Forever

For a racing heartbeat you lay languid

Thigh draped over thigh first sex for the first time.

I am startled

when you flee across my tiny room

cover your nakedness

hold clothing between us

I meant no invasion

when I reach out to hold you for a moment longer.

It would be

nice to hold you

kiss again without needing to rise again…

a seemingly small intimacy after petting, licking, kissing face to face

sexual penetration, fucking

my compliant cock in your mouth kiss my voice

with your genitals rub cheeks with soft dark downy red hair

you built up to orgasm

trembling step after shivering step strained your body

reached the moment

eyes closed against invading light a bare bulb

hangs from the ceiling lips drawn over my flesh

blood darkened nipples enlarge pucker in the heat

rising from inside you.

then you want me now, urgent

stuff my cock up inside you distend your opening

build up arched back

steely legs orb my shoulders

fingernails leave crimson marks on my butt you pull, drive me ever deeper

you totally open your frame to me, contort your pelvis to meet

thrust after thrust until I come expel my fluids

submerge your womb

suddenly

with violence almost matching intensity of the instant before banish me from your body

flee the sweaty mingling of our souls abruptly, I am

more empty than before making love.

You have taken even more than just

a continuing physical embrace.

I reach toward you

urge you to come back to bed, climb beneath  the covers clasp me against you

linger in flesh memories

find comfort in the joining of our bodies an act of association

instead of penetration

but you wrap yourself in a checkered shirt

slip down the hallway

to the rooming house bathroom take a shower

wash away

the ebbing scents of love

bolt the door

against invasion as you shower

Marriage

I wonder

then if you indeed wanted me or just to prove something

to yourself

Are you the same woman

who stands at the altar with me and promises me forever?

following church in the bathroom

you look at yourself in the mirror.

You don’t know I watch you,

even now

with mixed emotions

at the scowl in your eyes:

you flick away false eyelashes, undo the clasp

of your wedding dress.

the binding you loosen –

it is the dress, or the wedding itself?

are adoring looks

across the reception hall during my Toast to the Bride as pretended as your face?

more than I can express mere words “I love you” chill my heart

when I realize

we are now attached together

forever…

biting in

out for dinner

celebrate your thirty-third birthday three weeks after the birth of our son – a pulsing, :flooding gush of blood

a crowning head from your body torn open

by his entry into our lives

you are more beautiful to me than ever

nursing breasts swollen with milk nipples still sore, from suckling the baby

belly shrinking, distended with stretch marks,

red stencils of her passage into motherhood

I wonder if you notice

how much you have changed since this conception.

months of wondering if this baby might survive

unlike our first.

Anxiety combines with nausea bloating, cramps

intermingled bleeding

rub vitamin E oils over distended bellyskin massage your lower back

your  mind – some other place

parenting classes, breathing exercises

sit with pillows on the floor, mark moments on our watches count the time between contractions

what to do when the water breaks

a packed bag – toothbrush change of clothing hospital stuff

then the day of the birth race home from work

find you already gone by taxi your bag still in the closet

all our lessons together already abandoned with your frilly gown

and brand new toothbrush

arrive at the  hospital after a sixty mile an hour drive across the city beginnings of rush hour.

I am terrified

I am going to miss being with you

to share in the birth of our child

when I arrive you complain

I’m never around when you need me but before you land any real blows you clench back a howl

from the pain of a contraction .

I hold your hand while your eyes glaze over momentarily

before you return from your journey into pain to look up at me

from your seat in the shower in the maternity ward

the rest of the long night blur of nurses and midwives, friends come by to see you

some stay through the birth

others leave at the first real signs of birth – the final minutes

unable to face

the overpower physical reality of it

during the breathing counts your eyes are locked onto mine

it feels like our souls are glued to each other by going through this passage together

it is the only way we can face this pain

is if you can concentrate your focus on my eyes, counting

panting together

a counterpoint to intercourse a body passion to expel

what we have inspired in your womb

in the final moments

fully dilated, ready to push flushed, fearful, pressed angry, hopeful

you are enraged when a nurse

scratches your thigh with a protruding fingernail

swear like a trucker

during the final push when the baby’s head passes out of your body

the rest of his little torso

is expelled from you like sausage from a meatmaker

part of me is repulsed

by the whole damn thing, but I am also

drawn in

by its sheer immensity

afterward

in the visitors room the relatives

noisily visit mama and baby

I finally go home

too exhausted to notice when I say goodnight

and kiss you on the cheek

you barely nod in my direction our son sucks

on breasts newly sprung triggered by the baby’s need.

out for dinner

three weeks after the birth of the baby you sit back in your chair

suckling the baby

even more of a stranger to me now than before our first embrace

Judgement Day

I was listening to a CBC podcast the other night, and there were a couple of people talking about their feelings about various famous authors and musicians. The conversation was really about whether or not our judgements about the behaviour of artists should influence how we feel about their art, and if we should decide to like or not like their art because we don’t agree with the conduct, opinions or morality of the artist.

