by Jean Roberta
Definitions of insanity are parallel to definitions of obscenity. They all tend to be circular. In effect, “obscenity” is a picture or a description of anything the viewer or reader thinks should not be shown. “Insanity” is any person or action that seems illogical in the eyes of the viewer.
So, for example, when my new husband insisted that I had had sex with some stranger on the arm of the armchair I had bought second-hand (and which had a stain on the arm), I thought he sounded insane. He thought I was a nympho, a woman with an insane appetite for sex. His arguments always led back to the fact that I hadn’t been a virgin when he met me, so obviously, I was a nympho. How could I deny it?
His accusations continued from then until I left him, which further confirmed my insane, impulsive nature in his mind. Clearly, I was suffering from post-natal depression, a kind of insanity lite.
Gossip often includes at least one accusation that someone is “insane.” In some cases, the accusation is mutual, especially when the gossip follows a divorce. Very few exes seem to have been sane at any time in their lives.
Most of the time, I take reports of someone else’s “insanity” with a huge spoonful of salt, even if the person has spent time in a psychiatric facility. (Definitions of “insanity” have varied wildly from one culture and era to another.)
Re being illogical, however, I have to admit that sometimes I’m guilty. On Friday, I went to the first holiday dinner party of the season, in the home of a friend who keep a large quantity of wine in her front room. (She knows of an outlet that sells it for about $5 Canadian per bottle to customers who supply their own bottles.) I over-indulged, and today I regret it.
Gah! I think I'll be saner for the rest of the season.
Showing posts with label infidelity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label infidelity. Show all posts
Saturday, December 9, 2017
Friday, November 6, 2015
Some Men Are Dogs, and the Law Is An Ass
by Jean Roberta
We were introduced by a mutual friend who told me he was married. He never lied to me about that. He seemed to be living in a cheap, sparsely-furnished apartment in the “city” while his wife and three daughters lived in the colourfully-named satellite town of Moose Jaw. Clearly, I thought, he was separated.
The first time we were alone together, he told me that he and his wife had agreed not to get a divorce while their daughters were still living at home. I thought this sounded sensible. I knew he was a pillar of the NDP, the furthest-left of the mainstream Canadian political parties. He had written a groundbreaking book about a controversial period of local history.
On a physical level, he didn’t thrill me, but I thought we had a mellow friendship based on shared humanitarian values. Sex with him felt comforting. I began to wonder what he would be like as a stepfather to my daughter.
There were clues, of course. He kept telling me that I was completely different from his wife. (Your ex-wife, I corrected him.)
Different how? I asked him. He told me numerous times that she was French-Canadian, raised Catholic. But since she was married to you for years, I responded, she can’t be very conservative. He replied that she was a real wife and mother. Apparently she had qualities that I couldn't understand.
Then came the day when I asked him how he would feel about living with me and my daughter, just temporarily, so that I could move out of my parents’ house. He told me that his wife wouldn’t accept that. But surely, I told him, she’s just as free as you are to form other attachments?
No, he said, you don't understand. She's French, and Catholic. She believes in marriage. She would never cheat on me.
I was stunned.
I moved myself and my three-year-old daughter into a housing co-op for low-income single parents. He came to visit me there, and he ignored my daughter as much as possible. I noticed that he couldn’t bring himself to call me a “mother.” He seemed amused by the concept of a community of “single parents,” which he seemed to regard as a euphemism for something much raunchier.
He had known me when I was married, and he knew my daughter had my ex-husband’s family name. I failed to see what was so funny about my current situation: living on a shoestring on whatever I could earn while my daughter’s father had legal visiting rights but no serious legal obligation to pay child support.
I also failed to see how I was vastly different from his wife, especially if he was already living separately from her. If he and she got divorced, she would be a single parent herself.
She phoned him in his cheap apartment when I was there. After some conversation (not whispered), he said, “I love you too, honey.” After hanging up, he gave me a big smile. “That was my wife,” he explained.
He went on to tell me that he would be giving up his apartment in the spring, after the ice had melted. He told me his real, loving wife had advised him to rent a cheap apartment over the winter so he wouldn’t have to commute to work on icy roads every day. Of course, he went home to Moose Jaw every weekend.
In that case, I told him, our relationship is over – if it could even be called a relationship. He accused me of suddenly trying to become “bourgeois.” He reminded me that I had always known he was married. He implied that women like me have no right to say no, especially after having said yes.
To my amazement, he seemed to believe that he was a good family man, and that I was the breaker of promises, since I had made myself available to him. I was raising a child with no man in sight, so of course I didn’t have the moral fibre of a good French Catholic wife. Never mind how I had arrived at this place. For him, our affair had been shady, and that was because I was the kind of woman who lured married men into the path of wickedness.
No matter what I said, he was adamant that we didn’t have to stop seeing each other. After the time he arrived at my door late at night (claiming he couldn’t afford to sleep anywhere else), I refused to let him into my apartment. I could easily imagine the kind of welcome I would have received had I showed up after midnight at his family home in Moose Jaw.
After several months, and various ruses on his part, he stopped phoning.
To this day, I am stunned by his conception of what is, and is not, “cheating.”
I’ve always wished I could sue him for conning me out of an emotional investment in bogus stock. For me, sex was not the point of it all; he was less satisfying than my own fantasies and my own fingers. What I valued was our shared “honesty,” a fantasy in itself.
Legal definitions of “infidelity” focus on sex because it is tangible and provable. The law has never found a way to rule on deliberate miscommunication, or disillusionment.
We were introduced by a mutual friend who told me he was married. He never lied to me about that. He seemed to be living in a cheap, sparsely-furnished apartment in the “city” while his wife and three daughters lived in the colourfully-named satellite town of Moose Jaw. Clearly, I thought, he was separated.
The first time we were alone together, he told me that he and his wife had agreed not to get a divorce while their daughters were still living at home. I thought this sounded sensible. I knew he was a pillar of the NDP, the furthest-left of the mainstream Canadian political parties. He had written a groundbreaking book about a controversial period of local history.
On a physical level, he didn’t thrill me, but I thought we had a mellow friendship based on shared humanitarian values. Sex with him felt comforting. I began to wonder what he would be like as a stepfather to my daughter.
There were clues, of course. He kept telling me that I was completely different from his wife. (Your ex-wife, I corrected him.)
Different how? I asked him. He told me numerous times that she was French-Canadian, raised Catholic. But since she was married to you for years, I responded, she can’t be very conservative. He replied that she was a real wife and mother. Apparently she had qualities that I couldn't understand.
Then came the day when I asked him how he would feel about living with me and my daughter, just temporarily, so that I could move out of my parents’ house. He told me that his wife wouldn’t accept that. But surely, I told him, she’s just as free as you are to form other attachments?
No, he said, you don't understand. She's French, and Catholic. She believes in marriage. She would never cheat on me.
I was stunned.
