Reclaim

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Plump and parted lips purring a whispered moan.

Large soft breasts with nipples hard with wanting.

A warm and moist pussy yearning to be satisfied…

Is this what you want to hear? Are you turned on right now? Is there a bulge growing in your trousers?

 

To you my body is nothing more than an object to be desired and sexualised:

A blank canvas to project your erotic fantasies onto.

The star of your own personal porn film.

The fleshy fodder to your midnight masturbation.

 

And I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of always having to shield my body against your constant mental undressing.

Having to wrestle it away from your grubby hands on a crowded dance floor.

Having to heal it after your sexist words lash like the strike of lightening against my skin.

 

I want to reclaim my body back: away from the patriarchy, away from the male gaze and most importantly, away from the fear that my body could be vulnerable to a man’s lust…

I just want my body back. Why? Because it’s my body; nothing more and nothing less. It is mine and mine alone.

I’m not just a short skirt and a pretty smile, there is more to me than your narrow view could ever begin to see.

 

My body isn’t just for sex, I can use it for many, many things:

Like crawling through trenches and pulling a trigger to defend my country.

Building stamina to push me through the last mile of a marathon.

Being strong and resilient enough to bring a new born baby into this world.

But, above all else my body is the dependable vessel I use to carry my incredible mind.

 

I’m not as superficial or overly obsessed with diamond rings and pink frilly things as you might think.

Beneath the only things you see; the makeup and long flowing hair, my head is home to a richer and more complex world than you could ever imagine.

Like Socrates and the School of Athens, I’m constantly thinking about the wider world and my place in it or like Wes Anderson looking through a camera lens, I’m always seeing life as a spectrum of beautiful colours.

 

I think more about politics, the environment and the possibility of life elsewhere in the universe than I do about fashion.

I think more about my career, the works of Hemingway and raising a family more than I do about celebrities.

So when you look at me don’t just see the breast, arse and thighs – see my big, beautiful, amazing mind instead.

 

Unborn Lullabies

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The nights may be different, but my dreams remain forever the same like a video put agonisingly on loop…

They always start like a wonderful fairy tale; the kind any mother would love to tell her child…

It’s a lovely summers day and the sun is an iridescent jewel against the seamless blue of a clear sky. Laid out stunningly before me is a field of vibrant knee length roses. As I wade through the ocean of red, I run my hands across their velvety lips as each reaches up to kiss my fingertips, ever so gently. Suddenly, blossoming against all this beautiful stillness and tranquillity is the enchanting gurgle and chuckle of new-born baby. So sweet and joyous, like a magical spell I’m drawn closer and closer to the sound serenading me like classical music.

Finally, I break away from the embrace of the roses and find myself at the foot of a small hill. My eyes rise to the top, there they are met with a tree maternally bending over a delicate wooden cradle, protecting it from the full glare of the sun. The few rays of sunshine that do eventually trickle through the leaves, beautifully cast shapes and figures across the surrounding grass, and with each whistle of a gentle breeze they seem to dance and perform as if on cue. As the gurgle and chuckle loudens, I find myself hurrying up the hill, desperate to see the bundle of joy responsible for the melody…

Except, when I reach the cradle there isn’t the pair of gorgeous browns and wide toothless smile that I yearned to see beaming up at me, instead the cradle is empty, hauntingly empty…and like the shatter of glass my peaceful world abruptly disintegrates, leaving me falling into the growing black reaching up to suffocate me. And that’s when I wake up and instinctively reach for my stomach, hoping, hoping it was all just a bad dream, a nightmare. But it isn’t… my belly is an empty shell, the carcass of a once human being…

Ever since I was small girl, playing with my doll set and watching Disney movies on TV, it has always been my dream to be a mother and nothing else. I know it’s silly, especially now with feminism… Beyoncé… Theresa May… but I’ve never spared a single thought towards being a business woman, scientist or anything like that. Because, forget about all that red carpets and reality shows…to me being a mum was the most glamourous and important thing in the world – it made you beyond special!

Is being a devoted mother such a bad thing to want? To want to bring new and wonderful life into this world, and then keep giving that baby all the love and care possible until they are all grown up, happy and ready to have a family of their own? Is that so bad?

I was 16 and constantly living under a cloud of brooding, but no matter how ready I thought I was for motherhood, at that age I knew I was too young to have kids. Plus, at that point I didn’t have a boyfriend and unless I was planning to immaculately conceive like the virgin Mary, my list of baby names would’ve had to stay stashed safely at the bottom of my draw for a few more years, at least.

