So Much More(3)

We’ve been dating for months now. He’s the only man I’ve ever met who can hold my attention. And vice-versa, I’m clearly holding his. I usually get bored. They usually get intimidated. Blah. Blah. But with him, there’s an odd pull that I can’t walk away from. It’s as if the universe has administered a biting, backhanded slap to my face, warning me to open my eyes, while screaming, ‘It doesn’t get any better than the man in front of you! Don’t be a goddamn idiot!’ My life has been orchestrated in my mind for years. A strict timeline, complete with deadlines for success in all areas: career, most importantly, and the picture perfect fa?ade that surrounds it.

I’ve decided that Seamus needs to be a permanent fixture in my life. I need him to chase away the bad mojo I’m no doubt going to create. It’s not my conscience I’m worried about. I, like my grandmother before me, am not equipped with one; it’s my future fa?ade. An enviable husband and a few spawn look good for well-rounded appearance’s sake, a wolf surrounded by cute, likable, soft little sheep. Everyone loves sheep.

So, I’ve stopped taking my birth control pills.

Seamus doesn’t know.

We’ve talked about marriage. And children. I break out in hives while he looks so contented with the idea I would swear he was put on earth solely for the purpose of procreation and his loins carry only angelic seed.

Cue the commencement of shuddering.

If I get pregnant, he’ll marry me. And even when I can’t pretend to be the Miranda he wants me to be, and the real me shines through eventually, he’ll never leave us. A baby is my guarantee.





The world I’m creating for me





past





“I love you.” His words are haunting in the dark. Spoken as his lips make repeated contact with my shoulder, my neck; painting promises and devotion. I’m greedy and love hearing it. It’s affirmation he’s mine. All mine. Compliant to me in matters of the heart. Willing, emotional servitude is like a drug, heady and boosting. I don’t love the idea of mutual love, but I damn sure love the idea of being loved. It’s powerful, because those who love are easily coerced.

Seamus is lying behind me. We’re naked, coiled in the midst of intimacy. He excels at it. I tolerate it. I do what I need to do physically to keep the emotional free flow on his end perpetual.

Kissing, touching, penetration, he’s skilled at translating what he feels into action.

I’m skilled at faking it. “That’s it, Seamus. Like that,” I sigh as he enters me. The sigh was a token for him. I should enjoy this, I think, as he eases in and out. He’s a massive, potent man, who always handles me with care and affection. His arms are wrapped around me, one hand masterfully stimulating from the front while the other pays close attention to the rest of my torso. His lips worship every inch of skin within reach.

This will go on for a while. We’ll exchange words. We’ll probably change positions. Orgasms will be achieved, mine included.

But here’s the thing.

I don’t enjoy sex.

Never have.

It feels submissive.

The physicality of it seems unnecessary, when my vibrator can achieve the exact same goal and in a fraction of the time. I’m too selfish to dole out pleasure to others. Which given the man I’m with would be nothing short of sacrilege in most women’s minds. Seamus is endowed beyond belief, passionate, attentive, romantic, and gorgeous. I’m fully aware that I’m wasting his resources with my lack of appreciation. I’ve seen the way women prowl him with their eyes, fantasies of role-playing the goddamn Kama Sutra written all over their horny, needy expressions.

My lust is for power. And that’s where sex comes in. Fucking is merely a means to an end for me. A power play. I’ve always taken this approach: my vagina is a weapon in my arsenal, and any stiff cock can be defeated by it. Weakened. Vanquished. It’s a tool to conquer.

And speaking of conquering. I win! Though my uterus objects vehemently to that statement.

I’m pregnant!

And I have a ring on my left hand!

And though I’d love to gloat and celebrate my victory in raucous fashion, I’m biding my time, quietly letting Seamus bask in the world I’m creating for me.

Yes, me.

There’s no we.

He can have the kid.

I just need the fa?ade.





Third time’s a charm





present





Divorce.

A severing of sacred ties.

The end of a dream.

The death of a family.

This word defines me.

The first time she asked me for a divorce was at the end of our first date. She was joking and followed it up with our first kiss.

The second time she asked me for a divorce was when she was in labor with our second child, a labor that due to its rapid emergence disallowed the administration of pain dulling drugs. She also told me she hated me, cursed my penis’s existence, and said my sperm were the devil’s work. I think it was the pain talking.

The third time she asked me for a divorce she meant it.

Third time’s a charm.

This divorce is all I think about. I dwell on it. It rules my thoughts, especially on a day like today. The kids and I are moving into our apartment, minus Miranda.