I moved myself and my three-year-old daughter into a housing co-op for low-income single parents. He came to visit me there, and he ignored my daughter as much as possible. I noticed that he couldn’t bring himself to call me a “mother.” He seemed amused by the concept of a community of “single parents,” which he seemed to regard as a euphemism for something much raunchier.
He had known me when I was married, and he knew my daughter had my ex-husband’s family name. I failed to see what was so funny about my current situation: living on a shoestring on whatever I could earn while my daughter’s father had legal visiting rights but no serious legal obligation to pay child support.
I also failed to see how I was vastly different from his wife, especially if he was already living separately from her. If he and she got divorced, she would be a single parent herself.
She phoned him in his cheap apartment when I was there. After some conversation (not whispered), he said, “I love you too, honey.” After hanging up, he gave me a big smile. “That was my wife,” he explained.
He went on to tell me that he would be giving up his apartment in the spring, after the ice had melted. He told me his real, loving wife had advised him to rent a cheap apartment over the winter so he wouldn’t have to commute to work on icy roads every day. Of course, he went home to Moose Jaw every weekend.
In that case, I told him, our relationship is over – if it could even be called a relationship. He accused me of suddenly trying to become “bourgeois.” He reminded me that I had always known he was married. He implied that women like me have no right to say no, especially after having said yes.
To my amazement, he seemed to believe that he was a good family man, and that I was the breaker of promises, since I had made myself available to him. I was raising a child with no man in sight, so of course I didn’t have the moral fibre of a good French Catholic wife. Never mind how I had arrived at this place. For him, our affair had been shady, and that was because I was the kind of woman who lured married men into the path of wickedness.
No matter what I said, he was adamant that we didn’t have to stop seeing each other. After the time he arrived at my door late at night (claiming he couldn’t afford to sleep anywhere else), I refused to let him into my apartment. I could easily imagine the kind of welcome I would have received had I showed up after midnight at his family home in Moose Jaw.
After several months, and various ruses on his part, he stopped phoning.
To this day, I am stunned by his conception of what is, and is not, “cheating.”
I’ve always wished I could sue him for conning me out of an emotional investment in bogus stock. For me, sex was not the point of it all; he was less satisfying than my own fantasies and my own fingers. What I valued was our shared “honesty,” a fantasy in itself.
Legal definitions of “infidelity” focus on sex because it is tangible and provable. The law has never found a way to rule on deliberate miscommunication, or disillusionment.
Monday, November 2, 2015
Why Is Infidelity All About Sex?
Sacchi Green
“Oh Come All Ye Faithful.” “Faith of Our Fathers.” “Semper Fidelis.” “Keeping Faith.” “Full Faith and Credit.” The notion of “faith” generally involves commitment to religion, or patriotism, or trustworthiness. But “unfaithful” and “infidelity” always seem to refer to matters of sex, specifically sex outside of an existing marriage. The standard (but not legally required) marriage vows include “forsaking all others” in the list of promises, which is understood to refer to sex, but why do we reserve “infidelity” for sexual transgressions even though failures of the vows to love, comfort, honor, and keep, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, may be even more harmful to one or another partner?
Just a rhetorical question. Never mind. We all know that anything that can possibly be sex-centered will be sex-centered.
I don’t suppose there’s any way to tell whether the notion of sex-exclusivity began when our pre-human ancestors figured out how babies are made and the males wanted to be sure which kids were their own—all kinds of variations between monogamy and non-monogamy can be observed in other species with whom we share this earth—but until fairly recently women were more restricted than men, and even now some major cultures allow multiple wives or concubines, as long a man can afford them. The wives in such cases are, of course, severely restricted.
Most of us would agree, I think, that extramarital sex with the willing permission of one’s spouse isn’t exactly infidelity. The “willing” part is the catch. Sex is so central to relationships in our culture, so tied into our sense of self-worth, that for a partner to have sex with someone else, to seem to prefer someone else for sex, however briefly, feels like rejection. If it’s not all that brief, a fear of abandonment is likely to enter into it. The emotional pain isn’t about sex itself, but about what it’s come to signify.
Full disclosure—well, more like partial disclosure. Several years ago, when I was well past the age when procreation entered into it, I went a bit wild. I caused someone emotional pain and fear of abandonment, even though there was no actual break. I dabbled in the world of kink, joining a club (more as a voyeur than anything else) where everything was theoretically okay as long as you called it “play.” It seemed to work for some people I knew, but it also, eventually and painfully, tore apart some couples I counted as friends. When no one felt devalued, it worked; when someone did feel threatened or neglected, it didn’t work. Those feelings were what counted, more than whatever sex occurred. I did learn a great deal of value to an erotica writer, but it wasn’t my personal cup of tea, and after a while I moved on, or away, or maybe back, whatever way you look at it.
We’ve been discussing whether readers of erotica should be forewarned when a story involves infidelity. I haven’t made up my mind. In general I’m against warning readers about much of anything, but I do understand that infidelity is a hot button for people who like to immerse themselves in a story’s characters without too much risk of emotional pain. I suppose a writer whose story claims to be “erotic romance” might be wise to warn of infidelity issues, while outright “erotica” shouldn’t require that. On the other hand, for erotica, where themes perceived as transgressive can be a plus, a hint of infidelity might be just the thing to hook a reader.
I’m editing the next volume of Best Lesbian Erotica (now titled Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year for possibly misguided reasons), and I’m expecting some flack about a story I chose that included infidelity. It’s beautifully written, by one of the very best authors in the business, but quite a few readers are going to have a hard time sympathizing with the main character who just wanted to try it once, to see what being with someone else was like. Even if, or maybe especially if, they’ve felt that way themselves. But am I going to warn readers? Hell no. Not unless they read it here, at least. Don't tell anybody, okay?
“Oh Come All Ye Faithful.” “Faith of Our Fathers.” “Semper Fidelis.” “Keeping Faith.” “Full Faith and Credit.” The notion of “faith” generally involves commitment to religion, or patriotism, or trustworthiness. But “unfaithful” and “infidelity” always seem to refer to matters of sex, specifically sex outside of an existing marriage. The standard (but not legally required) marriage vows include “forsaking all others” in the list of promises, which is understood to refer to sex, but why do we reserve “infidelity” for sexual transgressions even though failures of the vows to love, comfort, honor, and keep, for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, may be even more harmful to one or another partner?
Just a rhetorical question. Never mind. We all know that anything that can possibly be sex-centered will be sex-centered.
I don’t suppose there’s any way to tell whether the notion of sex-exclusivity began when our pre-human ancestors figured out how babies are made and the males wanted to be sure which kids were their own—all kinds of variations between monogamy and non-monogamy can be observed in other species with whom we share this earth—but until fairly recently women were more restricted than men, and even now some major cultures allow multiple wives or concubines, as long a man can afford them. The wives in such cases are, of course, severely restricted.
Most of us would agree, I think, that extramarital sex with the willing permission of one’s spouse isn’t exactly infidelity. The “willing” part is the catch. Sex is so central to relationships in our culture, so tied into our sense of self-worth, that for a partner to have sex with someone else, to seem to prefer someone else for sex, however briefly, feels like rejection. If it’s not all that brief, a fear of abandonment is likely to enter into it. The emotional pain isn’t about sex itself, but about what it’s come to signify.
