Sometimes you can stand on a thought path and think you know exactly where you’re going. But the problem is, every so often you can end up being somewhere totally different to where you’d intended. Roads, streets, and dirty little alleys sprout up left and right, and being the inquisitive type, I always take a detour. Usually down those dirty little alleys, trekking through the refuse on the ground, remnants of my past that had been tossed away only to remain as litter, the wind kicking them up every now and again to remind me that I really do need to learn to be a better housekeeper and throw them away properly.
Still, I suppose with any self-discovery journey you’re going to find yourself thinking things you didn’t want to think about. This happened to me in the early hours of the morning.
I began by thinking how lucky I was to have a husband that I actually wanted to have sex with. Back in the day, I used to say my nipples didn’t work, because despite being handled, there was never any sensation—well, nothing except irritation that they were being touched at all. And I think that’s largely to do with who was touching them, the irritation more along the lines of revulsion towards the end of the relationship. I didn’t enjoy sex much back then in general. It seemed like a nasty, sticky mess that I’d got myself into, something I had to do in order to fulfil my wifely obligation. There came a point or two where I heaved during the act, cried, hated myself—and him—because I was doing something I really didn’t want to do.
Amazing then, when you meet someone else and discover that having sex isn’t so nasty after all. Imagine realising you like it, and, wonder of wonders, your nipples actually work because the person touching them did it in the right way—and I suspect it was largely to do with the fact that I adore him and feelings that come when having sex with him are linked with good things.
Sex is a very private thing, I think, yet here I am, discussing it openly. Odd. But there’s never been anyone I could really talk to about this kind of thing. Most friends from my past would think me a raging pervert for even wanting to discuss it—they are the type who would spread your secrets quicker than butter on bread—but I’ve found as I’ve got older that women are more open to talking about it without getting embarrassed. These women, though, are online. The ease of hiding behind a monitor helps dispel embarrassment.
Anyway, this post is probably just as the beginning suggests—me going down a different route to what I’d actually intended, and, do you know, I can’t for the life of me recall what I actually wanted to say. My mind has become a filthy maze that I can’t find my way out of. I’m sitting here lost, trying to work out what my original intention was. Perhaps, if I sit here for a little while, I’ll remember.
Until then, goodbye for now.