Then I met him, which was completely unexpected…

In the beginning he was beyond kind and caring, and when I was feeling low he always knew exactly what to say to put me back on top of cloud nine again. After I fell for him, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I wanted him to take my virginity – it just felt right.

In the urgency of passion and youthful abandon, we weren’t being smart, we weren’t being safe. But just my luck, the first time I had sex was the exact time I got pregnant…

A tornado of thought whirled uncontrollably in my head and as much as I tried, I couldn’t pluck a single cohesive plan of action from among the chaos. A great part of me was elated because my biggest dream was finally coming true –  I was going to be a mother! But whilst my heart was already swelling with love for my unborn child, my brain was doing its best to deflate it. The logistics of being a teen mum was beginning to dawn on me, like black smog approaching from the distance. I saw the MTV shows… the insults… the struggle to pay bills… the loss of friends…the loss of a social life, the life of a 16-year-old mother was often hell and certainly not glamourous. Then of course, he still didn’t know…I couldn’t bear to tell him in person, so I sought the safety blanket of a screen to do so.

It was as if someone had pulled a giant plug and all the kindness and sweetness drained from him and disappeared down a black hole, leaving someone cold and manipulative behind. Thinly vailed beneath his concerned act I could feel his desperation pouring from the black letters, “I love you and I want to start a family with you one day, but now…we’re too young. Please, do the right thing. Not for us, but for it…” he said.

‘It’… the letters instantly cut through me like a savage saw blade; I still carry the scars until today. But I was naïve and I thought I still loved him. So I relented and gave in to his pathetic pleas. I did what he wanted…I booked an abortion.

With the majority of my messages receiving no reply, I decided to miss school and go to the clinic alone. I didn’t want anyone to know about what I was going to do. Walking down the linoleum floor I felt like a convict taking their final few steps before execution, except, I wasn’t the one to be fearing death. I rose my hand to my stomach in some vague and silly attempt to offer my unborn baby a final moment of solace.

When the pills were placed into my trembling hand, I looked down at them, big, menacing and for a moment I thought, “what if I threw them in the bin and walked out of that room, defiant, my head held high and my baby still in my belly?” But the truth was, the type of mother I wanted to be wasn’t the single mother I saw on MTV, but the type of mother with a masters, a nice big house in the country and enough money to take her child on holiday each year. Of course love is the most important thing you can give to a child – not money – but I wanted my kids to live a life of comfort, a life better than I lived.

And as I swallowed the pills, I realised I didn’t love him anymore…my love for him was extinguished by a tidal wave of hate. One word blinked into existence on his screen, “Done.” And when I knew he had seen it, I deleted his number and blocked him on every social media, with the urgent intent of purging every last ounce of him from my life…

I often think about what my baby would have been like… what type of personality they would’ve had? Would they have been sporty and confident? Shy and introverted? Or exactly like me… I also thought about what type of mother I would have been: strict, overbearing or would I have been fun and carefree? Either way I knew that child would’ve been beyond loved. I would’ve been a good mother at 16, but when I’m older and I have a career that fulfills me and I truly know who I am, then, then I could be a great mother. And most importantly, that’s the best thing I could’ve done for my unborn child…

Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?

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Tits, arse and a pretty smile. Despite the monumental accomplishments by some of the worlds brightest and best women, society still finds it embarrassingly difficult to look past the immediate appearance of a woman and value or even acknowledge her acumen and talent above all else, in the same way they can so easily do so with a man. Unfortunately, everywhere we turn women are accidentally stepping into the snare trap of the male gaze and being hoisted into the air by their ankles, flailing, unable to break free from the patriarchal restraints imprisoning them to one dimensional views of femininity.

A rigid ideal of female beauty has been placed on a lofty pedestal for so long, that it has led women to strive for increasingly extremer means of attaining it. For instance, across the internet women are now bizarrely being encouraged to use semen as a form of moisturiser, which quite frankly sounds ridiculous and most likely manufactured by a man, trying to justify ejaculating on woman’s face rather than the actual recommendations of a certified dermatologists. Even celebrities aren’t exempt from this struggle for perfection, high profile stars such as Naomi Campbell and Kim Kardashian have even opted for the DIY option of using sellotape as a means of altering or eliminating their “problem areas”.  Sure, some could try and defend this torturous beauty trend as a safer and cheaper alternative to cosmetic surgery, which always comes with certain amount of risks attached. But the very notion that even these women world renowned for their attractiveness, are pressured to artificially manipulate their bodies in some vein pursuit of perfection, still sends out a ripple effect of negativity for teenage girls across the globe.