Full disclosure—well, more like partial disclosure. Several years ago, when I was well past the age when procreation entered into it, I went a bit wild. I caused someone emotional pain and fear of abandonment, even though there was no actual break. I dabbled in the world of kink, joining a club (more as a voyeur than anything else) where everything was theoretically okay as long as you called it “play.” It seemed to work for some people I knew, but it also, eventually and painfully, tore apart some couples I counted as friends. When no one felt devalued, it worked; when someone did feel threatened or neglected, it didn’t work. Those feelings were what counted, more than whatever sex occurred. I did learn a great deal of value to an erotica writer, but it wasn’t my personal cup of tea, and after a while I moved on, or away, or maybe back, whatever way you look at it.
We’ve been discussing whether readers of erotica should be forewarned when a story involves infidelity. I haven’t made up my mind. In general I’m against warning readers about much of anything, but I do understand that infidelity is a hot button for people who like to immerse themselves in a story’s characters without too much risk of emotional pain. I suppose a writer whose story claims to be “erotic romance” might be wise to warn of infidelity issues, while outright “erotica” shouldn’t require that. On the other hand, for erotica, where themes perceived as transgressive can be a plus, a hint of infidelity might be just the thing to hook a reader.
I’m editing the next volume of Best Lesbian Erotica (now titled Best Lesbian Erotica of the Year for possibly misguided reasons), and I’m expecting some flack about a story I chose that included infidelity. It’s beautifully written, by one of the very best authors in the business, but quite a few readers are going to have a hard time sympathizing with the main character who just wanted to try it once, to see what being with someone else was like. Even if, or maybe especially if, they’ve felt that way themselves. But am I going to warn readers? Hell no. Not unless they read it here, at least. Don't tell anybody, okay?
Thursday, October 29, 2015
I Cut My Teeth on Adultery (Erotica)
by Giselle Renarde
When I started writing erotica almost 10 years ago, I was in an adulterous relationship. You know this. I wrote about it two weeks ago. That's probably why so much of my early work focused on the emotions (and actions) around infidelity.
I wonder how many erotica writers are readers who went pro? I can think of at least two other erotica authors who, like me, started their careers on a dare. I didn't read erotica (much less romance), so I never knew what was expected of me. I wrote my experience and I wrote what appealed to me. A lot of that fiction involved cheating.
Didn't take long to realize I wasn't producing the kind of work publishers wanted. I submitted my early books all around town. I got rejected. Not surprising, considering I have no fucking CLUE what I was doing.
But I always read publishers' guidelines with an eagle eye, and I started realizing I COULDN'T submit my books to a number of imprints. "All the usual no-nos" seemed to include not only incest, underage sex and bestiality, but INFIDELITY too.
Good thing Selena Kitt created eXcessica fairly early in my career. Selena gave eager consideration to the kinds of manuscripts that were often rejected by other houses, not on the basis of quality or style, but content. I'm so glad I came across eXcessica's call for submissions in 2008. It's one of the only publishers I still work with after all this time (and, trust me, I have worked with A LOT of houses).
I don't know who else would have published my Audrey and Lawrence collection, for instance, which is ALL ADULTERY ALL THE TIME.
Well, that's a bit of a lie, because many of my short stories involving adultery WERE published... but not by erotic romance imprints. They were published in anthologies of literary erotica. They were published on websites like Oysters and Chocolate, Ruthie's Club, and others whose names I've forgotten because they fell out of existence long ago.
Readers enjoyed my adultery. Comment sections teemed with accolades. I don't say that to brag. Trust me: glowing reviews are not the norm, in my writing life. But maybe that's why I found it so perplexing that all these indie erotica publishers that were popping up in the days before self-publishing was the respectable profession it is today (?) wouldn't look at manuscripts involving infidelity.
I guess they knew what they were doing.
Except for all the ones that crashed and burned...
Anyway, as I mentioned two weeks ago, my newest novel is also about an extramarital affair. I just can't get enough adultery, I guess. Those illicit affair feelings still fascinate me, and I'm sure they always will, since I was involved with a married man during my formative years.
Nowadays, I appreciate adultery more through the lens of fiction. In real life, my story sounds a bit like Lisabet's: Sweet and I are technically in an open relationship, but we've been together more than 7 years and I haven't wanted anyone else. Neither as she, as far as I'm aware. Even when we talk about other people we might be attracted to, it all feels very pie-in-the-sky.
The other day, I came across my short story Secret Mercy. It's about a young woman hooking up with a married ex:
At nineteen, Mercedes thought she was the only woman of her kind, unparalleled in the civilized world, leading a life of opulent vulgarity. By twenty-three, she’d realized she wasn’t the only woman in the world to sleep with a married man.
For Mercedes, hooking up with her ex is out of the question (at first) not because he's still married, but because now she's engaged to another guy. What makes Simon exciting? Why does she decide to go for it?
Because he offers cash. That's new.
Secret Mercy begins:
It happens when we fear there’s nothing special about us: we allow our secrets to make us special. With our secrets, we set ourselves apart from the crowd. And when the secrets we’re hiding are known by all, or when we realize our misdeeds are so commonplace our secrets aren’t even all that remarkable, we set out to make new secrets. They make us feel important, unique. And the more insidious our secrets, the more distinctive we feel.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Infidelity and the Gay Man
I’ve often wondered with our over-sexualized media culture — something which I acknowledge I contribute to with my catalogue of gay erotica — if we are separating love and sex, and thus we’re being encouraged to cheat. I think this argument could hold true for society at large, but I think it’s a much stronger argument when we look at just the gay male community.
As a gay man — even as one who is not all that plugged into gay culture — I’m constantly bombarded with sexual images and ideas. My local pride festival invites a handful of celebrities in for pride weekend, and half of those celebrities are gay porn stars. (The other half of the celebrities are drag queens. My local pride organization seems to think this is gay pride, not LGBT pride.)
With the gay magazines and their naked photoshoots, the prevalence of porn on the internet, the way gay culture centralizes on sex (like with this music video, or this one), and with my local pride organization idolizing porn stars as leaders in the community, I’m left with one very clear message. I need to be bigger, harder, longer, and I have to fuck every hot piece of ass I can find. And I need to do it every day, though twice a day is better.
All of this culminates in one word: sex. Not love. Sex. We are encouraged to seek out sex, not seek out love. And if we need to cheat to get some good sex, well, it’s apparently worth it. Because sex is awesome. To believe otherwise is to not be a part of the gay male culture.
With the prevalence of Grindr and the ease with which men hook up, it’s become ingrained in us that a quick, anonymous fuck is fine — even if it’s not with our boyfriend. After all, it’s just sex. It’s not like we’re in love with the guy we’re hooking up with. (And I don’t mean to diss hook ups and anonymous sex — they certainly have their place and I’m no stranger to them.)
