Just a Bit of RedbyRedHairedandFriendly©
Many regular posters on Literotica's Bulletin Board know a lot about me, probably more than they should, seeing as 99.9% of the folks there I've never met and they say telling too much online is unsafe and that is probably true. One day it will most likely come back and bite me in the ass, but I'll cross that bridge when it is finished being built.
This essay is about me. I know some of you are sighing and rolling your eyes; you're probably thinking -- oh please Red, just shut up and get over yourself. Others perhaps are settling in, thinking that I'm about to reveal some deep-dark-dirty secrets and you've got your lube ready. Others though, the folks that I interact with online via the boards as well as through emails will know that isn't the case. I'm writing this essay simply because I want to share with folks my life and how it has been changed by "growing up Lit". If you don't want to read about me, then kindly click the back button and peruse something else.
I came to Lit. several years ago, around April 2005. Like many, I read a story and then another, quickly deciding that I could do this and I could do it well. One story was submitted, followed by another and as of this morning, as I type this, I have 222 stories and 141 poems - under the name "RedHairedandFriendly". I do have other submissions here on Lit., many authors do. Eight submissions co-written with The_ Darkness, under the name Dark_and_Red, a couple (I think) under the name RedHeadandFriendly, and a few (maybe 3) under the name Babette_____. Why all the pen names? One was a collaboration with an author, one was just to be different with my name, another was because I had "connected" with a writer and wanted them to be "his".
Looking back I wish I could gather those stories (except the ones by The_Darkness and myself -- I don't mind sharing those) and place them under my original pen name. They are a part of me, but I won't. I submitted them the way I did for a reason and why look back and change something so miniscule? So they'll sit where they are, most likely gathering dust. Enough about writing though, this really is supposed to be an essay about me speaking candidly about my maturing at such a late age.
I grew up a farmer's daughter -- a dairy farmer's daughter to be exact. My dad inherited half of his parents' farm after the deaths of my grandparents; the other half was my aunt's inheritance. At the age of eight dad sold his half to his sister and he and my mother moved us down south where he purchased another farm. Unfortunately a year or so later, finances forced him to sell the farm and he began a journey of working for other dairies that would take his family -- consisting of my mom, my three sisters, and myself -- on a path that covered a total of 8 years, 6 schools (for me), and 9 different homes. The final move was back to the north where I would eventually graduate high school.
My mom and dad have been married for over 40 years. I have two older sisters, one younger. The two eldest have lived lives that I would not wish on my worst enemy -- if I had one. Each one struggled with alcoholism, drug abuse, emotional and physical abuse from their boyfriends/spouses. My youngest sister struggled with alcoholism, drug abuse and self-mutilation. Me -- I don't know why my path seems so much easier than theirs.
I was raised by the same parents, disciplined the same way, left alone as much as they were, yet I chose a different path. I know I chose the road I did, not for me, but for my mom and dad. I saw the pain my older sisters were causing my parents and I didn't want to hurt them. I didn't want them to worry over me, or to get so angry they were crying and yelling at me to change. The life I led up until my introduction to Literotica was for my parents, not for me.
As a teen I saw a lot that I didn't want to experience. I made the decision to wait to have sex until I was married -- it almost worked. I was three months pregnant when I married my spouse, the first man I had ever had sex with. I determined who my spouse would one day be by making a list of what a man had to have before I would even consider dating him. I wasn't looking for a boyfriend, I was looking for a husband.
My list sounds easy: 1. He had to have a high school diploma or college degree. 2. He had to have a job. 3. He had to have a car. 4. He had to have his own apartment or if he lived with his parents he had to have a "plan" on when he was leaving. All four of those things on my list sound simple enough and all had their reasons for being there.
My two sisters' worst relationships were with men who quit school either at the elementary level or the high school level. Neither of the men they were involved with (when I made my list) had jobs and my sisters were paying for everything. Both of their boyfriends didn't own cars either -- though one guy was creative enough to solve that problem by stealing one -- (he was caught). Lastly the men lived with their parents but then quickly moved in with my family instead of getting jobs and finding a place to live on their own with their wives -- my sisters. As a teen that is what I had as an example of what not to marry. My list was very important to me.
I married the first man who fit my list. He had a job, two cars, a college degree, and in the process of moving out of his parents' home. He was 22 -- I was nineteen. We were friends for 7 months, dated as a couple one month, engaged for a month before we had sex. Eleven months after meeting him - as a friend -- we were married, my eldest daughter snuggled safely in my womb. I'm pretty sure that's the right time line. My second daughter was conceived three weeks after the first was born, and she was delivered three months premature, making them extremely close together in age. Five years later my son, and last child arrived.
The first eleven years of my marriage was pretty routine. I took on the roll of housewife. I only worked a few months outside the home. He enjoyed having me at home and in the beginning I did too. It was nice to be there for my kids; there were no babysitters to worry about, no need to rearrange my life if I needed to take them to the doctor. If I wanted to gather the babies up and visit my mother I could do so. I absorbed the roll of mom and wife like a sponge. As time passed, I realized that I was lonely. I had my spouse, but no one else.
