The first time we made love was the first time I ever had an orgasm during intercourse and not through clitoral stimulation. We walked in the door, he fell on top of me in the foyer, literally ripped my clothes off, pulled down his pants and roughly entered me. I felt like I was literally dripping with excitement and he pushed himself further and further into me, wrapping his arms around my waist and holding my ass in his hands as he went deeper and deeper and it was like something out of dumb romance novel, something I thought never could ever happen. I exploded on him while he exploded inside of me.
It doesn't happen like that every time because sometimes he's drunk and mean and sometimes I'm needy and he knows it so he refuses to give me more attention than beyond the intercourse. But there are moments of unfathomable magic heaped upon magic that trap me in a vortex of need, want and denial. I hold his curly dark head to my chest and grasp him like there is not tomorrow, like the peace our lovemaking could bring peace to our everyday lives.
It's like the magic when he's playing his guitar and I am reading. He's playing this intense baroque classical piece and I look up and his staring at me, devouring me with his eyes like he's not even paying attention to the amazing music he's making with this fingers.
Like at our son's birthday party and I was crying with joy at this being I get to raise and he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me and tells me he loves me.
But these moments are few and far between. He is completely aware of how much I need his affection as comfort and uses it against me daily like a tool. If he wants to get obliterated he makes love to me. If he wants to go to the city for an evening despite all of the hell he's put me through he will kiss my neck, cuddle me during a movie, call me from work just to say hello. I find myself hoping for these moments even though I know what sort of damage they will do in the end.
So have I put too much importance on love making and have forgotten what love really is? It is supposed to be a partnership, not a cloying annoying mess of a woman throwing herself at a distant and mostly disrespectful man.
And tonight my mother called me and asked me to come to dinner but I know there will be wine there and although he does not drink wine and won't drink in front of my parents he will drink later tonight and I will go to bed alone, so I declined and now I am sad.
This blog was supposed to be an exercise in sharing, maybe to somehow give me some hope to get up, stop whining and pretending things are OK and move on. I was hoping maybe there were other people like me out there that might happen upon this site and share their stories with me. Maybe we could grow together. But instead airing all of these things have just made me more ashamed.
This post was shared with me and I think the writer tells a much more complete tale than I have:http://therumpus.net/2012/10/
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