Disengaging love from sex is something that certainly happens naturally in some relationships, and can be a healthy way for other relationships to survive and thrive — but gay culture paints this very clear picture that we all should have this separation between love and sex, so that we can fuck with abandon and come home to our love at night.
But the truth is that if there isn’t a pre-arranged agreement that infidelity is acceptable for both partners, someone will end up getting hurt. And even in situations where there is an agreement, one partner may find that over time they grow uncomfortable or upset with their partner’s sexual adventures. Some people can handle open relationships and other people can’t. Gay men shouldn’t be told that open relationships are the gold standard; instead, open relationships should be presented as an option. Every couple works differently and every type of couple should be portrayed in gay media — from swingers and polyamorous relationships to committed and faithful couples.
So where does this leave me as a writer of gay erotica?
I often write about hook ups — whether they’re anonymous or they know a little bit about each other. However, I always acknowledge that the heart has its place. Hook ups can spawn feelings of attachment, feelings of shame, or sometimes no emotional reaction at all. While I don’t always depict infidelity, I’m careful to keep it in line with the character’s view of infidelity, and to not put too much of my own opinion in there. In my latest release, Go-Go Boys of Club 21, Ryan cheats on his partner Liam — Ryan absolutely feels no regret, for him, infidelity is part of how he operates in a relationship. For Liam, though, it’s devastating since he believed that Ryan was faithful to him. And in my short story, Bathhouse Nights, Daniel hooks up with Justin, a supposedly straight jock with a girlfriend. Justin doesn’t care that he’s being unfaithful, but Daniel is put in a (brief) moral dilemma knowing that the man of his dreams wants to fuck, and in doing so, he’d be helping that man cheat on his girlfriend.
Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Go-Go Boys of Club 21: The Complete Series. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.
As a gay man — even as one who is not all that plugged into gay culture — I’m constantly bombarded with sexual images and ideas. My local pride festival invites a handful of celebrities in for pride weekend, and half of those celebrities are gay porn stars. (The other half of the celebrities are drag queens. My local pride organization seems to think this is gay pride, not LGBT pride.)
With the gay magazines and their naked photoshoots, the prevalence of porn on the internet, the way gay culture centralizes on sex (like with this music video, or this one), and with my local pride organization idolizing porn stars as leaders in the community, I’m left with one very clear message. I need to be bigger, harder, longer, and I have to fuck every hot piece of ass I can find. And I need to do it every day, though twice a day is better.
All of this culminates in one word: sex. Not love. Sex. We are encouraged to seek out sex, not seek out love. And if we need to cheat to get some good sex, well, it’s apparently worth it. Because sex is awesome. To believe otherwise is to not be a part of the gay male culture.
With the prevalence of Grindr and the ease with which men hook up, it’s become ingrained in us that a quick, anonymous fuck is fine — even if it’s not with our boyfriend. After all, it’s just sex. It’s not like we’re in love with the guy we’re hooking up with. (And I don’t mean to diss hook ups and anonymous sex — they certainly have their place and I’m no stranger to them.)
Disengaging love from sex is something that certainly happens naturally in some relationships, and can be a healthy way for other relationships to survive and thrive — but gay culture paints this very clear picture that we all should have this separation between love and sex, so that we can fuck with abandon and come home to our love at night.
But the truth is that if there isn’t a pre-arranged agreement that infidelity is acceptable for both partners, someone will end up getting hurt. And even in situations where there is an agreement, one partner may find that over time they grow uncomfortable or upset with their partner’s sexual adventures. Some people can handle open relationships and other people can’t. Gay men shouldn’t be told that open relationships are the gold standard; instead, open relationships should be presented as an option. Every couple works differently and every type of couple should be portrayed in gay media — from swingers and polyamorous relationships to committed and faithful couples.
So where does this leave me as a writer of gay erotica?
I often write about hook ups — whether they’re anonymous or they know a little bit about each other. However, I always acknowledge that the heart has its place. Hook ups can spawn feelings of attachment, feelings of shame, or sometimes no emotional reaction at all. While I don’t always depict infidelity, I’m careful to keep it in line with the character’s view of infidelity, and to not put too much of my own opinion in there. In my latest release, Go-Go Boys of Club 21, Ryan cheats on his partner Liam — Ryan absolutely feels no regret, for him, infidelity is part of how he operates in a relationship. For Liam, though, it’s devastating since he believed that Ryan was faithful to him. And in my short story, Bathhouse Nights, Daniel hooks up with Justin, a supposedly straight jock with a girlfriend. Justin doesn’t care that he’s being unfaithful, but Daniel is put in a (brief) moral dilemma knowing that the man of his dreams wants to fuck, and in doing so, he’d be helping that man cheat on his girlfriend.
Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Go-Go Boys of Club 21: The Complete Series. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.
Friday, August 28, 2015
Reconnecting
by Jean Roberta
“Naughty” suggests childish misbehaviour. (The word was often used in the reality-TV series, Nanny 911, in which trained British nannies helped rescue American parents who felt their children were out of control. This program aired on Fox TV, 2004-2009.)
The appeal of “naughtiness” in sex scenes, IMO, is that a naughty adult is redeemable. The word suggests childishness or a temporary lapse in responsibility or consideration for others, but not a serious character flaw. A “naughty” person who confesses and accepts punishment is assumed to have been “corrected,” and is therefore as lovable as s/he was before offending someone else.
(Here is the cover of Spank, an anthology in which I have a story.)
In my most recent story (“A Garden in Winter,” still under an editor’s consideration), Lady Elinor rules the castle since her husband, Sir Lionel, left with a small band of warriors to join the Crusades. Having read too many romances, the lady assumed her lord would be absolutely faithful to her, wherever he went, no matter how long he stayed there. Before he departed, he promised to keep his troth. He wasn’t considering his physical needs, or the temptations to be found in the lands of the Saracens.
A local wizard, Sir Theobald, has spirited Sir Lionel back to his own castle, at Lady Elinor’s behest, within a magic circle.
Sir Theobald and his (ahem) dear friend Robin Goodthigh have sought sanctuary after their castle was attacked, and Sir Theobald has not been able to summon enough power to banish the invaders. The wizard’s plan is to raise collective power by means of sex magic. For that purpose, he has asked Margaret, Lady Elinor’s (ahem) maid, to bring two more people into the circle to make a balanced group of six: three men and three women. All are skyclad (naked).
Lady Elinor was delighted to see her husband within the circle, as dirty and bewildered as he was, but she was aghast when he seemed to think she was some available wench that he met on his travels. In this scene, the wizard helps her get even.
Margaret explains:
In a moment, I thought, we will all descend to our hands and knees like four-legged beasts, and reconfigure the circle by entering each other’s mouths, cunts, and back passages with fingers, cocks and whatever else would serve (half-melted candles?). The image in my mind aroused me so much that I could have reached a paroxysm without touching myself at all, but in the spirit of mutual consideration, I refrained. My cunt felt very wet.
“My lord, you have acted unspeakably with women who do not deserve to be spoken of. Is this not true?” The lady wiped her eyes, and wiped her wet fingers on her hips.
