I am more than a little confused about what I need and want right now. Sometimes I am so horny I feel like I would have sex with the first person who asks, and sometimes I feel quite the opposite. I mean, I’m horny regardless, but I am just so emotionally raw.
Last night I went out with a girl I met at a Fet party, L. We’d been out once before, then through a couple months of life getting in the way, hadn’t been able to schedule anything until last night. She told me she was on the rag so I was pretty sure nothing would happen. We grabbed a drink and some appetizers after work and just talked.
She knows Suicide Girl, my ex-Mistress. They worked together ten years ago and recently re-connected through the lifestyle. So when she and Suicide Girl talked recently, the subject of me came up. I asked L what Suicide Girl had said about what happened between us, mainly because I wanted to know if she was blabbing about my pregnancy and subsequent termination to every curious ear. L said she wasn’t sure how much she could say because she wanted to respect Suicide Girl’s privacy, and I was sort of like “Fuck this shit, what happened isn’t even Suicide Girl’s story to tell!” So I wound up telling L everything. Mostly because I just wanted to see if it matched up with what she had been told. She told me that S.G. had said that things got very messy very quickly and that it just wasn’t going to work out.
And while I was glad that S.G. wasn’t out telling everyone my business, just talking about her and The Switch made me realize how much I still hurt, not just from what happened, but from their responses to it. The fact that after they found out I was pregnant they both did everything they could to convince me I had no choice but to end it. The fact that S.G. got so involved in it when really it had nothing to do with her. The fact that no one seemed to respect the fact that this was my body and my decision, or understand the complex emotions I was facing, and the fact that immediately afterwards I was dumped by them both, fills me with such rage in retrospect. As if what happened was not emotionally and mentally devastating enough without immediately being tossed out like trash, yet again.
Last night I felt okay–I was outraged, but I was drinking so that took the edge off. But this morning when I woke up I was so upset I really didn’t even want to get out of bed. Suicide Girl wanted to meet me for coffee this morning–she says she is still my friend. But I am so hurt by the fact that the only thing she cared about what making sure I didn’t fuck up her future with her boyfriend, that I just can’t see her. I just can’t.
Fet Life is another trigger for me. Every time I’m on there I end up cringing or crying. I hate the fact that my ex-Dom has a new play partner. I hate seeing the little comments The Switch and Suicide Girl leave on each other’s walls. I hate the fact that my old Dom hired Sir. S to take his new profile photos instead of me, and the fact that it appears they are best friends now. When I broke up with my Sir, Sir. S and Peanut promised they would be there for me. They said we would get together and talk it through and they would support me and make sure I was okay. That never happened, in true Sir. S fashion. I can’t decide if he is all around flaky, or just when it comes to me. Anyway. What I’m trying to say is, that despite my raging libido and mounting sexual frustration and the fact that I feel like if I don’t get laid soon I’m going to put my fist through a wall, I am just…not sure I can handle it right now. Sex, I mean. There is a party in a couple weeks that I am supposed to be attending with L, and everyone will be there. My old Dom, Switch and S.G. It is at Peanut’s house and hosted by Sir. S, so he will be there too, and I just….I don’t know if I can go. I don’t know if I can see everyone right now. But for reasons I will expand on later, it is kind of a now or never situation. Will I regret not going since this may be my last chance to see these people? Will I regret going if I do and end up hiding in the bathroom, sobbing for the entire night?
Additionally, I told L I would come over on Saturday. She wants to play with me, we are attracted to each other, have a great mental connection, and as I told her last night, I really wish I had got involved with her instead of S.G. and Switch. But while last night, playing with her seemed like a great idea, this morning I think I may bail. I know she would understand–she knows how broken I am, and was similarly taken aback by the way The Switch and Suicide Girl handled things–but I just don’t even know what I want right now. Actually, what I want is for my husband to stop falling asleep, suck it up, and screw me.
But I’m not holding my breath.
Last night I was up late reading. One of the main characters of the novel described a news event in which a mother was on the ground, howling in despair, because she had been informed that the rescue crew would not be performing any more evacuations on her child’s school, which had been reduced to rubble.
