This post is in response to questions I have been asked by readers who are kind enough to follow my blog.
I am aware that my views are formed and twisted by the events of my recent life, and by the people with whom I have shared erotic moments, and not absorbed from books and long lectures in seats of higher learning. But I have been asked and so feel it only polite to answer.
Please remember, these are my personal views, and as such are not endorsed and do not represent the views of people who are more qualified experts in the field of sex and human relationships.
I make no apologies for the spelling of the title of this post, (maelstrom). The content will, I hope, throw some light on my curious faux pas.
I have been caught up in a sequence of complicated relationships for over 1001 days and nights. And in that time, not for one instant have I been any less in love with the man I married, even through I have lusted, fucked, shagged, screwed, fornicated and made love to a number of other men in a variety of places.
In all of this I have come to realise that there is a chasmic difference between the romanticised coupling I share with my house husband, and the purely physical ones I have with men who see me as a soft, compliant body with a wet, tight vagina, into which they can stick their cocks.
For me, the first is an emotional desire to please the male I want to wake up beside each morning, all the others are, and will remain a purely mechanical, but still satisfying act.
Only once have I ever woken up beside a lover.
The obvious conclusion here is that I don’t cheat because I am not loved enough, or do love enough, or because my physical needs are abnormal, but because I have a greater desire for sexual adventure.
I fall short of calling myself a nymphomaniac.
There is another part of my character that I have not yet had time to describe, but I hope that you will discover this other facet, if you continue to return to this confessional.
The men who I chose to sleep with are generally males who have had, and continue to have relationships with a number of women. Their desires are I believe purely physical; their love-making ranging from tender and sensitive to raging and frenetic.
So far I have been lucky enough to be involved with men who know their own bodies, and thankfully love women enough to want to please them.
I have net very few sadists, a number of masochists, three or four men who wish to be mothered and a handful who desire to be loved. I make it a rule never to become involved with any of the above.
Having said that, my husband, who is a romantic, and who I am certain loves me dearly, doesn’t always show his desire to make love to me by kissing on the mouth, or whispering tender words into my ear. Sometimes he doesn’t want to make love, but just wants to mount, front or back, fuck as hard as he can, ejaculate like a geyser, pull out, smack me on the ass and head off, feeling that life is good. There is little tenderness and scant desire to bring me to fruition – just a need to scent mark me as his property. He has and continues to be the exception, since he regularly sadistically smacks my ass, making him a mild sadist; he brings out the mother in me when he is under the weather; and he has a well documented desire to be loved.
Am I insulted when he mounts, fucks and goes? Do I feel used? Diminished, because just for a moment he sees me as merely the carrier of a usable pussy?
There’s something wildly exciting and complimentary about that “me Tarzan, You Jane” bit of theatre. I’ve noticed that it happens after he’s had an especially brutal match, and he is still drunk on testosterone. God, I look forward to those days.
I have heard it said that sex should be the physical demonstration of an emotional commitment between one man and one woman. Very admirable. And in our house it often is. But as the above paragraph demonstrates, it’s not always the case. And I’m sure that there are a good number of women out there who would agree with me. I for one enjoy the beast in men; the grunting, overpowering, sexually carnivorous, dangerous children that they are.
Very often I look into a lover’s eyes, and mixed in with the wild desire and hot lust, there is the look of the manic conqueror; as if his cock sticking into my body is a tool for subduing and subjugating me.
How often have you noticed that even though love-making starts gently, it invariably ends as a wild bronco ride; a savage shafting; a screaming and ripping, that is the more exciting when there is an element of Hunnish rapine mixed in with the passionate kisses.
Don’t let me keep you if you want to rush to the bathroom for a bit of light relief.
Sex, as far as this simpleton can see, is designed to be the most fun humans can have with and without their clothes on. We are inclined to over complicate an act that is as natural as taking one breath after another, in order to stay alive, or taking one step after another on the road from point A to point B.
Truthfully, I enjoy the idea of monogamy. It is an ideal that we should aspire to. But I also think that monogamy is in practice a bridge too far many normal people with an abnormal amount of sexual imagination.
In spite of all I know, I still feel devastated when the heroine in a film or soap-opera ends up being fucked by the wrong man, even though she’ll eventually slide under the right one. Colour me old fashioned.
I don’t believe that infidelity is inevitable, even though statistics indicate that there is now an almost 50/50 chance that a married man will stick his cock in some other woman, and a greater than 40 percent chance that a married woman will open her legs for a man who has no religious or state sanctioned rights to her lady parts.
Sitting where I am, in the middle of a maelstrom of unsanctioned sexual behaviour, where I’m often propositioned by men, old and young, married and not; men who have indulged in many extra-marital relationships and those who are just starting out on the road to, in some instances ruin; and having listened to hours of sad tales and reasonable excuses, I grant myself a certain amount of expertise led expertise, in divining the reasons why we humans are in reality no different from the majority of animals who naturally practice polygamy.
We have to face the fact that although monogamy is as unnatural as immortality, there is a reason why women are more faithful then men. And it is as simple as genetics.
Men are, and will always be sexist in their demands that the women they choose to share their beds and have their children, remain un-penetrated by other men. Once a woman is claimed and spermed, she is expected to close her legs and keep them closed, until the owner demands access.
A man may say he forgives an unfaithful lover, but I have it on the authority of every man I have ever asked, who was willing to drop the civilised, modern man act, that they don’t, can’t and never will. In their eyes a contaminated woman, will forever be just that.
Women, on the other hand, will generally accept a certain amount of boys-will-be-boyishness attitude in the wayward behaviour of their lovers.
Women may ring their hands and grind their teeth when they discover that their man has been seeding another hairy crotch patch, but we are far more likely to forgive, even through we may never forget.
Is it a coincidence that men can go on fathering children long after we women have dropped our last unfertilized egg? Or is nature trying to tell us something?
In the end, it just boils down to one thing; we have to accept people for what they are, not for what we want them to be. That way lays eternal disappointment.
Well, you did ask…………..