“It is, my lady,” groaned Sir Lionel. He reached for her, but she stepped away from him. He scratched his beard, and looked deeply ashamed of his bedraggled state. “My love for you never changes,” he claimed, “but as a man, I have a lower nature which demands its due when I am in lawless places. My dearest, you cannot fathom my depravity, but you could save me from it. You may use me as you will.”
Stephen and Joan stared at our lord, who seemed so eager to abase himself.
“Lady,” said Sir Theobald, “he speaks truly.” Our lady still looked offended, but a gleam of joy appeared in her eyes.
“Father Pureblood,” suggested Stephen, “recommends whippings for adulterers.” He twitched with merriment.
“But who among us ought to lay on the stripes?” asked Robin.
“The one who is willing,” replied Sir Theobald.
“The one who was betrayed,” said Lady Elinor.
Sir Theobald pointed with his index finger to a heap of clothing, outside the salt circle, and a length of leather arose from his robe and floated through the air until he grasped it. “Anything may become an instrument of correction,” said the wizard. He held the strip of leather in both hands, stretched and twisted it. One end became a plaited handle, while the other split into half a dozen tails to form a flogger.
Sir Lionel knelt at his lady’s small white feet, bent his head and kissed her toes. “I so wished to be your hero, my dearest love,” he told her, “but I have disappointed you, and I am heartily sorry.”
“My lady, will you accept a gift?” asked the wizard. He sent the new flogger drifting through the air to her. When it nudged her hand like a cat that wants to be stroked, she grasped the handle.
“You are a rutting hog in the form of a man,” sneered Lady Elinor, and for a moment it seemed as if she were addressing all three men among us, including young Stephen, who clearly compensated for his physical innocence with fantasies and self-love. Sir Lionel remained in a crouch, his back fully exposed.
The expression on our lady’s face was truly frightening. She drew back her arm, and brought down the lashes on her lord’s buttocks. His skin was stretched so taut that all his bones were visible, and I was afraid she would leave her mark on him for life. Fortunately, Sir Wizard hadn’t armed her with a deadly weapon.
The lady struck again, closer to Sir Lionel’s backbone and ribs. Red marks appeared on his skin, and he groaned softly.
“My trust in you is gone! Do you understand?” screamed the lady, bringing the lashes down again and again. Her question didn’t seem to need an answer.
On the sixth stroke, Robin emitted the yawp of a dragon who has been unexpectedly awakened. [Note: Sir Theobald has been giving Robin a hand job.] I saw that his cock had gushed liquid like a fountain. His thighs and the floor beneath him were drenched with the slippery essence of life. “Beg pardon, Sir,” he muttered to Sir Theobald.
Our wiseman could not keep from smiling, and I was so amused that a loud laugh burst from me before I could stop it. “What a sorry lot is here,” remarked Theobald, glancing at each of us in turn. “Perhaps a good whipping all round is needed.”
-------------------------------------
However, Lady Elinor isn’t finished. After flogging her lord, she says she wants to ravish him as though he were a maiden in a conquered village. The wizard helps her by creating a small metal dildo for her to wear, nothing too huge, and Sir Lionel (who is discovering his submissive side) finds it irresistible. After that, the wizard reminds Lady Elinor that hypocrisy is not attractive in a ruler, and he invites Margaret to show Sir Lionel how she “serves” Lady Elinor at night, when they share a bed.
Sir Lionel is so moved by watching their “games” that he dismisses Margaret and takes her place to pleasure his wife. Both the lord and the lady are satisfied, and both forgive each other fully.
Margaret feels heartbroken when she sees her lady wrapped in her husband’s arms. Margaret realizes that Lady Elinor never felt a fraction of the love for her maid that she felt for her husband.
However, a jolly woman in the circle has been waiting patiently for Margaret to notice her. Apparently, Margaret’s naughtiness was not her devotion to her mistress, but her shortsighted inability to see what was going on around her. As she finds out, all’s well that ends well.
“Naughty” suggests childish misbehaviour. (The word was often used in the reality-TV series, Nanny 911, in which trained British nannies helped rescue American parents who felt their children were out of control. This program aired on Fox TV, 2004-2009.)
The appeal of “naughtiness” in sex scenes, IMO, is that a naughty adult is redeemable. The word suggests childishness or a temporary lapse in responsibility or consideration for others, but not a serious character flaw. A “naughty” person who confesses and accepts punishment is assumed to have been “corrected,” and is therefore as lovable as s/he was before offending someone else.
(Here is the cover of Spank, an anthology in which I have a story.)
In my most recent story (“A Garden in Winter,” still under an editor’s consideration), Lady Elinor rules the castle since her husband, Sir Lionel, left with a small band of warriors to join the Crusades. Having read too many romances, the lady assumed her lord would be absolutely faithful to her, wherever he went, no matter how long he stayed there. Before he departed, he promised to keep his troth. He wasn’t considering his physical needs, or the temptations to be found in the lands of the Saracens.
A local wizard, Sir Theobald, has spirited Sir Lionel back to his own castle, at Lady Elinor’s behest, within a magic circle.
Sir Theobald and his (ahem) dear friend Robin Goodthigh have sought sanctuary after their castle was attacked, and Sir Theobald has not been able to summon enough power to banish the invaders. The wizard’s plan is to raise collective power by means of sex magic. For that purpose, he has asked Margaret, Lady Elinor’s (ahem) maid, to bring two more people into the circle to make a balanced group of six: three men and three women. All are skyclad (naked).
Lady Elinor was delighted to see her husband within the circle, as dirty and bewildered as he was, but she was aghast when he seemed to think she was some available wench that he met on his travels. In this scene, the wizard helps her get even.
Margaret explains:
In a moment, I thought, we will all descend to our hands and knees like four-legged beasts, and reconfigure the circle by entering each other’s mouths, cunts, and back passages with fingers, cocks and whatever else would serve (half-melted candles?). The image in my mind aroused me so much that I could have reached a paroxysm without touching myself at all, but in the spirit of mutual consideration, I refrained. My cunt felt very wet.
“My lord, you have acted unspeakably with women who do not deserve to be spoken of. Is this not true?” The lady wiped her eyes, and wiped her wet fingers on her hips.
“It is, my lady,” groaned Sir Lionel. He reached for her, but she stepped away from him. He scratched his beard, and looked deeply ashamed of his bedraggled state. “My love for you never changes,” he claimed, “but as a man, I have a lower nature which demands its due when I am in lawless places. My dearest, you cannot fathom my depravity, but you could save me from it. You may use me as you will.”
Stephen and Joan stared at our lord, who seemed so eager to abase himself.
“Lady,” said Sir Theobald, “he speaks truly.” Our lady still looked offended, but a gleam of joy appeared in her eyes.
“Father Pureblood,” suggested Stephen, “recommends whippings for adulterers.” He twitched with merriment.
“But who among us ought to lay on the stripes?” asked Robin.
“The one who is willing,” replied Sir Theobald.
