Puritans, Pains, Problems, and Passions

I wish that my husband would want to take advantage of the random offers to babysit we’ve received from various friends, so that we could go on dates together, but we were talking the other morning and apparently we no longer have much in common, which is sad.  He said that we wouldn’t enjoy the same movies and wouldn’t have anything to talk about over dinner and he wouldn’t enjoy a karaoke bar.  He’s into WOW and animae and I’m into Sims and Spore and things you learn in college.  He likes action films and horror flicks but I like indy films and chick flicks.  I asked him what it was that drew us together seven years ago and kept us coming back to each other (and cumming with each other) and he just seemed lost for words.

Seven years ago we were kids.  He was in his early twenties, I my late teens.  We both brought problems and passions to the proverbial table.  Our first interactions consisted of random conversations at Job Corps.  At the time, I knew better than to take relationships at that place seriously.  I had been spurned already by previous so-called lovers who had lead me to believe we were destined to do great things together.  The truth was, Job Corps sex was a lot like prison sex, only with generally less rapiness.  You found yourself surrounded by other troubled youths and an ineffective but symbolically powerful fence and cattle guards surrounding the perimeter of the property.

If you wanted to work through your sexual frustrations you either had to find a way to discretely masterbate while sharing a bedroom with six or seven other people of the same gender, or you had to hook up with one of those six or seven other people, or you had to sign up for a hiking trip or weekend pass with some other enrollees and do the damn thing.  If you wanted to work through your feelings of loneliness you either had to purchase a phone card and make long distance calls to people you probably signed up for the program to avoid, or you had to find a friend or lover in one of your fellow self-incarcerated.

Your two years of indentured servitude to the federal government was supposed to be a time to learn a trade and finish your high school education, not a time to find eternal everlasting love.  But I met then-boyfriend-now-husband there.  The first lengthy conversation I recall having with him involved me somehow losing the ability to speak anything but esrever and having to translate my thoughts to him via pen and paper.  John Sebastian, I DO believe in magic.  Whether we were watching a thunderstorm roll in over the mountains and basking in the electricity in the air, or whether he was producing gifts for me out of what seemed like thin air, or whether he was appearing behind me with so much silence I could swear he was made out of air, or whether (when we got to that point) we were basking in the afterglow of our lovemaking and gasping for air, I knew he was the one.  But you’re not supposed to meet the one at Job Corps, so I broke it off with him when I left TLJC for college.

However, as you know, we kept reentering each others lives over the years.  I’d like to think that we have more in common than just great sex and the perpetual motion machine of our seven years of drama.  I started thinking about those past seven years.  We do have a lot of little things in common that don’t necessarily equate a solid relationship foundation, but we have grown up and grown stronger together.

We both come from the same geographic and socioeconomic backgrounds.  We both know what it’s like to put in a hard days work, knowing full well that the resulting pay won’t equate our suffering.  We have our kids in common.  We have our tastes in music.  We both enjoy a good comedy, especially a spoof film.  We do have a mutual respect for a well-written vampire/werewolf genre novel or movie.  He knows I love surprises.  Just about the only thing I know I can surprise HIM with is something that my mind and jaw muscles aren’t always in the mood for, given the length and girth of his phallus, so I reserve it for special occasions like birthdays, holidays, womanly woes, and making up after a terribly good fight.  I know he hates making plans.  Just about the only things he plans for are animae conventions and the business he wants to someday start.  We both make a beeline for either the message Ts or the black clothing, shoes, and socks if we decide to add to our wardrobes.  Chocolate is our common frienemy.  And, yes, oh gods yes, there is that rocking great sex.

Knowing my history, you can understand that I, like a lot of American society (quite surprising given our filmography, late-night commercials, and magazine covers) have major issues with sexual repression.  Many of us can blame common Puritan ancestors who didn’t understand that if god(s) exist and didn’t want us to have and to enjoy sex we would have been made to reproduce by osmosis or pollination, our integumentary systems would have been designed to only feel touch if pain or discomfort were involved, and no one would be born with attractions to any genders.  When I first met then-boyfriend-now-husband, I was hardly virginal, but there were a lot of things I “simply would NEVER do.”  One might think that my admittance of having done such things since being with husband is a reflection of my succombing to pressures, but it was nothing like that.  I just had never felt comfortable doing vulnerable things with random people.  It had to be for someone special.  But even though I, through husband’s caring, had opened up over the years sexually, I still hadn’t fully always enjoyed every aspect of our lovemaking.

I’ve mentioend before about having to reverse the sexual dissociation I mastered in my youth.  What I didn’t realize until just recently is that for some reason the concept of raucous lovemaking had appaled me.  The only time I allowed myself to be loud in bed was if I were faking an orgasm for an execrable lover in the sometimes vain hope that they’d reach their own climax at the soonest opportunity and dismount.  What I also didn’t realize until just recently was that, as part of my sexual repression, I would refrain from making any audible indication of actual pleasure or pain.  I wouldn’t give direction to a failing lover, nor sing praise to an amazing one.  I would remain silent, keeping my breaths even.  And that, surely, was adding to my inability to enjoy lovemaking as it was surely meant to be enjoyed.

Here lately, though, I’ve been letting myself speak or moan my mind, such as the case may be.  I started out just allowing myself to break this self-imposed taboo during masterbatory sessions when the children were off in their own beds and the husband was at work.  I only dance when no one is looking and apparently only moan when no one is listening.  But then I started letting myself express pleasure to husband with more than just my movements.  I’ve noticed that I really have enjoyed (more than I can remember having done before) orgasms that are mostly propelled forward by the friction of our coupling rather than by any assistance my own hands might be providing, and the moaning and gasping only seems to enhance this experience.

Avenue Q–You can be as loud as the hell you want when you’re making love!

View the full blog at heartchasms.blogspot.com and like the blog on Facebook.

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