Celebrities can and should do more when it comes to setting example for young girls and boys, after all they’re the vanguard of influence. It’s important for the likes of Kim and Naomi to actively utilise every opportunity to retake ownership and regain the truth that the female body is an amazing piece of biological machinery capable of running, hugging and fighting or anything else her heart may desire, rather than be a mere sexual object or canvas for male minds to project their fantasies onto. While for everyday women, it’s important to better understand the intricate complexities of their bodies and become better acquainted with their erogenous zones and knowing how to stimulate them, because why should male desire be satisfied while a woman’s remains mysterious and left wanting. Shockingly, even in this day and age a large majority of women still don’t even know the shape of their clitoris or even where to find their G-spot. Even more importantly, Women should castaway the shame of the menstruation and embrace it as a wonderful part of the female experience, especially considering that women’s ovulation and periods are the very reason humans can exist in the first place!

However, equality shouldn’t be a war fought solely by women, it’s important for men like myself, privileged by the patriarchy to also take a stand. Starting off by not holding women’s bodies to different standards to our own and applauding women who allow their body hair to grow naturally or who decide to forgo bras entirely in the name of comfort, rather than shame or brand them unattractive if they choose to do so. Ultimately, the bitter and sickening truth is that women aren’t afforded the same luxuries as men in society, they can’t be topless in the streets or online (like a man can) without baring the crippling weight of censorship, nor can they even express their thoughts or even just be a woman online without the onslaught of slut shaming and sexism. In general, society needs to learn that it can’t even begin to ascended to the light of its true potential, if we’re still willing allowing ourselves to be shackled to the dark ages – liberate our attitude towards women and we liberate humanity.

Dear Teenage Girl

In a big scary world, your room is like a fortress of blissful solitude. An incubator for the strong, powerful woman you’ll eventually be. Your four walls don’t constrict you, instead they liberate and uplift you like nothing else can. Like blank canvases, with the paintbrush that is your imagination, you transform them into colourful tapestries, revealing your greatest dreams and desires. Your diary is the window to your soul. The clothes in your wardrobe make you feel like Picasso; each outfit is your masterpiece. Your mirror only reveals your front cover, because beneath the surface a rich story can be told and one day, the world will have the pleasure of hearing it.

The Curse Of The Pretty Girl

In the periphery of my vision, I can see them caressing my body with their eyes and mentally undressing me. I can’t sip on a straw or suck on a lollipop in public, without perverted minds imagining about what else they could put in my mouth. I avoid tightfitting clothing encase they mistake it as neon signs announcing my sexual availability. I spend more time trying to dull my attractiveness and sex appeal, then most women do to attain it. I’m just tired of all the sexual innuendos, the catcalls and even the well-meaning compliments. Being the constant object of male fantasies and lust isn’t a blessing, it’s a curse.

Midnight Muse

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Warning. The material covered in this piece is strictly over 18. Sure, it might start off tame, but it does get sexier…

Accompanied by the spluttering gurgle of a worn-down tumble drier and the whine of a fading florescent light stained bronze with age, I find myself once again blessed by solitude in a precarious midnight hour. It’s during this undefinable limbo between dusk and dawn, through bad habit or subconscious longing for a flirtation with danger, I always decide to do my laundry in undoubtedly the seediest part of downtown San Francisco; a place sooner lit by the ends of cigarette butts, police sirens and neon strip club signs rather than beautiful stars in the night sky. I can’t help but find the emptiness of the laundromat comforting and the chatter of its run down mechanic occupants soothing, therapeutic even. Why else would I forgo a warm bed in preference of taking a bag barely filled with dirty clothes half an hour away from the hotel I was holed up in, the same hotel that offered a cleaning service free of charge?

The truth is this ramshackle room offers me freedom, not just from the debilitating pressures of immediate success, but most importantly from myself and the shame of feeling like a phony, an imposter, a fool who tripped over the Holy Grail and then the world claimed I had ‘discovered’ it. While others have dedicated their entire beings and careers to gaining recognition for their art, I find myself lavished with it after the first role of the dice. Am I a prodigy or am I just lucky? That’s a question I torture myself with every time I look in the mirror or when I’m forced to sit dumbstruck in the expectant glare of film critics. However, not here. In this hideously beautiful sanctuary, I’m allowed to be a vacant zombie merely existing, never having to answer the dreaded question,

“What’s next?”

