Why?

As I started on my way home from Shabbos services tonight, an odd impression came to me... this feeling that along with the other reasons for my current activities - pleasure, exploration, a basic need to submit, and who knows what else - there is a sense of doing it out of vengeance. But against whom? And why?

I feel as if I've passed my brief relatively promiscuous phase, born out of grief and anger at the loss of first the philosopher and then my demon muse. And certainly, promiscuous is an exaggerated term. Because really, what did it amount to? A couple of non-sexual dates, an educational 24 hours with Motorcycle Man following an enjoyable dinner a few nights previously, and a regretted few hours - the only real mistake - with the photographer.

What I have now is actually pretty stable.

Two men.

Two very different arrangements.

Two unique understandings.

But still, I detect in myself a soupçon of fierceness about it all.
As if I'm saying. There! See? Ha!

See what?
That someone wants me?
That someone desires me?
That two someones desire me?
That one of them wants my mind even more than my body?
That two intelligent, creative, good-looking and/or charismatic
and very compellingly sexy younger men
will take certain risks in order to have me?
It's not as if they can't find other women to satisfy their perversions.
OK, the Irishman is probably more easily satisfied
whereas for my sadist I am a project.
But I can at least pretend to myself
that there is something in me that they want.

As opposed to ex-hubby #2, who preferred reading bulletins from non-profits when he came to bed to even noticing that I was there and would roll over and go to sleep if we ever found ourselves in a motel and then dare to complain in the few sessions of couples therapy he thought we were worth that I never took the initiative sexually. I would cuddle up to him and he would roll over. How much rejection can one girl take?

How much rejection can one girl take?

So my sadistic demon muse develops me to serve his particular needs.
And the Irishman and I have
an arrangement
as to availability and procedure.
And I like both of them
and they each excite me
and they each make me happy.
Up to a point.
The little bits of them I have
make me happy
as far as they go.

Not perfect.
But it's something.

It's something to look forward to.
It's physical contact
limited though it may be
with someone other than Marko
who is sleeping and snoring on my left foot as I write.

The philosopher says I shouldn't cut myself off. So I'm not. OK, I'm not actually dating... but I am exploring my submission, in different ways and more physically than we were able to do together. It's probably good to take the opportunity now, after a largely sexless and loveless marriage, before I become too old and decrepit for this sort of carrying on.

"Will you still need me,
will you still beat me,
when I'm 64?"

OK, yes, I know, I'm carrying on with a couple of unavailable men. There is that. Is that a form of vengeance, too? I don't know... I used to worry about sisterhood, and just got hurt in the process. I feel a measure of anger, as if now, this era that I have set aside, this time is for me. I'm tired of rolling over and worrying about everyone else. And if I do roll over, and offer my butt for beating or my asshole for fucking, it's because I want to.

Then why do I sound as if I'm over-justifying?

And why do I feel as if this is all I'm ever going to get?

And why do I want to cry...