I was resting at my friend’s house after asking our house guest to leave. I’d never asked someone to leave my house before, but a house guest had never done anything like that to me. My friend’s house was a safe place for me to recover.
She was going out and gave us a key. Her kids were with their dad, and her house was quiet, spacious, and beautiful.
I’d brought embroidery, my computer, some things to read. I thought I might stay for a long time, lie on her comfy couch, and be myself in the quiet. Yes, silence is one of my deepest needs.
My spouse was there with me at the beginning, and we went into the backyard for a photo shoot. The pics were no good. I looked kind of like when I came home from the hospital two years ago after almost dying. Technically I was ok, but really I was not ok. I look sick, ungrounded. My peace was missing–my well-being was dislodged.
I chose the best of those bad pics, and praised God that I’d made the right choice to ask the house guest to leave. Soon I would recover and have my well-being again, when I could sleep and feel my own needs again.
I was at my friend’s big dining room table, and I asked my spouse to hug me. It felt safe, to breathe and relax, held by his body. Then I saw he had an erection, and I touched where his dick was pushing against the fabric of his pants.
“Hmm, I think you like me,” I said.
“Yes, I do,” he said.
“Could I see it?” I asked.
My friend’s house has a lot of security cameras–I think they’re mostly outside, but I didn’t know if one was in that big room too. “Maybe we should go into the bathroom. I don’t think there are any security cameras there,” I said.
We went to the bathroom, where I put the lid down on the toilet, sat there, and blew my spouse. We were extremely horny and didn’t think about it much. His dick was down my throat, plump and sensitive.
Physically it was difficult for me to get the angle right, so he moved the stepstool from the sink to stand on, so I could get his dick down my throat better. Yes, brilliant. The stepstool didn’t crumble from his weight.
He came down my throat, and I swallowed every drop of his semen. It had been sudden, almost as if we were bewitched.
“Did you bewitch me?” I asked later.
“No,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
content warning: memory of sexual predation
Sexual healing can be like that. Feeling safe at our friend’s house, it was easy to meet one another with those needs. We needed honest, nourishing sex to heal the slight trauma of what happened between me and the visitor, and how his bad behavior exhausted us.
That’s one of the problems with being harmed sexually. There’s what physically happens, but then all the feelings and thoughts about it later. I resent that I’d be having sex with my spouse in the days following the harm, and memories would come to mind, of what I did with my visiting friend, along with sadness. Processing the sex-grief was natural to do while having sex with my spouse, which is not fair. We didn’t ask for that.
I thought I was done being sexually harmed, as an adult. So I resent a dose of additional trauma like when I was a kid, being preyed upon by the teenage boys who would take me out, feel me up in the dark in their trucks, and discard me the next day. I was trying to do love, connective and safe–they were getting a cheap thrill and using me as a body.
Somehow the conquest made them feel stronger, but it made me feel like a rag doll or trash. Talk about lack of balance. It wasn’t possible for me to love enough to outshine the darkness. I was disposable.
Being together for ten years, my spouse and I have had sex thousands of times. We did it at least daily for the first two years, usually twice a day, so that was…hmm, I can do math. More than a thousand just those first two years.
So we know what to do to please one another. We have a huge pool of experience, and incredible comfort in touching one another. We know how to get each other off, with trust, and we’ve collaborated on sexual experiences in so many ways–bdsm, countless blowjobs. He’s ejaculated on almost every part of my body and makes me come. He’s totally exciting yet totally safe.
A lesser person would be bored with my aging, fat body. But the love deepens, and there’s nothing wrong with me. My spouse is emotionally healthy and honest. Our disabilities and quirks are ok; we reject culture’s messages of who’s valuable. The sagging of my breasts is valid–my entire being is valid, and so is his. I will not be embarrassed or ashamed of anything.
I’m always grateful for the excellence of my spouse, who did me the favor of stripping the bed when our house guest left. He holds me as I cry over selfish white guys, and he does so much cleanup emotionally, even physically.
He sees me make mistakes, respects and support me through them, and lets me suck his dick wherever we go. It was not the first time I’ve dodged security cameras to have sex, and hopefully it will not be the last. I love you.