My sisters and I are not close, never have been. Two of them were very abusive to me, and the other was never around much for me to grow close to. The friends I had made when I worked for a local retailer -- before my marriage -- were gone. When my wedding was over, it was like my friends disappeared. My soul communication revolved around the man I married. I had no girl-friends. I knew that to make friends I had to find a way to interact with others. My first thought was returning to the work force.
The subject was brought up and very quickly my spouse listed the reasons as to why I shouldn't go back to work. I didn't realize that this would be the start of my spiraling staircase of emotions. He had good points, at least they seemed good.
I would have to pay a sitter. The gas it took to get to work and back would suck most of my paycheck up as would the sitter's fee. Also, what if a kid needed to see the doctor, or there was an emergency at the school? School programs -- who would be there for the kids? Who would pick them up? Get them to school? Who would be home to cook supper? He was working a solid paying job. He was out the door by six in the morning, home around six in the evening. It made sense for me to stay home. Didn't it?
So I stayed.
He came home from work, shared with me his day and on the weekends he would go over to his friend's house. They would work on little projects in his friend's garage. I would sometimes go with them, and sit in the house watching TV or cleaning his friend's house (his friend was and still is a bachelor). The subject of me going back to work was approached off and on for years. In time I stopped asking, because his jaw would tighten and I knew the reasons he gave would be the same as before and to me they were still good reasons.
He had his friends and his co-workers; he still shared with me his day and when he came home and asked me about mine -- the answer was still the same. I really didn't know how lonely my life was. Then the internet appeared and the world of chat rooms seemed to slide into my life without me knowing it.
I discovered there are people that I could talk to without leaving my children alone. I could chat with men and women about my life and my marriage without missing doctor appointments, or neglecting my spouse. It was amazing. I shared my frustrations with faceless folks and silly screen names. I made friends, even if they were on the other side of the world. It didn't matter. There were men and women that "heard" me when he had stopped listening and I had stopped talking.
Eventually these chats turned to more intimate talks and the link to Literotica was given; I started writing and a month later visited the bulletin board and posted. Like many I started in the game threads. I flirted and chatted, but soon my need to be heard took over.
I shared how sex for me was routine and I admitted that I really didn't know a lot about it. I knew how it all worked and came together. After all I had given birth to three kids, but I didn't know about orgasms, g-spots and believe it or not -- masturbation. It was a "no-no".
I had been "caught" by my mother once and told -- that is not done - and so it wouldn't be until I was thirty-one that I ever did it again. You can choose to believe that or not, but it is the truth. It's sad to think that there are boys and girls growing up with that ingrained into them. I am glad I discovered it was "okay" before my own children became old enough to wonder. They all know that it is normal and they are not "bad" because they choose to self pleasure.
I asked my spouse about masturbation after I had discovered the pleasure it brought. He looked at me as if I had said a vulgar word. The memory I have is still strong as he proceeded to make me feel dirty for even suggesting such a thing. It was immoral and disgusting and I was wrong for even talking to him about it. Wow -- did I feel ashamed. I went back to the internet and shared his thoughts and I'm sure many of you know that there were people that supported me, that listened and shared their views and opinions.
Sexually I was finding things online that aroused me. I was finding people that aroused me. I discovered that mysterious "g-spot". With this discovery came guilt. I felt bad that I was learning so much and my spouse wasn't a part of it. People encouraged me to talk to him, so one night I did.
Approaching him about sexual topics was not easy. I was so scared and nervous, fearful of his reaction. He wasn't nor is he physically abusive; he wasn't going to hit me or call me filthy names, but his look -- the disgust in his eyes -- the tensing of his jaw -- all of these things I knew were signs he wasn't pleased. If he wasn't pleased I dealt instead with his pouting and crypt answers. I felt guilty and so I worked hard not to ever bring up intense subjects.
With sex though, I really thought that something new would be fun and exciting for us both. I asked him first his opinion on toys. He said they were pointless, because he had everything I needed. (You guys and gals -- I'll wait while you catch your breath).
Yeah, he had everything I needed, that's what he said. How does one answer back to that? How do you tell your spouse -- you need more without hurting his feelings. I was stunned. I wasn't expecting that. Honestly I was expecting him to be intrigued, curious and perhaps ask me why the sudden interest. He knew I wrote erotica. He knew I posted and chatted with folks. He bought me my first laptop so I could write.
Before you ask, I did ask him to read my work; he read one story and told me "erotica isn't my thing, but I wrote well." He's never read anything else of mine, including poetry which he "doesn't get" again his words. Later I would learn he thought I was going through a "phase".
Back to the toy discussion. I told him that I was thinking maybe we could try something different. He said we were fine. We didn't need anything different. It wasn't until July of 2006 that I was able to buy my first toy -- and that happened only after I "caught" him masturbating. Remember, he had told me how wrong it was and how he didn't do it.
