another human in my life. He really is my best friend, and I understand his depression.
I have no children of my own, and that’s an whole other issue, but I know that a child is supposed to be the MOST important thing in a person’s life, other than God. That doesn’t mean you have to agree with the way they live their lives, or approve of them in any way, but I know that you are supposed to love your child(ren) unto the ends of the earth and back, and in such a way that they feel loved, and feel good enough, and feel that they can tell you anything.
I know I was a child long ago, and the things that happened then shouldn’t be of any consequence now, but I think of my childhood every day. You tell me I was planned, but clearly you and dad did not discuss my raising to the extent that you discussed my existence, because I remember many many times when dad disciplined me with pieces of wood that splintered and broke with the force of his rage, while you pretended he was not taking his anger out on me instead of you. I remember when you both found condoms in my room, and dad literally threw them in my face and told me that “no one would ever want me again” since I was no longer a virgin. I don’t have to have a kid to know I would never, ever stand by and allow anyone to say such a thing to my child, even if it was my husband, and even if I did agree with him.
I mentioned that I contemplated suicide when I was a teen. Perhaps depression is a hereditary thing, and maybe I have it, but I can tell you that ever night when I thought about it, it was because I wasn’t allowed to do much as a teen. I don’t mean being allowed to go out and party and kiss boys and get into trouble; dad was sooo concerned about the state of my virginity that he took me out of school, and wouldn’t allow me to stay at my friend’s house because she had a brother who had friends. I will tell you, you two raised me well enough to guard my body from those who would defile it until I was definitely old enough to know the consequences of my decisions. In fact, when dad was so worried about my sex life, I was innocent enough to tell Jeremy I might never want to have sex. I was with him for a year and a half before we ever had a physical relationship, and that was after I had already left home. (I know you both think I dated him before that, but you are so wrong.) This is what I have learned: sex does not make a person who they are, and virginity or the lack thereof should not make another person treat that person like a non-human. Dad has treated me that way.
That was long ago, and you’re right- it doesn’t matter now. But I have learned that while I can forgive someone for such things, I see no reason to include such people in my life. You are my mother, and I will always love you, and I understand that you think dad is the love of your life. Maybe he is, but I know from experience that he does not treat you like a queen as a husband should, and does not treat you like his most precious gift, which you are. Do you want to know why he and I don’t get along? Because I am just as stubborn as he is, and I refuse to accept the way he treats you. He demeans you in front of people, and there is no call for that, because you are the sweetest woman I have ever known. You deserve to be near your family if you want to be, and you deserve respect from your husband. If you think you have that, then as I said before- I am glad for you. But I see the way he treats you when you both come to visit, which is why I no longer wanted to have contact with him years ago.
I love. Love is everything to me, and love given to me is reciprocated ten-thousandfold. I love my extended family, because they have shown me love always, even when they might not have agreed with me, and have always hoped that I achieve my dreams. Dad, my father, has never even been interested in what my dreams were, unless they had everything to do with God. Dreams and goals can still include God without having to be such things as missionaries and pastor’s wives. God has given me a talent for writing, and music, and painting; what I do with it is my choice, which is also something God has given to me, as he has to us all.
I love this world that God has placed me in, and I love the gay people who are in it, because God created them too, and made so many of them amazingly flamboyant and beautiful. I love all kinds of music, because God gave men the ability to write such things. I love my beloved, my Rockstar, because he is a good father and he has the talent that God gave him to be able to play the guitar without knowing how to read music, and has given him the passion and the patience to deal with and try to understand my fucked-up self, even though he doesn’t understand my sadness at all. I love that God placed me in a church that is my family’s church, and put so many people there that appreciate my talent, even if it is a church that dad doesn’t approve of for no reason at all. I have received more love from the Methodist Church in 7 years than I ever received in every Baptist church we attended as I was growing up. There is no evil in that.
Concerning my blog: when I started it, I knew not what I was going to do with it, but I knew I wanted to hone my writing skills. Through the comments and the readers I’ve received since I’ve had it, I have been able to understand myself better, and I my confidence in my talent has grown considerably. I know not that if I ever finish writing any of the many books I have started writing, people will read them, and enjoy doing so. I am more honest in my blog about my experiences than I ever have been in real life, and that has made me be more honest in real life. Sometimes, though, the truth does hurt, as I’m sure most of this letter does. This too, is not an evil thing.
I am going to stop writing this letter now, because I have said enough, I think. I am sorry if I have cause you heartache in the past months, and I hope you can forgive me. I love you, mommy, and I just want you to accept me, flaws and all.
Love, Sparkle