Her child was still inside, and dead or alive, she would never see that child again because it was too dangerous for the professionals to continue their efforts.
I was hit with a wave of grief so strong that an animalistic, strangled cry tore from my throat and tears gushed down my face. I was imagining being that mother. I experienced her absolute devastation at knowing that her child would not survive. I thought of my kids, trapped in a building, unable to escape, and the rescue crew being forbidden to go back inside. I knew they would not be able to stop me–I would trample them to get into that building. I would find my kids no matter what. I would happily murder anyone who got in my way, hurl boulders, walk through fire, die in those hallways before I would allow my children to stay in there while I remained on the outside.
And then I thought, I am the evacuation crew. I am the reporter, standing by helplessly. I am the person who decided “We can’t go in after them. It’s too dangerous. It’s them or us, and I choose us.”
Can I describe my pain? Are there words to convey how I cried myself dry, buckled over with sorrow? How desperate I was to go back, to make a different choice, to not have done this? How do I explain being a mother who chose the two children she knows over the one that she doesn’t? Who calmly signed forms and accepted an IV and opened her legs and floated high on sedatives while they ripped out a life and threw it in the trash, chatting over top of me as though I was merely getting a manicure?
How do I explain it? How? How?
It is not exactly regret–it is more a sense of failure. Of knowing my limitations as a person and a woman and a mother caused this. That if I was more successful, more mentally stable, more patient, more together, this would not have been my choice. I would not have been in a situation in which it was the pregnancy or us, the embryo or us, the baby or us. If only I was braver, stronger, richer. If only I was the type of mother who could smile wryly with surprise and then start shopping for baby items. But I had been that mother twice, and I could not be her again.
If only I could. If only I was. If only.
I used to be vehemently pro-life. I always swore that stance had nothing to do with my belief in Christianity. A fetus was a baby–it had it’s own heartbeat, it’s own DNA. It was clearly alive, since if it wasn’t, it would be called a miscarriage. My opinion wasn’t based on religion, but science, I insisted. A fetus was its own person–yes, it was dependent on its mother for survival, but weren’t all children?
I didn’t judge women who had abortions. I assumed that they made the choices they did because in their opinion, a fetus was just a clump of cells. They were clearly just misinformed. I, however, knew the truth. I knew when the brain waves started, I knew that a fetus developed so quickly that by the time most women found out they were pregnant, it was basically already formed.
When I left religion, my ideas changed. I still thought a fetus was a baby, it’s own person, with its own unique set of fingerprints. What changed was, I wasn’t sure it mattered anymore. Since humans are just here by chance, since we come from the same stuff as grass and mud and rocks, who was to say that a fetus had any inherent worth? That it needed to come into this world? In fact, I started to feel the opposite–that life is a struggle, and unless you could be damn sure you wouldn’t be signing another human being up for an existence filled with heartache, there was really no reason to add more beings to the chaos.
When I found out I was pregnant, I was absolutely conflicted. The thing growing inside me was a person. I looked at my children, with their beautiful little faces, and I thought–what if they had never come to be? It hurt so bad I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t imagine a world without their smiles, their laughter, even their tears. Their snuggles, their words, their curiosity. At the same time, I live with daily guilt over not being able to give my children the lives they deserve. They have two parents who are cranky and stressed–parents who, quite honestly, should have never got married in the first place. We live in a crummy two bedroom apartment, all of us on top of each other, never able to have our own space or a moments’ peace. We are struggling hard just to get by. My husband and I count the years until both kids are in school and we can finally have some time to ourselves. We send out job applications like its going out of style, hoping against hope that one day we will finally catch a break, that we can become the family we were meant to be. That we won’t need to save up to take our children to the dentist. That sending our son on a field trip with his kindergarten class will not break the bank. That our funny, dramatic daughter will be able to take acting or music or ballet. That our rough and tumble son can have the opportunity to channel his energy through hockey or karate.
