Middle-Age Sex Blog

Musings of a 40-something former Catholic girl/former teenaged slut turned PTA mom, trying to make sense of life as I knew it and a marriage in trouble.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

Things I can't do anymore

1. Call you "baby."
2. Take naked pictures of you.
3. Tell you that you "turn me on."
4. Tell you I'm angry.
5. Tell you how angry I've been at you for 20 years.

You say it's not the way it happened, but this whole thing started when you dragged my old teenage diary, and the bundle of notes I had kept since my teens (the ones tied with pretty yarn, that my girlfriend, who died over 20 years ago, gave me), out of the back of the dusty closet. What made you do that, I have no idea. I didn't even remember they were there. Some day I was going to back and look at them and see how far I'd come. I was going to read her notes and reminisce about the "good" old days, and get teary-eyed and remember how much I missed her.

But the world came crashing down when you read the entire diary and all those notes, and even took notes of your own on what you'd read. You now can recite to me names and dates and events I have no recollection of whatsoever. Out of anger that you had done that, I burned the whole lot the next day. I didn't read one page or one note, only saved a watercolor she had done. I've regretted that day ever since.

You found out things about me that I'd never told you and some things I didn't even remember. Like how the first guy I slept with was her brother, and how he was 7 years older and a drug dealer. Like how there were a lot of guys before him, even though there wasn't the same degree of physical intimacy. And how there were so many holes in my brain that I will never be able to fill.

I'm writing this blog because every time you write me a note, and ask me for my feelings, my words get twisted. When we talk, you come back at me later with "Well, what you said was..." when I never said anything like that at all. I'm trying to keep my sanity, despite your telling me constantly that I have none. I'm trying to stay grounded. I am not crazy.

Thursday, August 05, 2004

Lovemaking

So, before I start the story, I want to clarify something. You have always said how you don't fuck, you make love. I have to disagree just a little. I believe with us it is ALL making love, regardless if it is sucking you off or giving you a hand job, without asking for anything in return. Alternatively, if you do the same for me, that's lovemaking. I just don't agree that we are not making love if there is no penetration involved. Also, while we are always making love, sometimes it is just fucking! And why would there be anything wrong with that? A hard, fast fuck instead of a languid, slow, soft lovemaking session. Sometimes it's what we both want and need.

Wednesday, August 04, 2004

3:30 a.m.

Another night without you. I've been telling you for months now that I can't sleep without you and it doesn't seem to make a difference. We spend so little time together. What would it hurt you to come to bed earlier? I have to get up at 4:45 to get ready for work. You were home before midnight because you kissed me goodnight when you got home, even though I had already fallen asleep. I know it's hard to go to bed as soon as you get home, but dammit--3-1/2 hours? Is that the best time to surf porn, the middle of the night? I've awakened sometimes and you've been sitting here, or in the bathroom, and I've asked you when you were coming to bed. I'm so fucking tired of doing that. It's obvious you don't want to be with me in the middle of the night. It would mean a hell of a lot more to me if you came to bed and put your arm around me than getting these godawful 4-page notes full of drama that you stay up late writing.

Tuesday, August 03, 2004

Dear Husband

If you read this, you would think I am absolutely out of my mind. I have no frigging time for blogging. Hell, I have no frigging time whatsoever these days. But for the last year or so, we've taken to writing to each other in lieu of discussing things, talking only on the weekends because you still work nights and I still work days and there are kids in between and bills to pay and...oh, never mind. You write at least 10 notes to my 1. Which is weird, because for years, you could not put pen to paper, and I was the one with the muse. Now, someday you'll read this blog and wonder why I could not write a simple response to your questions. Easier to talk to myself, I suppose.

Tomorrow, I shall start the story of my teenaged sluttiness and work up from there.