Don’t they know I haven’t got a clue? That I know as much as they do when it comes to knowing what’s next, which is absolutely nothing?

Occasionally the glass door covered in dirty finger smudges and crude felt-tip drawings swings open and societies aborted children, its dirty little secrets, it’s ‘better if they’re forgotten’ slink in. Mostly they’re trans sex workers in between shifts, the homeless or Mexican nationals equipped with barely a, ‘hello’ or ‘my name is…’ in English. However, not once do any of them cause me any strife, in fact without ever speaking to me, innately they understand my need to escape from life. But the best thing about our estranged relationship is that they haven’t and probably will never see my film and even sweeter, to them the accolade of being the youngest winner of the Best Director Award at Cannes means absolutely nothing. To these people I’m a stranger of the night, another nameless ghost haunting the city streets – just like them.

Remember when I said this midnight hour was precarious? Well, one minute I’m happily wondering in foggy disconnect, in the next a beautiful black woman, dainty enough to be a damsel but badass enough to never need saving, comes striding in and completely shatters my solitary bubble. She is dressed in stone washed denim dungarees, a pink turtle neck stained with something and has a cassette player strapped to her waist. Looking at her, I’m instantly reminded of Marty Mcfly in Back to the Future Part II, when he steps out of 1985 and into 2015. Is she a hipster with an obsession with all things retro or is it fancy dress? I haven’t got a clue, but either way I can’t stop smiling at this unexpected sight. Soon trailing behind her are more 80s refugees; one of them is clad in a nostalgia inducing Saved by the Bell T-shirt under a kaleidoscopic printed shirt, while another rocks an oversized denim jackets over a Bill and Ted tank top. My favourite of the bunch is a guy who blatantly models his entire look on Radio Raheem from Do the Right Thing, fully equipped with the ‘LOVE’ and ‘HATE’ knuckle dusters and he even carries an old school boom box on his shoulders.

I’m in complete shock as within minutes of entering the place and without a hint of hesitation or self-consciousness, the gorgeous woman feathered in the finest dark chocolate – so smooth and luxuries even a Swiss or Belgian chocolatier couldn’t compete – whips off her stained turtleneck and dumps it in a nearby washing machine. Wanting to start the machine, she searches her pockets but can only pull out singles, she turns to her time traveling compatriots and in mocking response they collectively display their credit cards. For the first time acknowledging my presence, she snaps her head towards me and in a southern drawl more suited to Atlanta than the queer streets of San Francisco, asks:

“Do you have a spare couple of quarters? I wasn’t expecting to need coins tonight.” Then looking down and referring to her turtleneck, “I got a little excited with the wine.”

“Yeah, I have some.” I reply, trying to sound as unfazed as possible.

I notice as they stifle surprise at my British accent, but it’s the topless woman who seems most intrigued by my foreign tongue – a sly and seductive smile appears on her face. Fully aware that all the eyes in the room are on me, I get up and walk towards the woman with a fist full of quarters. As I drop the coins in her outstretched hands, a light of recognition behind her eyes suddenly turns on.

“Is your name Tim Taylor?”

Stumped. How could she know me when I’ve barely been ‘famous’ for less than a week? That’s if you can call me famous. Embarrassingly, I don’t even have a Wikipedia or a IMDB page…

“I saw your film during Cannes when I was in France – it blew my mind. You deserved your award, no doubt! You’re a real inspiration”

I blush. This is a strange experience for me.

“Thank you so much. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Well, officially…I’m a performance artist constantly focusing on reinvention. So I’m kind of in between names right now.”

Turning back to her friends, “I’ll catch up with you guys later.” They roll their eyes, clearly all too aware of her antics. They exit, leaving us to alone. I’m now like a dear in head lights, unsure what to do or say next, I sit down to buy myself more time as she places the quarters in the washing machine. Finally, I ask:

“What type of performance art do you do?”

She stifles a chuckle, “Well, my art mostly centres around sex. Specifically, fucking in public.” As she says this, she barricades shut the door with a bench and hangs a discarded towel over the glass door.

she strides towards me and sits down next to me, I’m suddenly aware of her breast cradled in her purple laced bra. She catches my gaze, embarrassed, I pretend to be looking at something else in the same direction. Next thing I know her hand is resting on my thigh, dangerously close to my crotch. My seam swells as I go hard. I try to conceal my erection with my hands, but she moves them away and places her hand on top of my penis. She rubs it whilst making unflinching eye contact with me. I notice that her eyes are an entire shade below brown, almost like the colour of fresh honey.