And then there is our mental health–the pair of us. Clinically depressed, with a nice helping of anxiety. Tired, stressed, dying for the day when we can afford a baby sitter so we can go on dates. Desperate for a future that does not involve sharing our bed with a toddler who wakes up crying several times a night, and being greeted at 5:30 AM each morning by a four year old who is a hopelessly early riser. Both of us, having our meds adjusted every couple months so we don’t crumble at the billionth request for a cookie, a cup of juice, someone to turn on the TV or play Legos with.
And me. So unable to handle pregnancy hormones that I’d almost been hospitalized when pregnant with each of them. Having had to quit my job when I was pregnant with our youngest because not only did my crying all day make me a lousy employee, but my sciatica was so bad that my legs frequently gave out underneath me and I became a liability.
I could not have anymore children. I could not be pregnant again. I could not. I could not. I could not. We wouldn’t survive it.
And…whose baby was it anyways? I didn’t know. I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that my husband was on leave from school because his depression had got so bad he couldn’t manage anymore, and if I went to him with a stick with two lines and the word “pregnant”, we probably would have both ended up in the hospital.
Who would care for the children we had now? Maybe we could send them to live with my husband’s parents on the other side of the country while we both received psychiatric help. And then…I could have the baby. Find another family to raise it. But my children would know that I had given away their sibling. And…being a minority, I couldn’t be sure I would find a family to adopt my child. Having volunteered at a pregnancy center in college, I knew the statistics. White healthy babies were adopted immediately. Children of colour were often sent to foster care. I could not hand my child over to the government. I would have no idea who had him or her, if they were okay. And then I realized, even if I did find a family to adopt my baby, I would still not know that they were okay. Could I bring another human being into this world in which I had suffered so, if I wasn’t able to ensure it would have a decent life?
And…I have my two kids. They are here, and they are now. They are born. They feel. They are. How could I go through with something that would shake their world so badly? I brought them here, and I am responsible for making sure that, at least as far as my own actions go, they are taken care of.
The Switch freaked out when I told him it was probably his. He tried to remain calm and act as though my well-being was his primary concern, but he kept talking about how he had paid child support for 18 years, like he deserved some kind of medal for donating sperm and writing checks and abandoning his child’s mother. He called the clinic for me. Said there was an appointment for Thursday–just 3 days away. I needed to call and book it myself. If I had to miss work he would give me the money I’d miss out on.
I told him it was too soon. I needed some time to think. I could hear the edge of panic rise in his voice, wanted to slug him when he mentioned “18 years of child support” again. This was my baby. It didn’t belong to him. He didn’t care about what was best for anyone but himself. In a way, it was understandable–I mean, who was I, the girl he’d been screwing for a month? I told him I would make the right decision and he needed to trust me.
I went online to calculate how many weeks along I would be, and felt like I’d been slapped in the face when instead of telling me how far along the pregnancy was, the Calculator announced “Your Due Date is November 3.” Due date. I had a due date. No. No. No. No. No.
At five weeks it was was still an embryo. It wasn’t even a fetus. That was better. It looked like a tadpole. That was okay too. “YOUR BABY” the website announced, is the size of a poppy seed.
I had a baby and it was the size of a poppy seed.
I needed to do this before it got any bigger. Before it had fingers and toes and started moving around. I remembered my 12 week ultrasound with both of my kids, how very baby-like they had looked. Their ultrasound pictures are framed on our wall. When I’d been pregnant with my daughter, we’d compared her profile to my son’s. We could tell her lips would be bigger but her nose would be smaller. And when she came out, that had been exactly the case. Her beautiful little mouth curved up like a doll’s. Even now, she sticks out her bottom lip dramatically and says “Heyyy!” when something doesn’t go the way she wants. It melts my heart. I had to protect her.
I made an appointment for that weekend. I wasn’t sure I would survive an abortion, but I was sure I wouldn’t survive having another child.
(You can read part one of The Other Side, here).
It started with The Switch. I’d been dumped a couple weeks before, and I was ready to get laid again. I had a few friends in the kink community who’d communicated an interest. Since I was now a free agent, allowed to screw whoever I wanted without having to ask, I started flirting.