I had opened our bedroom door one afternoon, to put some clothes in the basket, when his hands shot out from under the blanket. I knew immediately what he'd been doing. I closed the door and walked away -- angry and hurt. How dare he make me feel so small and filthy. I was shaking with anger, but decided I would say nothing. He knew I knew and he could broach the subject with me, or he could continue to live with whatever thoughts he had.
That night he admitted to me what I already knew and he apologized for making me feel wrong. Shortly after that, he gave me $150.00 to spend on whatever I wanted as far as sexual toys went. Guilt for what he'd done? Perhaps so -- I really didn't care. I'd been researching sex toys for months and I knew exactly what I wanted.
Soon after, a very expensive rabbit vibrator and a bullet vibe arrived at my door. I wrote stories about my experiences with them: Red's First Foray With a Toy, Getting What You Pay For, and When It's Hot -- STOP (if you choose to read those, I encourage you to do so in order of submission dates). The toys were purchased and we played together with them; more toys were bought, but after a while the "newness" wore off for him and he admitted he didn't like my responses to the pleasure I received. They also did nothing for him, though we had bought toys for men.
The toys soon became a nuisance for our sex life. I used them alone and eventually had to use them in secret. He would come home and see that I had pulled them out from their box and he would get angry. Later, he confessed he almost threw them away.
Looking back now, I accepted so much just to keep the peace. It isn't all his fault. I am equally to blame. I stopped trying to communicate. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I posted on the boards of Lit. I made friends. I shared some of the conversations with him, learning through these conversations about his distaste over certain fetishes, ideas, fantasies. Many things I had become curious about were often the same things he found immoral, unnecessary or even pointless.
Our relationship was dying. I had found people online that understood me; some were sincere, others I knew were just "playing me". Over time I told my spouse that I was going to meet some of my new friends. He could come with me, if he wanted. The events were on the weekends and he didn't have to work. Secretly I didn't want him to go, because I knew his reactions to what could be seen would make him uncomfortable and others would most likely see his unease. I told him I would be with him the whole time and that if things occurred that he was uncomfortable with, we could leave together. I waited for him to make the decision.
He let me go alone.
The events were planned by members of the site, not at all by the site itself or its administrators -- and before I get a ton of emails about them, NO -- I do not know of any more and I will NOT share details. I believe in the Las Vegas Policy -- what happens there, stays there.
These events showed me the value of companionship, whether it was a sexual nature or not. I saw and felt that I needed one-on-one human interaction. A year after my first meeting of Litsters I told my spouse that I wasn't sure I was in love with him anymore. I had done all I could for him and my kids for fourteen years and I was ready to do something for myself.
He finally admitted that he knew there was a problem, but he was hoping I was just going through depression and I would get over it. Eventually through talking and crying -- both of us shed many tears -- he recognized that my home was my prison (his words -- though he was right). He conceded that he was partially to blame. There was no doubt, he said, that he liked keeping me at home and knowing I was always there to take care of the kids, and the house.
The first step in trying to repair our marriage was for me to get out of the house. I took a job as a sales clerk, catering to the Plus Size female. It was like I became a new person. Even I admit that I blossomed by just talking face to face with people again. When I came home from work I was excited about my day and the antics of the young girls I worked with, or the drama of the married couples, and my single boss. I had a life and I loved being able to actually contribute to the days events beyond the typical day's conversation: "I washed the dishes, folded the laundry, rearranged the house...". Now I had stories to tell!
I wish I could say that fixed all our problems. It didn't. We still struggled sexually. I remember telling him that I felt I had done everything up to that point, asking to try different things, being told no. Trying to express my concerns, wants, desires, curiosities and always being told I was over-reacting, that nothing was wrong, that he was enough for me. It was agreed that he would seek out a counselor for us.
In the end though I did all of that too, calling his insurance, finding providers in our area, narrowing the search to three. All he had to do was pick one and make an appointment. He never did and I won't. I really feel he needs to take more steps in showing me that he understands we have problems. Until then, I continue with my life and my marriage.
Lit. has taken me down a path full of self-discovery. Some paths were easy to trod, some were difficult, and some were heart-wrenching. However all of them have led me to accept that in order to change my life, and my outlook on it, I cannot continue to always put the needs of everyone in front of my own. Sometimes I have to be taken care of first. I have to be the woman I am and not the woman I thought I should be in order to keep the ripples in the water from spreading too far.
I'm more confident now than before. Sex between my husband and myself is now on my terms. I no longer allow him to guilt me into it or to make me feel bad if I touch myself, or I don't climax. He still pouts, but I don't let it get to me.
Will we be forever trapped in a marriage that makes me go "ho-hum" as he looks through his rose-colored glasses? Perhaps, but maybe not. I guess that is why they say the future is unknown. If we knew the path we were to trod, than most likely we would pick that path that was safe and easy; we'd lack growth and growing is what defines us - it's just taken me thirty-eight years to learn that.
Until next time... ~ Red.