1:54 p.m. :: 2003-01-11
Those Other Women
Those other women, they don't lay in his mind, but they exist quietly in the pages of old journals. They exist in poems, notes, reminders to pay rent for apartments he shared with them, hastily sketched little drawings. Here and there, they left their own marks in certain spots, and I am a bit surprised to see how sloppy is the scrawl of one he referred to as "brilliant."
They were all brilliant women. And for a time, they were his sun, his muses, his lovers. Talented, intelligent women. And each had beauty. Maybe to my eye, in pictures, they are not archtypal beauties. But there was something he found to love in each of them: cloud-blue eyes in one, raven hair in another. Souls and minds in each one.
This one he spanked. That one he fucked in the ass. This one sang a lullaby to him as she straddled his cock. That one masturbated as he entered the room -- they watched themselves fucking in a mirror. One had hips that moved like pistons, and fucking her was nearly painful. Another had unruly pubic hair that disgusted him a bit. This one lost weight and left him for a girl. That one gained weight and raked him over with cruel words. This one aborted his child. That one bore him two. This one flew across the country to screw him in a motel room, then find herself abandoned when his shame knocked him to his knees. This one wrote brilliant poetry. That one sang like a lark.
And who am I in this parade of great women?
He once thought I felt disgusted over his past. No, I feel jealous. I did not chronicle my life in journals. I didn't love many men. I was always too afraid. Until him. And I felt the lack of experience when I learned of his past. I felt it keenly. I felt awe. He nearly fucked two of them at once. He had actually tried so many things. How, in the midst of all of his experience, could I hope to be even mildly interesting?
It became an obsession that nearly tore us apart.
I had to be superlative. I had to be the best lover. I had to be the most intelligent. I had to be the most caring. I had to love him the most. And he had to love me best of all. I would do anything to erase the memories of this parade of women that passed through his bed. If I could, I would steal those memories away -- like a succubus milking his seed -- until I was the only woman that remained. Perfect. Flawless. Beautiful. If only I could figure out exactly what his idyllic woman was, perhaps I could become her.
What would he write about me? What would appear in one of those old journals to torment future lovers? How would they see me in the pages of his past? Would he write about my wide, innocent, blue eyes? My small breasts? My poetry? My slender hands on his body?
Would he write about the way I suck his cock? Would he write about the dirty words I say? Would he write about the pretty lotus flower between my legs?
Would he write about the sex, the fucking, the love-making?
But of course, the most dreadful thought is that he could move on, and I would be one more in this parade of women instead of the last, greatest love of his life, his present, his future -- his wife.
But he is my husband.
And...
Tonight, he will sleep in my bed.
Tonight, he will kiss my mouth.
Tonight, he will caress my breasts.
Tonight, he will drink from my pussy.
Tonight, he will spill his seed inside me.
Tonight, and every night after, until the end of time, he will be mine, while those other women exist only in the yellowing pages of his journals.
Did you miss...?
Casual, Random Sex - April 22, 2009
For Your Eyes Only - 2008-05-29
Amanda - 2008-05-29
Faithful Wife - 2008-05-17
Nasty Mother In Law - 2008-05-17
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