“The one who was betrayed,” said Lady Elinor.
Sir Theobald pointed with his index finger to a heap of clothing, outside the salt circle, and a length of leather arose from his robe and floated through the air until he grasped it. “Anything may become an instrument of correction,” said the wizard. He held the strip of leather in both hands, stretched and twisted it. One end became a plaited handle, while the other split into half a dozen tails to form a flogger.
Sir Lionel knelt at his lady’s small white feet, bent his head and kissed her toes. “I so wished to be your hero, my dearest love,” he told her, “but I have disappointed you, and I am heartily sorry.”
“My lady, will you accept a gift?” asked the wizard. He sent the new flogger drifting through the air to her. When it nudged her hand like a cat that wants to be stroked, she grasped the handle.
“You are a rutting hog in the form of a man,” sneered Lady Elinor, and for a moment it seemed as if she were addressing all three men among us, including young Stephen, who clearly compensated for his physical innocence with fantasies and self-love. Sir Lionel remained in a crouch, his back fully exposed.
The expression on our lady’s face was truly frightening. She drew back her arm, and brought down the lashes on her lord’s buttocks. His skin was stretched so taut that all his bones were visible, and I was afraid she would leave her mark on him for life. Fortunately, Sir Wizard hadn’t armed her with a deadly weapon.
The lady struck again, closer to Sir Lionel’s backbone and ribs. Red marks appeared on his skin, and he groaned softly.
“My trust in you is gone! Do you understand?” screamed the lady, bringing the lashes down again and again. Her question didn’t seem to need an answer.
On the sixth stroke, Robin emitted the yawp of a dragon who has been unexpectedly awakened. [Note: Sir Theobald has been giving Robin a hand job.] I saw that his cock had gushed liquid like a fountain. His thighs and the floor beneath him were drenched with the slippery essence of life. “Beg pardon, Sir,” he muttered to Sir Theobald.
Our wiseman could not keep from smiling, and I was so amused that a loud laugh burst from me before I could stop it. “What a sorry lot is here,” remarked Theobald, glancing at each of us in turn. “Perhaps a good whipping all round is needed.”
-------------------------------------
However, Lady Elinor isn’t finished. After flogging her lord, she says she wants to ravish him as though he were a maiden in a conquered village. The wizard helps her by creating a small metal dildo for her to wear, nothing too huge, and Sir Lionel (who is discovering his submissive side) finds it irresistible. After that, the wizard reminds Lady Elinor that hypocrisy is not attractive in a ruler, and he invites Margaret to show Sir Lionel how she “serves” Lady Elinor at night, when they share a bed.
Sir Lionel is so moved by watching their “games” that he dismisses Margaret and takes her place to pleasure his wife. Both the lord and the lady are satisfied, and both forgive each other fully.
Margaret feels heartbroken when she sees her lady wrapped in her husband’s arms. Margaret realizes that Lady Elinor never felt a fraction of the love for her maid that she felt for her husband.
However, a jolly woman in the circle has been waiting patiently for Margaret to notice her. Apparently, Margaret’s naughtiness was not her devotion to her mistress, but her shortsighted inability to see what was going on around her. As she finds out, all’s well that ends well.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Scar Tissue
By Remittance Girl (Guest Blogger)
Lisabet Sarai invited me to do a blog post on infidelity. I have to wonder if she did this to torture me. Not because I have a problem with it, but because I don't really know what it is.
Of course, I know what people mean by it when they use the word. I know what it means to literally cheat on a spouse or a partner. But I've never yearned for the promise of fidelity, nor have I been asked for it. Certainly there have been times in my life I've been monogamous, but not because of any promise I'd made. I've been faithful simply because the strength of my attraction for the person seemed to eclipse my ability to be interested in anyone else. And is that faithfulness? I always feel that the undertext of the fidelity was redolent a certain odor of sacrifice, of self-denial.
The irony is, that until recently, I've never felt informed enough to write about fidelity or the lack of it. What changed was a book I read recently, which rather turned the topic on its head.
The Act of Love is a novel by Howard Jacobson. Like his other novels, it's a feast for the mind's tongue. Jacobson loves and uses language like few other writers. His descriptions have the quality of good dark chocolate; they feel like they're going straight to your thighs the moment you read them. In some ways he's a very old fashioned writer. He has a exceptional and brutal talent for inviting the reader under the skin of a certain species of extremely self-reflective man.
The protagonist, Felix Quinn, is an eccentric husband:
"No man has ever loved a woman, and not imagined her in the arms of someone else...No husband is ever happy - truly, genitally happy, happy at the very heart of himself as a husband - until he has proof positive that another man is fucking her."
Often the perversity of the cuckold fetishist is represented as a submissive and rather effeminate trait, but not in Jacobson's novel. Quinn is a unique sort of masochist - not physical but emotional - who craves the pain of being betrayed more than anything else, including the love of his wife.
It is said that one never really knows the depth of one's affection for a person until that person is no longer theirs. And in a way, that's what Jacobson explores. Beyond the glorious, enveloping emotional satisfaction of mutual belonging, there is a deeper state: the one of knowing what love is in its absence. And that is what Quinn edges towards with the slow, strategic engineering of his wife's voyage into other men's arms.
It was surprising to me - a person who has never asked for or expected monogamy from my partners - that the book got under my skin. I began to recognize echoes, faint ghosts of Quinn's proclivity for that sort of pain in some of my own behaviour.
Haven't you ever killed a love affair before it was dead? Have you never imagined, with a sort of delicious and terrifying vertigo, what it would be like to be left high and dry by a person you were deeply in love with? Touching that pain with your tongue, over and over like a sore tooth? I admit to practicing the reality before it occurred on myriad occasions and, truth be told, I suppose I found it sort of addictive.
And if one can only feel that extremity of what love is in the vacuum of its departure, then perhaps we can extrapolate: that we get a singular and insightful view of ourselves only when we see ourselves discarded, or passed over for another.
I have a fetish for seeing a lover in flagrante delicto with another. I used to tell myself this was simply because it was sexually and aesthetically pleasing to witness, but as I've grown more honest in age, I realize this isn't true. What really turns me on is the sensation of growing a scarred carapace of disinterest as it proceeds. There is a delicious sensation of feeling the liquor of hurt turn brittle and frosted as I use my rational mind to smother the feelings. It makes me feel strong, indestructible, I see myself as marble. I feel a sense of existential independence that is so acute, it's actually sexual.
But of course, one has to feel the pain of jealousy in order to grow the scar tissue. Perhaps I understand infidelity after all.
Bio
Remittance Girl lives and writes in exile in a small Southeast Asian country, where she teaches and grows orchids in a house with a large mango tree and a cat called Seven. She holds a Master of Arts in Writing.
Driven by the conviction that eroticism is an overlooked but essential part of human nature, Remittance Girl believes that examining this important part of our lives is essential to gaining insight into what motivates us, frames our social interactions and forms our interior sense of self. Erotic fantasies, even very dark ones, give us clues with which we can decipher the symbolic language we use to express who we are and how we fit into our society.
