Everything published in this blog is true. To me, the important aspect of these stories are the moral and relational issues they grapple with. What happened to exactly whom and in exactly what place matters far less than what they felt and what I felt as the thing was happening.
So, I substitute names and swap true details and circumstances from one story to another. I do so to protect the privacy of people and institutions I love. But the essence is true and the stuff actually happened.
Her dashing European RockStar died. He crashed his motorcycle leaving the vibrant young widow with a global bucket list to finish alone. The best days of her widowed life had been in the languid, sultry tropics they had hoped to visit together. Her beloved cat, Lucky, seemed made for that jungle place too, hunting with abandon on a safe, warm island of much prey, few predators, and even fewer Animal Control Officers. But America beconed. It was the last destination on the list.
She promised Lucky, and herself too, that after America they would return to paradise. Only a truly special soul would take seriously a promise to a pet. Only a truly special soul would take seriously a commitment to complete her late husband's bucket list. And as often happens, truly special souls often attract a special love again.
Love called her to stay longer in America than she had planned,
His gleeful wife bounded into our kitchen, a huge smile on her face, waving our Hitachi Magic Wand vibrator and a bottle of Gun Oil 100% silicone vaginal lube. “Look honey, maybe something like this can help get me warmed up.”
A bunch of us long married, post-menopausal couples were meeting every month to fine tune our relationship skills. As usual all the men had been hiding out in the game room bragging about their vehicles. Their lonesome wives and I had been in the living room talking about stuff that matters like relationships, feelings, emotions, kids, problems . . . Somehow my wife mentioned being on hormone replacement therapy HRT. As the cupcakes dwindled and couples left, Sarah sidled over to us and shyly asked if the HRT helped with “dryness.”
It turns out she and her husband hadn't had sex in over a year
An Atheist of the “if it feels good do it” school, I cursed the prudish “Christian” control freaks who brainwashed the girl who was to become my wife. I hated them for making her think that her powerful sex drive was somehow shameful. After our marriage I cursed them for planting phobias in her head that made me look like a sexual predator in her eyes.
A constant refrain from her was “but don't you love me? All you care about is sex!” This from a lusty, responsive woman who was rubbing herself off against my thigh at 15 years old . . . before the brain washers really got their hooks into her head.
I recently blogged how, in her mid-30s, she finally went Borders Books for a #tantra book to learn how to meet my needs. I implied that she was only responding to my pressure and demands, trying to save our marriage. But that's not really true.
In fact, around that time we'd been arm twisted into attending a Christian couple's retreat. There the lusty pastor's wives
The radiant young couple was crestfallen when the Dungeon Master rejected their membership application. The young woman had her heart set on her husband learning to fulfill her fantasy of being tied up and dominated by him.
We invited them in as our guests and showed them what we could.
She was a woman on a mission. A month later she got back in touch and shyly asked if we’d consider helping them act out a fantasy. She wanted to be “double penetrated” by her husband and another man. (That's simultaneous vaginal and anal intercourse, and it's dangerous). They felt that I would be a safe partner to act this out with.
The flattering offer intrigued me, but not in the carnal sense. The ache in her triggered my empathy not my desire.
In this world of status and position, someone still has to climb into those big trash bins and dance around to stomp the bloaty plastic bags and unbroken boxes down.
It's that or trash in parking lot and extra pick-up fees.
I don't mind getting a little dirty. (And no one bugs me when I'm knee deep in diaper shit.) The messy little stuff in life matters.
An acquaintance escaping the shackles of a Bible thumping background asked my opinion of one of her favorite books, The Shack, by Wm. Paul Young.
“The Shack” is a the story of a Fundamentalist Protestant who meets the Holy Trinity in person and learns from Her/Them that many of his preconceptions about the nature of divinity were flawed.
Effectively the book is a deconstruction / destruction of some Protestant cultural beliefs about God and Institutional Church. My acquaintance, coming from that theologically rigid place, rightly feels liberated by the book's message of God's infinite love and forgiveness.
Hopefully I bring a different perspective.
I beat myself up all day yesterday after offering to loan one of my wife's sex toys to a young, married woman I barely know. In some ways it wasn't as bad as it sounds . . . but it got worse. And who does stupid stuff like that anyway?
We returned to our local Church roots on Sunday after a long spell of mega-churching in the big city. Of course we bumped into old friends and soon found ourselves in a cozy booth at I-Hop catching up.
“The Art of Sexual Ecstasy” is a westernized #tantra book by Margot Annand. I recommended it to a female who seemed to be interested in exploring the relationship between human sexuality and the God who made us both sexual and relational.
On further consideration, that book recommendation was the wrong one. That book helped my relationship . . . but only because I’m a man. It’s the wrong book for a feminine woman who also has a touch of the masculine essence.
At 35 I was ready to blow up my marriage. I truly and deeply loved, admired and respected my wife. Most of our relationship was idyllic. We talked, shared and budgeted on the same page. We solved problems well. We had overcome the pain of childlessness (or at least learned to deal with it.) But I ached. I ached because my sweet woman could not understand my need for something more in our sex life.
I thought that I just wanted something kinkier and more varied. I thought that I just wanted more passion and enthusiasm.