It's been over a week since I've written. Things have been going well for the most part. I've gotten to do some more GAL stuff, mostly shooting. I've been practicing for my trip this month by shooting in competition, which has been a lot of fun. I shoot near the school where I work, so I think during the school year it will actually be easier to get to the weekly match after work. I've been working out more, too.
I've had some good conversations with my wife, but I want to talk about one I had right about the time of my last post. This illustrates, to me, how far we'd fallen with me stepping back and trying to be the "Nice Guy" and let her lead, and her stepping forward to take over our life completely. She was going to buy me a car. Not, like, buy me a gift. She knew I wanted a different car because I hate the POS I'm driving at the moment. It was her dream car, and when we got married she'd never been allowed to choose her own car. Her parents had always told her what to drive. She was driving a blowoff blue Chevy Celebrity at the time, and it had been through three accidents and had the muffler held on with a coat hanger for five years at that point. So we went looking and got her dream car, a red '95 Camaro with t-tops, a V6 and an automatic transmission (because if you can't be comfortable, you should at least be slow.) I drove my ancient caddy and then an ailing Buick I'd bought from my parents for the next few years. The plan had been that we would save up and the next big car purchase would be for me. Well, the kids came along and then the baby was coming, and we had to have a van. So we went out and bought the newest car either of us has ever driven, a Ford minivan. The van did improve our quality of life a bunch, but now there was no money for anything else and I got rear-ended by a lady with a new car and no insurance. So today, she's got the van and I've got that POS Camaro that's now breaking faster than I can fix it.
She knows, she says, that I want "a Volvo." She can't remember what kind, but she figures a Volvo is a Volvo. So she was going to go out and buy one, since I was just taking way too long. Of course, I was taking so long because we don't have the money to do this without selling the Camaro, but what does that matter? And of course, she was liable to come home with something I wouldn't want to drive, but again, who cares? She says she finds car shopping a hassle and she'd be glad if someone came along and just did it for her. Huh? You want someone to come along and spend thousands of dollars of your money on something you have to spend 6 hours a week in, and you don't want them to consult you? "Were you at least going to say something to me about this, or were you just going to go do it without even mentioning it?" I asked. The look on her face told me everything. To her credit, she at least had the grace to look sheepish.
So that's how far we've gone down that road. She had apparently decided that she was in charge, I had no say in anything, and that must be how I liked it. Needless to say, it has been made clear that she will NOT go out and buy a car unless she wants to drive it-and I'll be selling the van if that happens.
It's not like I'm being irresponsible here. I'm looking at Volvos around ten years old that are in a price range we can afford, paying cash we have in the bank. Yeah, I like the sportier models, but you're still talking about four-door sedans--the safest in the world, and with good mileage--that won't require a loan. I admit I'm fascinated by the engineering--I love a good gizmo, and a turbocharged inline 5-cylinder is right up there. But it's still a good choice for us, and what's more, it's my choice.
Anyway, we had two good breakthroughs in the sex department. First, we had a moment I didn't enjoy. We'd been cuddling on the bed late in the afternoon, and there'd been some kissing and some snuggling, and I moved my hand to her breast. She brushed it off as if it were a spider. "What's wrong?" "I just don't want to be touched there." "OK, I won't, but why? I thought you were having fun." "I was, but . . . it's daylight out, and . . . ." "It's what?" "You know what I mean. I just, with the way I look . . . ."
I let this go because I could see myself turning it into an argument. I sort of knew what she meant--I know she's bothered by being overweight, and she's made comments before now about her breasts sagging since the baby was born. She used to wear a naughty nightie to bed when she wanted to make love; now she often wears one of the nighties, but with her bra underneath. But I wasn't planning on stripping her naked and taking photos in sunlight. I just thought it would be nice to touch her breasts, because, you know, breasts.
