The bruise on my ass has already passed the pretty purple
phase and is turning greenish yellow. The look of abject horror on his face
when he saw it, literally gasping as he covered his mouth in shock, spoke
volumes about the truth behind the stories he tells himself. Aggressive, alpha
male, big, tough, soldier man… but he still holds onto the Madonna/Whore
complex. I should have known when he talked about “good girls” and how he’d
take a slut over one any day. But he’d fucked me like a “good girl,” slow, deliberate,
looking into my eyes and calling me “Baby.” And when I reminded him that I was
open to seeing his aggression, he took aim and swatted my ass. Barely a sting.
He seemed surprised when I didn’t flinch or cry out, but probably made a sound
that implied, “I bet you can do better than that!”
When he asked if there was anywhere else I liked to be
slapped, I thought that maybe he had it in him after all. I corrected his aim
when he caught my ear on the first swing and told him that he’d hit the max impact
for my face. A couple more swats at my cheeks and then he said he wanted me on
my back. Even with proper barriers in place, he pulled out when he came.
Sitting back on his knees, shaking and sweating I could actually see the condom
filling with each shudder. We’d lost the condom twice during out first
encounter and despite my negative STI panel and infertility, it was reflexive
for him to never come inside a woman. Maybe that will change after his
vasectomy. Maybe not. I’m not sure I’ll be around to experience it.
I can go from zero to boyfriend in 3.5 dates, but this was
date number six and he felt further away than the previous week in bed when
he’d cuddled up and told me that physical closeness was an emotional trigger
for him. Things had escalated so quickly from OkCupid to Vikings and pumpkin
bread- our version of “Netflix and Chill” but I’m already thinking about him in
the past tense. I try not to. But I know that as quickly as I attach, I just as
quickly feel like I’m not getting enough attention and I start to catastrophize
things. Realistically, he could just be having a bad week (PTSD, TBI and co-parenting
a teenager with an ex tend to bring those on) or he just isn’t normally the
type to initiate the messaging as often once things feel established. But in my
mind I’m imagining that my new, shiny has worn off and the Madonna/Whore
complex has made it too hard for him to reconcile a woman that he can talk to
for hours about culture, religion, the origins of the pyramids, ghost stories
and alien sightings, who also likes getting fucked hard and slapped around.
My husband tells me it’s his loss and that eventually we’ll
find people that will accept us for everything we are. And we are pretty
fucking awesome. It was my husband that took a photo of the bruise because he
thought it was as hot as I did. This was after we went to the spare bedroom
where another man had sweated all over his wife and he asked for every detail
before putting on a condom from the same box for the novelty of it.