I sent The Switch a message, and he wrote back, telling me that he was working on a spanking bench. He asked if I was interested in coming over and testing it out. Hours later we were together, drinking and fucking. Then came the photo shoot, where I met Suicide Girl. That weekend their relationship statuses on Fet Life announced that they were in a polyamourous relationship. The next day she asked me to be her Pet, and The Switch put me under his protection. We were a House.
It happened fast. It nagged at me–we did not know each other that well. I wanted something real. But I liked them, and if I said no at that point they might not have asked again. I didn’t spend much alone time in the bedroom with my new Mistress. Neither of us were able to host, so if it was just the two of us we were having coffee or shopping. We both slept with Sir on our own, or together. When we went to events they whored me out, but only played with each other. I was jealous, but knew I had no right to be. They were both single and I was married–and I liked getting fucked by different people, so it really made no difference.
The problem was, I liked The Switch, our Sir, more than I liked my Mistress. I was turned on by her sexually, but as far as our personalities went I didn’t feel like we had much chemistry. Sir, however, could make me tingle just by laying in bed together, talking. But he was her boyfriend, not mine.
On our very first night out together, she collared me. Again, it felt too soon, but I accepted. It did not matter that my ex had cut me loose–I was collared. I belonged.
On the last night I was with the both of them, we were at The Switch’s house. I had said I didn’t know how much playing I’d be able to do since I’d probably have my period. They said that it was a good thing I had other holes, but luckily (or so I thought at the time), I still wasn’t bleeding by the time our date rolled around.
I fucked Suicide Girl with a strap-on while The Switch fucked her ass. I rode him while she rimmed him, then put my finger in his ass while she sucked his cock. And then it was my turn–my first time having anal sex that wasn’t either forced on me or didn’t hurt so bad I had to stop after the first few seconds.
I slid onto The Switch’s cock, using him until I exploded with pleasure, and then he told Suicide Girl to grab a small purple dildo out of his nightstand. She slid it slowly into my ass until I saw stars. She worked me with it gently, making me writhe, until The Switch asked her, “Do you think she’s ready for the real thing?”
“I think she needs the real thing,” she said.
He told me to lay on my back on the edge of the bed. I spread my legs for him and he slowly slid his cock into my ass, Suicide Girl playing with my tits.I let out a low, primal moan.
“Is it hurting?” he asked. “It’s not fun if it’s hurting.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t form the words to explain how it felt. He fucked me slowly as my cries built, then faster.
“I’m gonna come in your ass,” he growled eventually. I whimpered, so hot I couldn’t stand it. Seconds later I was dripping from both holes.
Later, having eaten and sobered up, I kissed them both and went home. It was the last time I would be with them.
Two days later I sent Suicide Girl a text. No words, just a single photo. A white stick with two pink lines. A death sentence.
A few weeks ago I was headed for the mental ward. I had been considering a new tattoo–something that would symbolize all I hold dear, as well as my transformation from Bible-hugging good girl to hedonistic nihilist. I had ideas in my head, but I wanted my former-art student husband to design it for me. For some reason, he was reluctant. I mentioned it again and again, but he kept dragging his heels. I could have put a pencil in his hand, passed him a sketchbook, simply commanded “Draw.” I could have decided I would sketch it out myself, then have the tattoo artist render it into something useable. Instead, I went completely off the rails.
I started to cry, to hurl accusations–my husband didn’t love me. He didn’t want any connection to me, to be part of anything I thought was important, to participate in my inner life. Example after example spewed out of my mouth–he wouldn’t switch sides of the bed so I could spoon with him without laying on the hip that was still sore from child-bearing. He wouldn’t proof-read my novel, watch the movies I wanted to watch. He had bought me an engagement ring from a store instead of designing one as I’d asked. He didn’t love me, he wouldn’t put the least bit of effort into me, he horded his creativity for himself, he did not want us to be one.
