Oldy woman watching webchat
I wish he’d stop prying, but I realize something else is happening here.
Not only is he trying to be considerate; he’s also trying to get to know me.
and my husband’s breathing has become long and even. I slip my right hand down my pajama pants and move slowly, careful not to bump my elbow into his side rib, or bring my hips into it. I’ve been called “insatiable” and “demanding” one too many times. Yes, I have an incredibly high sex drive, but even in relationships where I have great sex multiple times a week my nighttime stealth for self-pleasure has persisted.
Too much movement or sound will wake him, and to be found out for something like this is not just embarrassing but potentially destructive. Even worse, maybe he’ll finally say the words I’ve been waiting for him to say since I first told him that I am a sex addict. My college boyfriend, burgundy haired and tattooed, had the high sex drive typical of most nineteen-year-old males.
Not just tiny, embarrassed sobs, but humiliated wails. He is confused now as he pulls me close to him, laughing nervously at my abrupt shift in disposition. Going out and fucking — even someone you don’t really like — is wild, dangerous, but essentially social and shared.
I try to pull the sheet completely over my head, but he pulls it back down and covers my face with apologetic kisses. He can’t possibly know what I’ve just revealed to him. Though I had periods of promiscuity throughout my twenties, my biggest issue has always been with what I do alone.
A.’s KROQ that served as my primary means of sex ed during my pre-teen years.
“Afterward, the women exit the warehouse through a back door while the men applaud.” For a long moment after I’ve finished talking, there is silence between us, but there is also a sense of relief on my part.
I have revealed something so dark, so upsetting, so impacted in shame, and he hasn’t immediately disappeared.
He is still here beside me, propped up on his left hand, naked and vulnerable, and so am I.
I’m careful to keep my breath from becoming a pant, even as my pulse quickens, but this takes much concentration. I have masturbated in this way next to the sleeping bodies of all my serious, committed partners who came before my husband.
This orgasm is a controlled, measured, calculated experience.
He’ll think he doesn't satisfy me, and men do not like feeling inadequate, especially when it comes to matters of the bedroom. We fucked all the time, but even still, I wanted more, something only I could give me.