I waited until later, when she was relaxed, and broached the subject again. I asked her what the daylight had to do with it--did she think I didn't find her body beautiful, or was she the one insulting my woman? She admitted that it was her mental issue. I told her I'd like to touch her breasts, and I promised nothing I would do would embarrass her. She agreed to that, and I kissed her and gently cupped and fondled her breasts through her shirt and bra. She was tense at first, but she relaxed and then grew obviously aroused, kissing me passionately. I told her how much I loved her and how much she excited me, and that we could take pleasure in each other. I told her I wasn't trying to force her into doing anything she didn't want to do in the daylight, and that every little sexual touch didn't have to be an intercourse early warning sign. I admit, I have a hard time stopping once I start, but I'm capable of it. She has always had this sense that one does not simply caress, lick, suck or otherwise stimulate one's partner unless there will be a By God Penis inserted into a By God Vagina In An Approved Manner With All Due Dispatch. It's always been a stumbling block; she wants to wait to have sex until she's in the mood, but she won't do anything to get into the mood unless she's ready to have sex. Catch-22.
Now the good news: I told her I wasn't pushing her to do anything, but I wanted to make love to her that night. She said, and I quote, "Okay."
That may not seem like much to some of you, but in my house, it used to be that "no" meant "no," while "maybe" meant "no," and "yes" meant "maybe." There was no real yes. If she decided to make love (and it was always she; it was understood that I did not have the power or the right to initiate sex) then she would either go to bed in sexy lingerie or invite me to the shower. That was it. If one of those things hadn't happened, I could ask, but it was a waste of time.
From there, after the divorce ultimatum and after she read most of SSM, we eventually progressed to the point where I was getting genuine "maybes." In other words, she would say "maybe" and that actually meant "maybe." It was no guarantee, but I no longer automatically translated "maybe" as no. To be honest, I was pretty happy with "maybe." It's asking a lot for someone to say "Yes, I will be in the mood in six hours and we will have sex."
Well, that day, she said, "Okay." I said: "Okay? Okay as in yes?" "Yeah . . . why not? Just do it, right?" "Well, yeah, but you have no idea what that means to me. I can't believe you said that. Are you freaking out?" "Um, a little! It's scary. I don't know what's going to happen. But I need to get over it." "OK, well, I don't know if this is smart, but here's what we'll do: I am SO happy that you just said yes to me. But tonight, if you need to say no, I promise I won't get mad. I'll wrap my arms around you and kiss you goodnight and we'll go to sleep. Of course, then you'll miss out on agonizing levels of pleasure, but it's your pick."
And that's what we did. I don't know if that was the right thing to do--maybe my Nice Guy Syndrome came out a little there, and I had to give her an escape. But I never want to be her obligation or her chore again. Those days are over for me. And I never want her to feel like I've cleverly trapped her or manipulated her into having sex with me. I wanted to be and look confident and happy about what she'd done--but confident enough that I could take away any obligation she thought she'd taken on.
It worked from my point of view, because we made love in mind-blowing fashion. She really tries to hurt me sometimes now, biting, pinching and clawing. It's intense. It feels like she's letting loose something that used to shame her. She's still learning that she can't break me and it's OK if I feel a little pain with my pleasure. I've always had a weird relationship with pain; I like hitting and being hit, having my joints cranked and escaping, fighting off chokes . . . when I was younger, I was a 260-lb football tackle who ran the 2 mile for the track team in the spring. Daily 6-mile runs with actual long-distance runners . . . . it hurt the entire time. Nothing that happens during sex has ever come close to the kind of pain I voluntarily put myself through for other stuff.
I think that's hard for her to understand, and she's always acted like I was delicate before, to the point of avoiding pleasurable things because maybe they would hurt. She'd try to give me a back massage, but I'd hardly be able to feel it. I think she was stronger than that, but she was afraid to dig her knuckle into my back or really put her weight on her palm. But that night, she put scratches on my thigh from the knee to . . . . well, you know, the *ahem* topmost area of the thigh.
If she ever actually tries to choke me out or kicks me in the groin during sex, I think I'll set a boundary. But for now I'm enjoying the wildness.