Grabbing my shirt, she leads me to where her turtle neck washes. She sits against the Machine and draws me closer and closer until my hips press up firmly against hers. Undoubtedly she can feel me thick and wanting against her thigh. She slips off her dungaree strap and allows the whole thing to drop to the ground with echoing clatter.

My heart is beating so quickly that it feels like a constant drone in my chest. Overwhelmed by carnal craving, I firmly grab her plump buttocks and hoist her onto the washing machine – instantly its rampant vibration course through both our bodies. Now faced with her tantalising dark flesh before me, I’m hungry to bite and claw at every inch of it. I need to consume her – I must be inside of her. I sink my teeth into the side of her neck, not hard enough to draw blood, but certainly hard enough to cause her eyes to roll back in the sweet embrace of pleasure.

Desperate for her, I hurriedly pull and tug at my belt buckle. My penis is so stiff and throbbing now, containing it in my pants is too painful. It needs to be in the open where it can be caressed by her delicate and smooth yet urgent hand. She stops my fumbling and takes over plying my jeans down. With aggression that almost startles me, she takes my shaft in her hand, firmly and slowly she masturbates me.

She brings her head towards mine, but stops at the cusp of our lips touching and allows her mouth to hover agonisingly close to mine, allowing me to feel the warmth of her breath on my tender lips and inhale her sweet perfume, now spiced with the scent of animalistic sex. I take her breast in my hand and draw my tongue towards her erect nipple yarning for attention. While my other hand pushes her satin underwear to the side and roams around her labia, inside her now soaking wet vagina and finally up toward her clitoris. With the tips of my fingers, I start of by rubbing it gently and then in synchronisation with the pressure and speed of her tugging my penis, I increase in tempo and firmness. I pull my mouth away from her breast and kiss her passionately, ensuring she can feel every ounce of my desire.

Suddenly she pulls away from the kiss.

“Lie down on the ground!” she assertively whispers.

I’m excited by her commanding tone, I hurriedly oblige. As I lie down on the cold and hard tiled floor, I notice how my penis is incredibly engorged with desire and oscillating with heat like a furnace. Ping, the sound of the washing machine finishing its cycle. She takes her turtle neck out and places it in a nearby tumble drier.

A second later she is placing her hand heavily on my chest and then easing herself on top of me. Fashioned into a strip, her pubic hair guides my eyes from her toned stomach down to her pussy. Her pleasure palace that is unbelievably moist and tight. I can feel the walls of her vagina clinging to my penis like a seductive vice. I look back up at her and as I do so, I’m momentarily mesmerised how for a moment the florescent light in the ceiling seems to cast a fuzzy halo above her head, making her look angelic. She rides me with the confidence of a woman in complete acceptance of her carnal needs and tuned into her raw sexuality. I sit up and bring her into my arms, her spine bends backwards as she yelps a final cry of pleasure. I feel her entire body contract, release and quiver.

Knowing I haven’t cummed yet, she pushes my chest back until I’m lying on the floor again and dismounts me so she can take me in her mouth. Like a warm and moist hurricane her tongue twirls around the tip of my penis. With one hand she strokes and teases the shaft, whilst with the other hand she unexpectedly places two fingers into my anus. In that instant I erupt like a volcano. However, she doesn’t take her mouth away from my member, instead she continues to suck and tease until my entire being surrenders to body shuddering ecstasy…

Without a second word or glance she gets up and takes her turtle neck out of the drier, puts it on along with her denim dungaree and strides towards the door. After pulling back the bench and taking down the blanket, she turns back to me:

“Good luck with your career. I know you’re going to be incredible.”

“Thank you. But do I even get to know your name?” I barely splutter out in between shallow, urgent breaths.

“Just call me your Midnight Muse.”

She opens the door and is immediately swept up by the glow of dawn. And with that, she’s gone. After a second to process the magic and craziness of the night’s events, it suddenly occurs to me that without me even knowing her name, this glorious, time warped, ethereal stranger of the night has just changed everything for me…

I put on all my clothes, gather all my laundry and hail an Uber. With my two feet barely inside the hotel room, my publicist is already at my door ready to brief me on the day’s interviews. A couple of hours later I’m back opposite a journalist who has just asked the same question 100 have asked before her “What’s next?” However, this time I don’t stammer without an answer, instead I look at her dazzlingly in the eye and tell her without hesitation that the next film will be called ‘Midnight Muse, but the plot will be kept strictly under wraps for now”.