Her novellas and short stories have appeared in electronic format on her own website, at Clean Sheets and in the Erotica Readers and Writers online gallery. A number of short stories have appeared in print anthologies.
Her book altruistic erotica volume Coming Together Presents Remittance Girl benefits the ACLU.
Lisabet Sarai invited me to do a blog post on infidelity. I have to wonder if she did this to torture me. Not because I have a problem with it, but because I don't really know what it is.
Of course, I know what people mean by it when they use the word. I know what it means to literally cheat on a spouse or a partner. But I've never yearned for the promise of fidelity, nor have I been asked for it. Certainly there have been times in my life I've been monogamous, but not because of any promise I'd made. I've been faithful simply because the strength of my attraction for the person seemed to eclipse my ability to be interested in anyone else. And is that faithfulness? I always feel that the undertext of the fidelity was redolent a certain odor of sacrifice, of self-denial.
The irony is, that until recently, I've never felt informed enough to write about fidelity or the lack of it. What changed was a book I read recently, which rather turned the topic on its head.
The Act of Love is a novel by Howard Jacobson. Like his other novels, it's a feast for the mind's tongue. Jacobson loves and uses language like few other writers. His descriptions have the quality of good dark chocolate; they feel like they're going straight to your thighs the moment you read them. In some ways he's a very old fashioned writer. He has a exceptional and brutal talent for inviting the reader under the skin of a certain species of extremely self-reflective man.
The protagonist, Felix Quinn, is an eccentric husband:
"No man has ever loved a woman, and not imagined her in the arms of someone else...No husband is ever happy - truly, genitally happy, happy at the very heart of himself as a husband - until he has proof positive that another man is fucking her."
Often the perversity of the cuckold fetishist is represented as a submissive and rather effeminate trait, but not in Jacobson's novel. Quinn is a unique sort of masochist - not physical but emotional - who craves the pain of being betrayed more than anything else, including the love of his wife.
It is said that one never really knows the depth of one's affection for a person until that person is no longer theirs. And in a way, that's what Jacobson explores. Beyond the glorious, enveloping emotional satisfaction of mutual belonging, there is a deeper state: the one of knowing what love is in its absence. And that is what Quinn edges towards with the slow, strategic engineering of his wife's voyage into other men's arms.
It was surprising to me - a person who has never asked for or expected monogamy from my partners - that the book got under my skin. I began to recognize echoes, faint ghosts of Quinn's proclivity for that sort of pain in some of my own behaviour.
Haven't you ever killed a love affair before it was dead? Have you never imagined, with a sort of delicious and terrifying vertigo, what it would be like to be left high and dry by a person you were deeply in love with? Touching that pain with your tongue, over and over like a sore tooth? I admit to practicing the reality before it occurred on myriad occasions and, truth be told, I suppose I found it sort of addictive.
And if one can only feel that extremity of what love is in the vacuum of its departure, then perhaps we can extrapolate: that we get a singular and insightful view of ourselves only when we see ourselves discarded, or passed over for another.
I have a fetish for seeing a lover in flagrante delicto with another. I used to tell myself this was simply because it was sexually and aesthetically pleasing to witness, but as I've grown more honest in age, I realize this isn't true. What really turns me on is the sensation of growing a scarred carapace of disinterest as it proceeds. There is a delicious sensation of feeling the liquor of hurt turn brittle and frosted as I use my rational mind to smother the feelings. It makes me feel strong, indestructible, I see myself as marble. I feel a sense of existential independence that is so acute, it's actually sexual.
But of course, one has to feel the pain of jealousy in order to grow the scar tissue. Perhaps I understand infidelity after all.
Bio
Remittance Girl lives and writes in exile in a small Southeast Asian country, where she teaches and grows orchids in a house with a large mango tree and a cat called Seven. She holds a Master of Arts in Writing.
Driven by the conviction that eroticism is an overlooked but essential part of human nature, Remittance Girl believes that examining this important part of our lives is essential to gaining insight into what motivates us, frames our social interactions and forms our interior sense of self. Erotic fantasies, even very dark ones, give us clues with which we can decipher the symbolic language we use to express who we are and how we fit into our society.
Her novellas and short stories have appeared in electronic format on her own website, at Clean Sheets and in the Erotica Readers and Writers online gallery. A number of short stories have appeared in print anthologies.
Her book altruistic erotica volume Coming Together Presents Remittance Girl benefits the ACLU.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Cheating
By Lisabet Sarai
He's behind me, firm body molded to mine. The hard lump pressed against my still-clothed ass makes me dizzy and breathless. It's proof that he wants me as much as I want him. His fingers trace an electric path over my shoulders and down my bare arms. He captures my aching breasts, weighing them in his big palms while he nibbles the tender flesh below my ear. I lean back, rejoicing at the way we fit, marveling at the sense of rightness. I'm drunk with desire, floating in a languid sea of glorious sensation as he continues to explore my body.
This is special. This is sacred, this un-looked-for flare of passion, a perfect synchrony of lust shading imperceptibly into love. I didn't expect it, but oh, I recognize it. I recognize him. I know what he's thinking and feeling because his desires mirror mine. Soon we will be naked together, naked and joined. But there's no hurry. Now that we've found each other, now that the fuse has been lit, we can wait while it burns its way to an explosive completion.
Then I remember. I'm married. My husband is waiting for me, somewhere. Perhaps he might rejoin us at any moment. Perhaps I'm on business, away from home. Or maybe he's the one who's traveling. In any case, I'm not free, not completely. I can continue if I choose, reaping the harvest of this magnificent passion, but there will be regrets, recriminations, consequences. I find myself explaining this to my new partner, tears in my eyes – tears in his as well, I'm both pained and flattered to discover. I have to refuse the gift of the present in order to avoid suffering in the future.
I do love my husband. If I didn't, I wouldn't worry about cheating. I don't want to see him hurt. Perhaps it's just selfishness. When he's in pain, I hurt too. In any case, I bid my new lover farewell, trying to convey how much I want him, how much I care – how sorry I am that the promise of our desire will never be fulfilled.
This dream, or a variant, visits me pretty regularly. Often my would-be lover is a stranger. Sometimes it's a man I actually know, usually someone I'd never considered as a potential lover, occasionally someone on whom I have a crush. In all cases, the dream is cause for me to reflect. I'm not fundamentally monogamous. Before I married, I had multiple simultaneous lovers and cared about them all. Now, however, I seem to have internalized the prohibition against infidelity, to the point that I won't let myself live my fantasies even in my dreams.
It's very peculiar and rather distressing.
When my husband and I agreed to marry, almost thirty years ago, we wrote and signed a marriage contract. One of the articles explicitly allowed us to have other lovers, as long as we were honest with each other, and as long as our own relationship took priority. Yet (as far as I know) neither of us has ever fully taken advantage of this provision. We have been involved in group sexual activity and done some swapping. As I have shared previously, we spent quite a while on an (unsuccessful) search for another couple with whom we could establish a polyamorous bond. However, neither he nor I has ever gone out and had sex when the other person wasn't present.
