I realize that I haven’t given you any background on my marriage. Mark and I met when we were little kids. We were family friends until he moved away, and we reunited in college. We started dating when we were 19 and we’ve been together ever since. He was my first, I wasn’t his.
Our sex life has been physically good for me but rule-bound. Mark has intermittent erection problems, and until a few months ago, we didn’t talk about sex. At all. Why we didn’t is a subject for another post.
If in my last post, I gave the impression that I am not fulfilled in my life, I’m sorry. That’s incorrect. Luckily, I am fulfilled in many ways. Most of those ways — as a mother, a friend, a wife — don’t fit in with my sexy persona here. That doesn’t mean that those other roles are not important and beneficial in and of their own rights. But what I’m questioning here, what I’m exploring, is my own sexuality, apart from any relationship. In that corner of my life, I am unfulfilled. I am still seeking something. I want to know myself as a sexual being.
When I first started dating Mark, when we started having sex, I was nervous. I followed his lead. I suspect that he was nervous too, or picked up on my anxiety. Our sexual universe quickly shrunk and it stayed that way. Suddenly I find myself wanting to know what I like, what I don’t, how certain things make me feel. Some of those things Mark has tried with me. Some of them, like sex with other people, he’s not willing to try and not willing to let me try. He has a lot of good reasons. But like most things, not being able to have something makes me want it all the more.
As a thoughtful reader so kindly commented, I have a way with words. I enjoy writing, and I hope that my blogging leads me to a creative writing job. But for me, I want experience before I write. Writing is not a substitute for experience for me. If it were the other way around, my predicament would be so much simpler. But it isn’t.