It got worse. I listed his failures one by one–he had quit a decent-paying job mere weeks after we’d been married, taken six months to find another one as I’d gone down to part-time at school so I could pour coffee and keep us off the streets. He’d allowed his depression to debilitate him to the point where he’d had to take a leave of absence off school, while I, barely hanging on to my sanity, had taken multiple buses across town each day to once again serve caffeine to assholes, my self-worth at rock-bottom, my unflattering uniform announcing to the world that despite my best efforts, I remained a loser. He had lied to me while we were dating, lied to me through the beginning of our marriage, lied as recently as last year about important issues like bill-paying and whether or not we had car insurance. He had chosen to go to school for something lofty, setting his eyes on being a professor or a researcher instead of learning a trade which would have been quicker and would have more of a guarantee of finding employment. He had sent me out whoring, spreading my legs for strangers in studio apartments, richly appointed houses, anonymous hotel rooms, instead of manning up and fucking me himself.
I forgot everything else. The way he had courted me, spoiled me, supported my dreams and goals with unwavering faith. The way he took better care of the kids than I did–realizing that he had to make dinner before we were all starving, keeping close tabs on when the diapers were about to run out. I forgot how he had driven me around for years because I was too afraid of other drivers to get my license until I was 26, the fact that he made me feel good about my post-baby body, forcing me to say “I’m sexy” as we made love until I believed it. The way, for two years, he’d put his relationship with his family on ice, until they were willing to accept that I was his wife and that if they wanted to talk smack about me they’d have to do it behind both of our backs and not to his face. I forgot it all. I was miserable and I threw the blame around his neck like a stone.
Locking myself in the bathroom, I contemplated suicide. Turned on the water and wrapped a scarf around my neck until I could no longer breathe. Lay on the cold tile, knowing I’d probably rip it off before I passed out but not sure I possessed the will. He broke into the bathroom, freed me until I gasped for air, told me he was taking me to the hospital.
I left for work instead, not sure I was going to make it there without getting off at a random stop and hurling myself into traffic. Not sure I’d make it through my shift without walking out, wandering away, forgetting my name and place in a haze of despair.
He was waiting when my shift ended–the children bundled in the car, offering once again to take me to the hospital. I wouldn’t go–who would make the money? Who would keep a roof over our heads? What if the hospital was awful? What if they kept me forever?
I went straight to bed and slept all night, most of the next afternoon. I called in to work the next day, citing a cancellation from a fictitious baby-sitter, and fantasized about death as I lay in my bed, dehydrated, starving myself.
I needed something to dull the pain. I texted The Switch, took a shower for the first time in days, made myself look human and drove over to his place. He fucked me. He made me beg for it and then he put his cock inside me, temporarily filling a hole that was soul-deep and located nowhere on my body. I screamed and bucked, called him “Daddy,” took over when he stopped rubbing my clit and commanded, “Finish it.” I came again and again, using his body as my drug, riding him, then crouching helplessly on all fours as he rammed me from behind, doing me until my pussy swelled shut and he had to use his fingers to open me again so we could both have more.
I went home slightly better. High, like a coke head who does not give a fuck about their life burning down around them, as long as they can have the substance that makes it so that they do not have to feel at all.
Days later, I was still low. Weeping at the slightest provocation. Guilty as sin for opening wounds in my marriage that I’d promised to let heal. Like the time as a teen I had cut myself again, scarring the skin where the evidence of my pain had completely disappeared, leaving marks that remain until this day.
I was so tired. Maybe I needed a higher dosage of my anti-depressant–I made an appointment to see the doctor. Maybe I was so worn out because I hadn’t been eating well–I made a decent dinner, something I hadn’t had since I started working evenings. Maybe it was my iron. I swallowed the pills the doctor had prescribed months ago but that I’d neglected to take with any regularity. All of that failing to restore me to my Zen former self, the one who did not fall apart at the drop of a hat and who had been fine with her going-nowhere job because she’d known it was only temporary, the one who’d loved her best friend husband even if they didn’t have the relationship she’d dreamed of as a kid, led me to a moment where I would join a club I thought I’d never have membership in.
I sat on the toilet seat, stunned, blinking at the wall. Two pink stripes staring up at me. This is why I had gone insane. It was ironically, the same reason that I could not take birth control–I cannot handle fluctuations in my hormones. I hadn’t gone off the deep-end for no reason. I was losing my mind, that was true, but it was not because of my un-impassioned husband or whiny kids or dead-end job.
I was pregnant.