Woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head. Sat down, opened the laptop of Wonderboy and woah! Anal sex. Porn, porn, porn.
I don’t know why I was so hurt. But it did hurt. I felt useless. I felt I am not enough. I thought I’m not as attractive. I can never give him what porn does – unhinged sexual encounters. I have limits. He knows about them. He treads them carefully. I am not free to do with as he will, not even when we play I am.
I woke him up – not because of this, but because of a fight I’d had with a friend after opening the laptop – and curled up against him crying. He smiled, caressed my hair, kissed me. He even laughed a bit. Oh, it was in the top 10 page, too? That’s just because I emptied my browsing history. Turns out the perfect happy sex we had straight when I came from work the other day had been launched with the precise ass-fuck-fest on porntube I found when I was just trying to read my mails before leaving to work. So, there was nothing to be hurt about.
I smiled and laughed with him. Well, it was funny. And then I cried again.
It’s so fragile, this thing we’ve started. I am so incredibly sensitive about everything sexual. I’m trying to change myself, my fantasies and my self. It shouldn’t have anything to do with him enjoying porn, especially when he’s fucking me just right, so happily and so often that I don’t even have a reason to come and whine hear. But it does. Of course it does.
Why is he watching porn and I’m stuck trying to change myself? Fighting with the routine everytime, keeping the images away, trying to focus on him, on me, on being happy about being a woman. Enjoying the sensations my body is able to give me. He’s just banging his hand and meanwhile I’m ripping wounds open. Porn is only good for me as long as I relate only to the guy. Now, it’s simply anguish on so many levels. But he’s still watching.
I know those things are not linked. His sexuality is his own. He is much more sexually happy and inventive and daring if he can do what ever he likes with himself – when ever he feels like it. I know this. But my heart, ah, my treacherous heart. It just won’t give me peace!
We were looking at a Christian search page, and fooling around with trying to find porn. We could only find 12 step programs to help get over your porn addiction. I remarked that it seemed funny. I thought that meeting your needs with a little help from porn can hardly be seen as an addiction.
Funny, do people really have an addiction to porn? I laughed.
Yes, he replied too quickly and firmly, and immediately remarked on that, too. How suspicious, he added. Well, yeah.
Why does it make me feel so little? Why does it make me feel like I’m being cheated on? I said I’m sorry for even raising the question. I hugged him when I came back from work and said I’m sorry, that I don’t know why it hurt me so much. But it did.
And now I’m back here again.
There’s this sketch on That Michell and Webb Look, in which the main characters, two mobsters like the ones on James Bond, are talking. The reining one stops the other one going out of the door by asking:
Later on, would you join me for some light refreshments?
The guy stops, sighes and asks in a demanding voice.
Do you mean anal sex?
The reining one is caught off guard, but manages to answer after a while.
The thing is. Maybe I just need a little euphemism in my life, as well.