The topic of my underwear does not deserve a separate chapter but it does. Black lace or red? I think I prefer the red, against my skin. The red feels nicer, luxurious. Your fingers dance over the lace and tease me through the fabric. Don’t go inside just yet.
Not the hands of my husband he was long gone. My skin recoiled by his touch long before our marriage ended. But yours I welcome, cannot get enough of, long after we have made love, long after we lie together. …
You’re Not Meant to Take Down the Mother of Your Children
A plea for change
A couple of years ago I envisaged a time when there would be peace. I fantasized about stepping off the treacherous rollercoaster that my life had become. My reality had succumbed to a battleground between parents that children should never, ever bare witness to.
Each night as I drove home from my day job I wondered what I was about to be faced with as I walked through the door. …
Today I am sad…
Why are we praised for being calm, robotic like when in fact we are crumbling on the inside, when life has dealt us unjust blows and the pain has become unbearable to face?
Why has it become natural to say we are fine when in fact we are not?
We squash down our emotions and we say we are okay. “Yes, I am good, great, everything is fine.” But I am not good, great and what does fine even mean?
The definition is more complex than the spelling would suggest; ‘of very high quality; very good…
Right or Wrong I Have a Fuck Buddy
My ex husband first named my new found friend, out of spite of course. Initially insulted but with some time, l thought it funny so I decided to run with it.
My fuck buddy has a name, I’ll call him Fred because it rhymes with bed and that’s where I like to take him. I haven’t given his name much thought but Fred suits the handsome smile I look forward to seeing, standing relaxed at my door.
I’m not ashamed to say I love sex, love Fred’s body and the way he…
Do Who Makes You Happy
My body new my marriage was over long before my mind ever did. In the mornings whilst making the bed I would look at the position of our pillows. His squarely on his side or in the middle towards mine. My pillow on the far side nearly tipping on to the floor.
I went to great lengths to avoid sex, often climbing out of bed early. On the mornings I wanted to sleep in I would prey for his hands to keep off of me.
He said, “you don’t want to have sex with me.”
“I love you,” I said to my baby now 15 and standing 6 feet tall. I said it more than once, I said it as I held her in my arms standing on my tip toes. My crime as a mother who misses her daughter when she is at her fathers.
“You don’t have to listen to that c&@%,” said her father to her daughter. “Your mother is a liar, a cheat, a manipulator.” His very words spoken after a football game, having just watched her play.
“That is not necessary,” is all I…
I Do Love My Body and this Is Why
Whilst writing a response to Lee Ball’s article, ‘Do You Love Your Body?’ my own story arose — my attitude to my body evolving as our bodies inevitably do.
In my childhood my body served me well. I was faster than my friends and girls the same age. With long legs I could also jump further and higher than most. My height and good hand eye coordination also helped me to became a good basketballer.
When puberty struck at 12, I started to look at my body differently — aesthetically not…
I have baggage but I am working on it.
No I’m not at the airport waiting to fly — anywhere really — ‘far far away.’
Back to reality, I am 46 so yeah I come with baggage. It looks like a sensitivity perhaps overly so and a search for kindness, seeking pleasure on top of pain.
I have emotional wounds — I stayed too long in an abusive marriage. There is a lot of pleasure I need to make up for the pain. …
I like to watch my children sleep: at peace having survived the day and ready for the possibilities of tomorrow.
“Goodnight Lily,” I whispered as I kissed my daughter gently on the cheek. Her room dark, I did not notice the tears but rubbing my cheek against her youthful skin I felt the moisture on her face and heard the stifled cry.
Curious as to the source of Lily’s tears I asked what was wrong. The room now quiet, only for my own voice and the tap, tap of the dog’s tale laying on the beanbag beside the bed. …
A crisp clean house has always been a fantasy of mine but the upkeep with teenage girls is difficult to achieve. So I dream of white walls, luscious indoor plants, shiny floorboards and a simple life of minimalism.
I also dream of him but he is not my husband. He has a kindness, a smile that lights up his whole face and a manly chest to rest my head upon after a pleasant love making session. He’s a gentle giant (too cliched perhaps).
I’m a little shy so he also needs to be patient however not in the physical sense…
Today I define myself as marvellous — that’s all. I write about my experiences some less than marvellous sometimes more.