“Wow,” she said. “That was really deep.”
I smiled. “Yeah, it was something my yoga teacher said this afternoon.”
She screwed up her nose. “That was a trap,” she snapped. “I’m not supposed to agree with yoga teachers. I abhor everything they stand for.”
I smirked. “What? Finding peace? Taking care of your body and mind?”
She scowled. “No, stretching your body into unnatural positions and not even getting an orgasm out of it.” She paused. “Speaking of orgasms, when was the last time you had one?”
“Last night,” I replied.
She narrowed her eyes. “One that didn’t come from a battery operated device.”
It was my turn to scowl at her.
“If you’re giving me that look then it’s been too long,” she observed, correctly.
My last orgasm had come from my ex-husband.
But it had been almost unintentional on his part. He wasn’t what I’d call a generous lover. He wasn’t what anyone would call a generous lover. He cared mostly about his own orgasm and making the motions of caring about mine. But he was never really one to get assertive when he finished, and I didn’t. Apparently, he didn’t think both parties needed an orgasm, every time.
Thinking back on it, I realized it was somewhat of a metaphor for our whole relationship, an important example of the dynamics within it.
But back then, I was so busy throwing myself into him, into this falsified idea of love, I convinced myself that things like him not caring about my needs inside—and outside, if we wanted to be really honest here—the bedroom was not a big deal. And I excused the fact he pulled out, rolled over and didn’t spend even a quarter of the amount of time I did ensuring my pleasure.
He loved me.
He said it.
He showed it, sometimes, when he was in a good mood. And there was good sex. Not often, but often enough for me to trick myself into thinking that if we stayed together long enough, it might become more frequent.
I’d tried to broach the subject to him, albeit after half a bottle of wine, so I didn’t exactly articulate myself that well. Plus, it was an awkward subject to take up with the man you loved. I didn’t want to hurt him. In fact, every decision I made, every word that came out of my mouth and everything I did was structured not to hurt him.
Again, hindsight tells me that this is almost literally the definition of ‘walking on eggshells’ and one of the red flags to the beginning of emotional abuse.
But love itself is emotional abuse, even the good versions of it. It’s hard to separate that from a person that was using that love to manipulate and control you.
Which was what he did after I hesitatingly told him about the way his lack of effort in the bedroom toward me hurt me. First, I thought it might go well, with him being apologetic and loving. But then he turned. Then he talked about himself, and how sex wasn’t the most important thing in a relationship and I was young and childish and too focused on shallow things to notice that.
I had immediately backed down, ended up apologizing to him, and then hating myself for not handling such a situation with my husband like a grown up. Another red flag signifying emotional abuse, the way another person can make you apologize for something they’ve done wrong. To make it seem like you’re the one in the wrong.
It took him literally punching me in the face to see this.
I toyed with myself—more like tortured myself—with scenarios of what would’ve happened had he not snapped that day. If he’d continued landing emotional blows, instead of a physical one.
Would I have eventually found my strength, my truth and walked away? Or would he have whittled me down to nothing but a raw and exposed nerve, a shell of myself before I became too bad at hiding it and the people who loved me would’ve had to drag me out.
Save Polly.
Again.
Ever the damsel.
A snapping at my fingers distracted me from having to face the answer.
I straightened. “What?” I asked Rosie’s fingers.
“I said, you need to get yourself laid,” she decided, glaring at my wine.
“No, I don’t,” I said firmly.
Heath’s hands on mine, his mouth on mine, him inside me assaulted my brain before I could stop it, and I had to squeeze my thighs together out of the pure need to awakened.
I had to stop wanting him.
It just wasn’t healthy to want someone who legitimately hated you.
“S.E.X,” Rosie enunciated. “You need to be having it.” She held up her hand. “And even though I would be all about you doing it with Voldemort…”
“Voldemort?”
She sighed. “He Who Must Not Be Named. But I’m a badass like Harry and Dumbledore so I actually say his name.”
I scrunched up my nose. “Is pregnancy turning you like, legit straight jacket crazy?”