I'll admit that I've skirted the edge of infidelity in my infrequent encounters with the man I call my master. Still, since I married, my master and I have never actually had sex. I tell myself that spankings and other BDSM games don't really count, since my husband doesn't consider them sexy at all. Am I being honest? Probably not completely. I know that my husband finds my interest in D/s perplexing, that in some sense, he feels left out. I don't talk about it, mostly because I don't want to make him uncomfortable.
At least, that's my excuse.
Why don't I take lovers, given that my marriage contract gives me permission to do so? Because I sense that my husband, especially now, would be deeply hurt. We're both getting older and less attractive all the time (not to mention less sexually fit – menopause is a real drag, believe me!) and I'm sure he'd compare himself unfavorably if there were another man in my life. I don't want it enough – even in my dreams – to wound him that way. And if I found a woman lover whom I didn't share with him, I actually think he'd be even more jealous.
So I satisfy myself with the occasional real-world flirtation that doesn't go any further and use my writing to play with my fantasies in a safe way. I realized when I sat down to pen this blog post that until very recently, I'd never written a story about infidelity. A few months ago, I had the urge to explore what it would be like to meet your soul mate when you were in your fifties and had been married (to someone else) for decades. The result was a story called “Never Too Late”, which is as yet unpublished.
He pushes Hollandaise around on his plate. "Come home with me," he says finally. "Stay with me." His eyes are naked. A lump of lead settles in my chest.
"I can't. I have work, responsibilities. Another life."
"That life is over. You'll never be satisfied with it again. Not now that you know who you are. Now that you know me..."
I have a sinking conviction that he's right. But I can't chuck everything and start over, can I?
"Your husband, your children―they'll be fine without you." As in the bedroom, he reads my mind. "Haven't you given them enough? How many years has it been? Twenty? Thirty?"
"Twenty seven."
"I know you love him," Mark says. "But for those twenty seven long years, while he's had you, I've been waiting for you." He leaned closer. "I need you. More than he does."
"No." I shake my head, picturing my husband alone. Eating alone. Sleeping alone. How could I do such a thing to him? Then I look at Mark, feel the power he's broadcasting. I fight the urge to slip under the table and kneel at his feet.
He grabs my hand so hard that pain shoots up my arm. "Picture what it will be like. You'll be mine, my slave, my darling. I'll take care of you. I'll give you everything you need. We barely know each other now, but you feel the connection, too. I know you do. Think how it will be, spending months together. Years. A new life. A new start. It's never too late."
I struggle to hold back the rising tears. "No, it's just not possible. You reach a stage in your life where you're no longer free. Not even free to explore yourself."
Do I really believe this? When I'm with Mark, anything seems possible. I feel like one of the Apostles. Drop your nets and your tools and follow me, Jesus told them. I will be your mother, your father, your children. How old were they when they abandoned their lives for the Light?
What does she decide? I won't tell you now. I'm hoping that at some point the story will in fact make it into print. I will admit, though, that I went back and forth, changing the ending more than once. Because I do sometimes feel that desire is sacred, that it cannot be denied without our losing something precious.
But then the faith and trust that exist between a happily married couple are precious too.
It's hardly an easy choice.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Never Look Back
By Lisabet Sarai
Our topic this week at the Grip is regrets. As I sat down to work on my post, I realized that I didn't have much to say on this subject. I know that it will sound implausible, possibly even arrogant, but when I consider my nearly six decades of life, I find that I really don't regret anything.
Have I never done anything I was sorry for later? Of course I have. I've hurt people's feelings. I have occasionally twisted the truth. I've been sexually unfaithful (though I didn't lie about it afterward). I have, perhaps, failed to give friends or lovers what they really needed. I feel guilty about some of these errors. But I don't feel regret.
As I understand the term, to regret something means that you wish that it hadn't happened—that you could take back your actions or decisions and start over again. The implication of regret is that you wish things had turned out differently. I don't feel that way. I'm amazingly happy with the way my life has played itself out so far. I can imagine different paths I might have taken, but I'm not at all sure that these alternative lives would have been more rewarding or satisfying. Most of my dreams have come true, in one way or another. Meanwhile, my life has been filled with delicious surprises, bonuses I never expected.
The infidelity to which I refer above is as good an example as any. When I was in grad school, I was involved in a committed relationship with a fine young man whom I loved very much. I'll call him A. Our sex life was fabulous, too—I learned a great deal from A about both love and lust. Nevertheless, when A was away for a few days on business, I had a one night stand with our housemate (whom I'll call B). I blamed it on loneliness, hormones, and the fact that B had been flirting with me for weeks, but I suppose that these are all excuses. I chose to have sex with B; there's no two ways about it.
I confessed my indiscretion to A when he returned. He told me he forgave me, but ultimately my action destroyed our relationship. It was very painful for everyone concerned (except B, who acted like a real dork).
I'm sorry to have caused A sorrow. However, I don't regret the incident, because it led, indirectly, to my relationship with the man I call my master (here denoted as C). I knew C at the time, but I would never have connected emotionally and sexually with him if I had still been coupled with A. I would never have experienced the epiphanies of which I've written in earlier blogs. And it's very likely I would never have started writing and publishing erotica.
Looked at in this light, if I hadn't cheated on my boyfriend, Lisabet Sarai wouldn't exist. So how can I regret that action, as sordid and embarrassing as it seems now?
The one serious area where I might harbor regrets is in regard to my relationship with C. Although we were close, I really didn't understand what he wanted and needed. I believed, incorrectly, that he didn't care about me the way I did about him. I do sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if we had stayed together—if he had asked me to marry him, for instance. Instead, he allowed me to drift away into the arms of my future husband (D), too shy and insecure to assert a claim on me despite his dominance.
Sometimes C and I rehash those issues in our emails. The lure of what might have been can be incredibly powerful.
Still, if I'd stayed with C, I would not have met and married D. I would not have enjoyed nearly thirty years of his excellent company. I might not have a career I loved as much as I do my present work; D was a significant influence in guiding my professional decisions. I might not have traveled the world the way I have. Certainly it's unlikely that I would have had the fascinating and fulfilling experience of living overseas.
So as much as I might fantasize about life with C, how can I regret my choices?
I know some people who are consumed by regret. Guilt, anger and sorrow about past actions and choices eat away at their peace of mind. I feel sad when I see how they torture themselves. Perhaps their lives have not turned out as well as mine. On the other hand, perhaps some of their dissatisfaction comes from perception and their preoccupation with the past—supposedly lost chances and wrong choices.
The fact of the matter is that regret is fruitless. You cannot change the past, no matter how much you think you might like to do so. Furthermore, you can't be sure that the results would have made you happier, if you had done things differently, the way you imagine.
Don't look back. The past is gone. The future is unknown. All we have is the present. Why waste it by obsessing about what might have been? I'd rather appreciate what I can today, and hope for even better things tomorrow.
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