Legacies
This foggy morning finds me pondering roads not taken. In particular, my own family legacy of porn and prostitution. I frequently think I could have made a better than most Whorehouse Madam. Dolly Parton I ain't, nor do I have the raw materials to be, but all to many of my nights in the kiddie whorehouses and throw-away kid camps made me dream of places where I could peacefully study in between working shifts. Tuition and rent must be paid. My current favorite Madam role model is Eva from "Hell on Wheels." Yea, our fictional outcast rode away on her rescued stud after the railroad was built, but. . . My favorite fantasy guess is that she went back to plying her most employable trade skill in San Francisco. There is a wild west full of possibilities for that story. In several of them, Eva landed in the Midwest to become my great-grandmother. Maybe twice great. I haven't worked that fictional timeline yet.
The wandering wonder was triggered by sexual overtures from hubby crossing wires with a textual ramble with YS. YS still looks more like the poet I married than my husband does. Maybe more like the chump I nearly dumped during our 3 year separation. The GK's still argue with us over whether that is a picture of Gampy or Daddy. I sometimes need to check the dates to be certain. Thank academia for my habit of dating my prints. . . YS frequently works his art studio in the quiet midnight hours. Our predawn text rambles arenae unusual. He blames his graphic art compulsions on me. I donae know but I believe I deserve that blame. How old do the children need to be before you can casually text them, "Gotta run, Dear. Daddy wants a blow job." When does the parenting personna over-ride enough romantic ideals enough to casually tell Hubby, "Give me a minute, baby cakes. Another man needs inspiration." Do I get to say, "Ouch" when those lines cross? Why can't simple things stay in their separate simple baskets?
I count it as tremendous progress that Hubby let me say a long, babbly ouch while he stated at least some of his own babbly ouch. He didnae get his blow job (my fuck parts are broken), but we managed to find some humor in the mix-up. Some. Works in progress. . .
The GK chicks spent the damp, chill and windy night in the make-shift coop I fashioned from Raptor's cage, a patio table and a tarp. They were a bit puzzled at bedtime last night and wakeup this morning but quickly remembered yesterday's fun. I think the gypsy rig will work, at least for a little while. Their wing feathers are developing this week. The wing stretches were the first order of business as they hopped through the cage door a few fearful moments after I opened the door.
Replies
An interesting entry, Arfie. It’s left me pondering not so much the roads I have not taken but the current relationship with my husband.
Prior to meeting my husband, I was quite the sexually active person, multiple partners but most of those liaison were feelingless acts without any attachment or true interest in what I was doing.
I haven’t had relations at all with my husband since I was hospitalized last year in February. This is the longest we’ve gone, even through deployments. Sometimes I am interested in it but mostly I am apathetic to my sexual side. I’m not sure if it’s the PTSD anymore or just a habit now.
Recently though, it bothers me, not as far as my needs go but my husband’s needs. That kind of intimacy is completely absent from our lives now and at times I wonder if it’s lost forever.
The madness of my childhood flashbacks has had the greatest effect recently on it. More & more return and that makes it much harder to approach even thinking about being intimate. The worst is the persistent memories of witnessing my sister’s abuse.
With the lack of intimacy, the strain placed upon my husband with dealing with my recent Yo-yo mood swings and PTSD, are beginning to cause apprehension over the stability of my marriage. I can’t help but worry how much longer my husband can cope with these things before he gives up or reaches his breaking point.
We are beginning to open up to each other & your examples of how you continuously navigate the “dance”, learning new steps as the music changes has been so helpful Arfie. I hope that my husband and I will be able to adapt as well as you and yours.
Hugs, support & love, my friend!
Even in the churches, doctor's offices, whorehouses and porn sets, being honest and open about the cauldron of emotional and physical needs attached to sex is many heaps harder than letting hormones catalyze for the reproductive drives. ^^It^^ is a BIG subject. I think that ^^it^^ deserves a second set of prayer wings. Is we fucking or is we making love. I am thoroughly mind boggled by what gets called, "making love." For sure I never learned the distinctions from *my* Daddy. I know what fucking is, Daddy. You taught me well. What is love?
For sure I think my hubby and I have learned more about making love since my fuck parts broke. Literally. What Eva called, "Old Whore's Disease." I don't much care what the PhD's call ^^it^^. It's mine to live with. Is it proof of his insanity that Hubs has chosen to live with ^^it^^, too? I didn't get a choice in ^^it^^.