I Let my Husband Cheat

Low Key Shot of a Young Couple Embracing
Infidelity

Sarah the waitress – she gave him a blow job in a restaurant cloakroom.

Rochelle the salsa teacher – he fucked her on the floor and up against the mirrored wall of her studio.

Random girl at bar – she rode him on a park bench.

Fiona the personal trainer –  he took her up the arse in the gym showers.

And Estelle the Soul-singer – he fingered her in an alley after her gig.  

I know my husband cheats; not because I found a pair of panties in his car or smelt her pussy on his breath, but because he’s happy. My husband’s happiness means more to me than anything in the world.

Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me and I certainly don’t want your pity either. I know what you’re thinking, I’m a sad, pathetic, emotionally weak woman who knows her husband has and always will be unfaithful, yet can’t work up the courage to leave him because that’ll mean I would be left alone. Except, I’m the exact opposite of all your shallow misconceptions of me; I’ve got more intelligence in me than you will ever have in your entire life. I’m a judge, a bloody good judge. And I’m nowhere near weak. Day in and day out I look into the eyes of the darkest and most twisted individuals to crawl out of the gutters, yet I don’t even flinch an inch. They don’t scare me. Nothing can scare me, especially if you have been through what I’ve been through…

Three years ago exactly today, (happy anniversary me!) I was snatched moments from death by paramedics and then placed purposely in a coma by a surgeon, allowing him to work tirelessly to reattach my almost severed spine. Merely to wake up and be told by him that I would never walk again, but I should count myself lucky considering if that shard of glass dug any deeper, I would’ve been killed. Going through life knowing you’re living on borrowed time and that you were once a second or two centimetres away from death – that’s real fear. After the accident I went down a pill and depression filled spiral into blackness, only for the second time in my life to be snatched from the jaws of oblivion by the same surgeon who saved me the first time. Except this time it wasn’t with a scalpel, it was with true love.

The surgeon and the judge, Fuck Kim and Kanye, we were the real power couple. We matched each other for wit, drive, ambition and before we knew it, barely out of the hospital I was being wheeled down the aisle towards him on our wedding day. However, the best day of my life was quickly followed by the worst, when on our honeymoon we found out that the accident meant I could never have sex again – having sex for me was like putting my genitals in a blender, the pain was beyond excruciating. Regardless of that nightmarish night, instead of drifting apart, subsequently our romance blossomed brighter and fuller with each passing day. Whilst physical intimacy was an impossibility, our intellectual and emotional life was a spectrum of vibrant colour and joy.

For good or bad, at the end of the day men need sex. And as much as we women like to convince ourselves that they aren’t consumed with it, they are, it’s wired into the fibre of their very being and their every waking thought. Therefore, I made the greatest sacrifice imaginable. A sacrifice that could only be made by a woman completely secure within herself, her husband and the eternal love in her marriage; I sat him down one evening and told him it was okay to sleep with any woman as long as his heart always belonged to me. Being the good man he was, he spent hours proclaiming he could never tarnish our beautiful marriage or put me through such pain. But I told him, from the deepest part of my heart, that even the accident didn’t hurt as much as seeing him live an incomplete life everyday – eventually he relented.

At first he didn’t want to tell me about the women he slept with – they were many as I expected, come on, he was a fucking gorgeous, tall, black doctor. Yet, somehow being told every little excruciating detail: who she was, how she looked naked, how they fucked, somehow made it easier to stomach because it made the sex seem more like fucking than something with a hint of romance. And as another conciliation for me, I insisted he could never fuck someone we both knew, someone at work or one of his ex’s – he assured me the thoughts never entered into his mind. At the end of the day, it was just fucking and nothing more.

Once he was free to relieve himself physically with meaningless flings, when he came HOME he was ready to open his heart and soul to me without bounds. Now, we are happier than we’ve ever been… Does it hurt sometimes that these women can give him something I never could? Yes, it does a lot. But I love my husband more than anything or anybody in the world and I’m willing to make whatever sacrifices necessary to keep him happy. That’s what you do for the people you love.

So I don’t need your pity or judgment, because if you were in my position, you wouldn’t have the strength to live my life and make the sacrifices I’ve made.