I listened with some interest because the commentators were both people who identify themselves as lgbtqia2s (https://www.mic.com/articles/28093/lgbtqia-a-beginner-s-guide-to-the-great-alphabet-soup-of-queer-identity) and one of them also identified theirself as a gay black non-binary person. My immediate reaction to their conversation was curiosity because although I don’t identify myself as a member of a minority, generally, I do still identify as a person who has lived my life on the outside of established social, cultural and religious communities in which I live.

My political opinions are progressive within the Canadian meaning of that word meaning that I tend to share and support the politics of liberal leaning parties, and instinctively tend to feel sympathetic and supportive of anyone who self identifies as an outsider, whether as result of ethnicity, race, gender, ethical, sexual and religious views, appearance, etcetera. Which generally means that I’m somewhat judgemental about other people who I perceive as judgemental against all those people I’ve previously mentioned. So I’m inclined to be pretty judgemental about myself, since I know perfectly well that my own behaviour over my life has failed at times to live up to my own ethical, moral and social standards.

So the questions being raised are important to me. Is it safe for me to listen to music I like or even love, if it has been created or performed by someone I judge to have behaved badly? Say, like Michael Jackson, who now appears to have been a pedophile. Should we erase all of our collective memories of his music and dance, and never moonwalk again? Should we ban any mentions about Sir John A. MacDonald, who, in addition to being a drunk, a racist about first nations peoples and their rights, an outright unapologetic sexist. The fact that our nation exists because this man, and other similarly flawed men founded it continues to be true, even if I don’t like it. History is made by flawed men and women. Music is sung by creepy assholes. Great classical art was drawn by perverts we wouldn’t allow in our living rooms.

Should we hide the Mona Lisa, because her painter was a narrow minded bigot who was probably gay but denied homesexuality over and over again to gain social acceptability, not to mention contracts that paid for his work and allowed him to survive in times we can barely imagine.

I found it fascinating that these two commentators came to the conclusion that excluding people from your life because they happen to have been flawed, made terrible mistakes in their relationships, or even committed heinous crimes, should not necessarily mean that you deny the value and beauty of their art as fruit of the poison tree. Doing so would deny human beings the ability to grow, to make amends and try to do and be better than their worst selves. Doing so could remove the incentive for people to change and reflect on their worst behaviours, and thereby learn something.

Should I forever hate my father because of what he inflicted on me as a child, even in the certainty that he committed himself to looking after my younger sister for most of his life after she became a quadriplegic in her early twenties. He did bad things when he was younger, but did amazing things that made her life possible when it had become impossible. So I try to hate the behaviour I judge offensive and admire his enormous contributions to my sister. So I will never forget either, but I judge him to have been a deeply flawed man who showed the capacity for love. I love my father, but see him clearly for all that he was in his life, not just those things that harmed others but also those things he did that contributed.

Which is how I think we should look at historical and living people alike. We should make every effort to be our better selves, no matter how damaged we are or have been in our pasts. We should be as transparent as we can be, without expecting it of others. Fight for equality, justice and freedom, but make allowance for human frailty, both for ourselves and for others.

Deviant Life #33 — Discerning Deviant

FIRST / PREVIOUS / NEXT For as long as I can remember, the Polyamory community has had a strangely sex negative segment that was largely born of the desire to distance themselves as much as possible from the widespread assumptions by people outside of the community that polyamory was all about fucking around indiscriminately. It’s […]

Deviant Life #33 — Discerning Deviant

“Polyamory” – Freya’s Chambers – Sexual Orientation — The Grey Wayfarer

Happy Frigg and Freya’s Day Disclaimer: The topics covered in Freya’s Chambers include serious discussions of sex, sexuality and related issues. If it isn’t your thing; you can move along, otherwise enjoy and feel free to discuss. Given the nature of some subjects be prepared for nude images as there may be some. I avoid […]

“Polyamory” – Freya’s Chambers – Sexual Orientation — The Grey Wayfarer