Well, here I am, doing something I never thought I would do: Allow my innermost thoughts to escape the sometimes screaming confines of my head and be cast out there for others to read. Why am I doing this, when I promised myself that I would never again bring up my perverted sexuality after being shunned whenever I've brought it up to a prospective or current sexual partner? It's what you are supposed to do when the heavy kissing and petting leads to regular sex and then you discuss what your predilections, your kinks, your desires may be. But in my case, you can only hear the words, "Are you fucking sick?" so many times (sometimes aloud, sometimes in your head) before you shut it down and go home for the night...alone again, naturally.
So why? Because I may have found someone who finally understands me and accepts me for who I am. To know that there may be my twin out there who went through the some of the same experiences as me, and who has managed to deal with it better than me. And doing what I've been doing all along and stomping down the garbage doesn't seem to cut it anymore. After all, it didn't prevent the breakup of my 22 year marriage, and I'm sure the serious hinderance in our communication was caused by my inability to open to others.
So, who am I? Well, I'm the quiet professional type at work, middle management, middle age, white, muscular build, kind of handsome, charming as fuck! Always have a smile for everyone, a kind comment, a hearty laugh. But inside, I know I'm as broken as a mirror thrown down on the floor and dashed into pieces. Cause even if you carefully search for all the fragments and put them together as best you can, it's never whole. There's always pieces missing, and sharp jagged edges to cut yourself on again and again, until you give up trying to reassemble it and just put it in the garbage. Then, stomp down that garbage so you don't have to deal with it. Try putting something nice over it to hide it. Make it look a little more palatable. Problem is, that garbage seeps; It spills; It oozes. It wants to get back out there, work its way back into your life, break you down and cut you a little at a time, until you've lost so much blood that you're woozy and ready to go curl up in a ball away from everyone else and cry.
Molestation is an ugly word with uglier details, and I can't say I want to open that can of worms right now. Suffice it to say, I was molested from the age of 4(??) until I was 14. Four different people, two were relatives. I honestly don't remember everything. One was an older male relative, one an older female one. The other two, an older couple at my school, two and four years older than me. Being raped has a way of changing what you see as sexual, and for me, coming before puberty definitely affected my tastes in sex. If I approached you at a bar and we were able to hit it off, You wouldn't think there was anything out of the ordinary. The sex would be good. Like vanilla ice cream; smooth, creamy and filling as I always try to make sure the woman is pleased. You have to so they think you're normal. That's hard to do when the sex you're performing doesn't really turn you on. The hardest part is closing my eyes and imagining what I really wish I was doing so I can finish and make it seem like I'm normal. Then comes the part where I ask what she likes, and hope that she says she likes it rough. How rough? Probably not rough enough to please me. And there's my trouble.
No comments:
Post a Comment