pillow fights & ball kicking

Eat My Scabs: pillow fight
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What is it about sex that makes it so hard to honest without being raunchy?  I've been thinking about this post for awhile but haven't been able to put it into words.  
Cheers!  
Here's to being honest...

October 2011

It's a frightening moment.

Unguarded, naked and wrapped in the arms of the man who once held my love feels like mania.  The hands are the same.  Same scar on his finger.  His touch feel the same as he glides across my back but quality of the mood is different.  It's stagnant, rehearsed.  I feel like a hooker.

For a moment I let go, the sensuous feeling of skin on skin, giggling and some excited squealing, offering myself to salvage a partnership in ruin.  But, it's like having a pillow-fight and then kicking him in the balls because without warning, everything freezes and I know I don't want to be there, in his arms. I'm not safe.

What Mr. Scabs doesn't see, is that when he is given a second chance, I open myself to a genuine do-over.  Complacency is his worst enemy.

Since moving out 7 months ago, he'd been attempting to prove his commitment and honesty.
"I'm trying," he says.


Each therapy session has been a comical repeat of the same scene.  Mr. Scabs has been caught lying, again.  and again. and again.  Have his lies become truth?  I'm betting his spleen would burst with purity if he shares something honest and straightforward.  How does someone get into such a snarly, confused mass of lies?  Lies about porn, past indiscretions, money and even what he ate for dinner!

Bill, Mr. Scabs and I literally laugh at the string of lies that keep coming from his mouth.

It's a slow realization but like the awakening of a middle-aged man at a dead end job, I see that lies have been our constant marital companion.  And, just like the middle-aged man, I'm sick of getting meaningless "memos" and I'm about to light this place on fire.


Why then did I invite him inside the house?  And into my bed?

Is it because I believe do-overs.  Mistakes and reconstruction are part of life.

Is it because I believe in our second honeymoon (here and here).

Or, is it because I am a woman, with a pulse.

Naked, bare and exposed I'm paralyzed in the arms of my estranged husband.  My husband who has spent years investing in the local hooker economy and sex trafficking.  Nice. This is where the pillow fight turns into ball kicking because suddenly I burst into a torrent of tears.  My body's passion is replaced by a terribly dark fear.   Trauma.

Squirming away from him, hiding under the sheets and burying my face in the pillow I scream a muffled raging pain!  Demanding he disappear.

Dejected and disassociated.  No longer wanted, he grabs his clothes and stumbles over an apology.  Even the walls of our home cough him out as the wind catches the door and slams it shut.  As I hear his truck shift away, I breath and my body relaxes into a peaceful sleep.

It's a 40 minute drive back to the pink bed.

That is the last time I was naked with Mr. Scabs.

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