I’m sorry Arfie that you’ve gone through that but it’s helpful to me to know that there is someone who is willing to be open and honest about ^^it^^.
It helps to have another woman willing to talk about it. My mother is definitely not one for those kinds of discussions and the less I talk to my cousin about my personal life the less I get back from the rest of the family a over dramatized and entirely wrong version of what I shared.
My husband is a patient man but 4 years ago he thought I was having an affair which hit me like an nuclear missile out of nowhere. I was in one of those bad menopausal phases and the stress of my job at the time killed any sex drive I had. The whole situation was a nasty piece of work that drove me straight into PTSD crisis, including 4 SA.
The ambush of it left that seed of doubt in his fidelity as it was so uncharacteristic of him and he wouldn’t let it go nor believe me. He started stalking me when I went to work, put trackers on my phone & set up cameras in the house trying to catch me having an affair that never happened. He was in a crisis himself but it’s left scars on my heart.
Now with him always working away from home and our lack of intimacy, I occasionally get those old fears surfacing that he has someone on the side. It silly but who ever said the heart had to be rational especially when you have PTSD brain.
Thank you, Arfie. Thank you for letting me comment about it. It one of those secret fears I hide that eats away at me every now & then.
Hugs & love.
I don't like to split grammar hairs, but in this case, I have to wonder if, "Willing" is the right word. The open and brutal honesty was forced on me every step of the way. My first choice was to be so focused on winning my Science awards that I didn't have time or energy to waste on humanity's most twisted logics. My second choice was to be so focused on the mechanics that I could keep it as romantic as the other body functions (piss, shit and puss) which also come from the same mystical region. Profit only. You pay *before* you play, Big Kid. Double price for all those romantic vomits, Barbie. Don't expect me to giggle girlishly over your housewife porn. Very early into my porn career, I noticed that if Hubby was doing porn, I would always find romance rags and books on Wifey's coffee table. There's someone for everyone? I am far from certain which brand of porn hits my damaged senses as more perverse.
But hyper-sexuality was one of my dominant psych symptoms through my journey out of the Toxic People Landfill. Don't mistake hyper-sexuality as a celebration of Nature's most confusing gift. I place hyper-sexuality much, much closer to rape. It's not my problem if there are so many who don't recognize the diffs between "making love" and rape. Take ^^it^^ whatever way you want, Lowlife. Don't call me. I'll call you. I am no more *willing* to suffer hyper-sexuality than I am *willing* to experience any of my other psych symptoms. I'd much rather be in Stockholm receiving my Nobel Science Award, thank you kindly. When approached by sisters in my healing network in need of sexual girl talk, I tremble in fear. I'd rather have my own episode on Bridezilla, thank you kindly. Are you ready to call a cunt a cunt? You are right on target to notice that I ain't your Mama. I ain't your chick flick bestie, neither. By the traditional romance definition of "cheating," there isnae a civil court on the planet which wouldn't grant him an immediate and righteous divorce. It was in the pre-nups. I didn't ask for this burden, but it is mine to carry. I donae like ANY of the traditional rules by which the scenario has played for the entirety of human history. If I must play by the traditional rules, call me, "Madam." Maybe "Porn Author." Both pay far better than washing dickhead socks in between duty fucking.
Menopause turned out to be my *cure* for the hyper-sexuality. Taking the hormones out of the equation sure simplified the yaddahs of those blahs. Sorta. My energizer bunny dildo is still a bit muddled in the big head from it, though. I and the more objective members of my therapy support network believe he was sexually abused in the long and confusing process of working through my rage issues and amends are owed. Works in progress. . . I haven't found the romance self-help book or Barbie girl talk to cover this one.
Sorry your hubby accused you of cheating. Please forgive my inability to be properly empathetic.
No worries, Arfie. That period between my husband & I was what it was and an important lesson I had never learned about relationships and how things worked. I was far too blind and ignorant of what my own actions where doing to my husband’s imagination to realize I was to blame for a good part of his fears.
It took me a long time to realize many of my liaison in my 20s were more out of feeling obligated than anything else in the beginning. Probably 50% of them were actions done just to avoid any chance of being raped again and I had this delusional notion that it’s easy to say yes, and let it happen even when I didn’t want to, than to say no and have it happen anyway. It took some very special men and relationships to teach me that just because a guy buys you dinner you are not obligated to have sex with him afterwards.
Anyhow. It’s water that has long since passed under the bridge and been lost within the seas.
Hugs Arfie