Lady Libertine Ch. 07: Inherent Whores

I went to the mall to do some Saturday morning shopping instead of decorating for Christmas. I jotted down some notes of lyrics that came across the intercom: "My Christmas dreaming came a little early this year" and "All I need to do is dream you." I also saw an advertisement in a clothing store window: "Be iconic."

All of this might escape most typical individuals, but "typical" is something I have never been. Years ago, I saw a comedy romance movie where the lead male character began seeing signs everywhere. Those signs convinced him to return to the woman he loved.

So, here I was hearing "messages" and seeing "signs" in the mall after dreaming about Santa removing my lingerie. And, only a few hours had passed since Todd took his full pleasure of me as I leaned across the kitchen table. Yet, something on my mind was causing a disturbance. A word was bothering me.

It was not possible to delay decorating until Sunday. While I was shopping, Todd had brought down a half dozen large cardboard boxes before heading off to watch a football game in the family room. There was no way that I could step around the boxes all day ignoring the contents. So, I began unpacking and setting out the holiday trimmings. But, instead of becoming sexually stimulated by the Santa decorations, I found myself shaking my head at my recent behavior.

I found the box of ornaments for the artificial tree that Todd had set up in its traditional place in front of the large window in the living room. I paid very little attention to the task of decorating, because my mind kept going to something that Todd said this morning. His statement was now offending me.

Suddenly, my thoughts and actions appeared to be like some kind of desperate madness. The last five days did seem like an impossible dream. The only difference was that my body was taking an active role. Maybe, I just needed to wake up to reality.

But, I know the difference between reality and imagination. My mind had concocted last night's dream about Santa teaching me how lingerie is removed. My body responded with explosive orgasms when Todd made love to me on the kitchen table this morning. Yes, there was a difference between fantasy and reality, but my body was behaving as if there was no difference. And now, a word was bothering me.

Todd had called me "my little whore" during the height of his passion. That word had been on my mind ever since. I have always taken exception to words such as "whore." It is derogatory, and infers that the woman is available to any man who offers the right payment. Todd's use of the word "whore" and my acceptance, and even heightened sexual response to it, had me concerned.

In fact, the entire situation was beginning to worry me. Had I made a wish that had really been granted by some greater force? We have all heard the saying that warns us to be careful when making wishes, because they might just happen. Yet, making an appeal for the rekindling of passion in one's marriage seemed like a pretty benign wish even if it did come true.

Yet, I had begun to have these odd thoughts about Santa and Mrs. Santa after sending off my letter of appeal. My friend, Angie, begged me the next day to write a story for her to use for phone sex with her new boyfriend, Taylor. Though at first I was reluctant and worried what would happen if Todd found it, I faced my fears and wrote her a script.

Suddenly, I discovered that the sexually explicit words that I wrote turned me on. Todd suspected something was going on, so I confessed about my writing. Todd was delighted rather than judgmental, and I discovered that he even visited porn sites occasionally. His acceptance, and even encouragement, seemed to allow me to fly off unfettered, and I became highly orgasmic to Todd's touch. Hell, I even became orgasmic to Santa's light touch when he removed my lingerie in my dreams.

And now, Todd loves caressing me. My body and mind respond with fervor and ecstasy. Todd becomes sexually aroused very quickly like never before. Thus, the flame was kindled under our marriage bed, and it had happened in less than a week. That is a miracle. Therefore, I should be grateful and, maybe, a "thank you" note to Santa was due.

"But wait," I thought, "Todd called me a whore."

And now I was bothered. It all seemed very manic, and therefore not real. I could have created it all hypnotically with my mind, and my body could have complied to fulfill my mental fantasy of having a passionate love affair with my husband. But, what will happen when reality returns? Or has it?

Yes, it did seem self-hypnotic when I experimented with thoughts and images. I became sexually stimulated by the iconic Santa decorations and the color red when I thought of my appeal and even sang, "I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus," in my head. My lower regions began to throb at a level that put me on the verge of orgasm without any touch.

The throbbing stopped when I thought about Todd calling me a whore. Is that what he had come to think of me? Or is that what I have always been but feared awakening it?

It had to have been there in order to come out. But did I want it let out? "Damn! What is a whore anyway?" I heard myself say out loud.

"Don't you know?" asked a male voice.

I screamed and dropped a glass ornament that I was just about to hook onto a high branch. Then came the familiar sound of a fragile ornament shattering on the floor. "Don't move," commanded Todd, who headed off to the kitchen to get a broom and dustpan.

I found myself behaving irritably, and I snapped at him as he swept the fragments into the dustpan taking care to check the floor below my satin burgundy robe. "I thought you heard my footsteps, and I thought you were asking me a question," he explained. "I did not mean to startle you," he apologized while stroking my foot from just below my ankle across to my big toe.

I dismissed the importance of the ornament. Yet, I pulled away from Todd when he stood up and attempted to embrace me. I was short with him and sent him back to the family room to his football game. I went back to hanging ornaments on the tree and returned to my thoughts.

Suddenly, I found myself looking at some kind of fork in a road. There were three paths. The one pointing to the left read: Security. The one pointing to the right read: Struggle. The middle one looked as if it zigzagged across the other two, and the sign read: Becoming.

I knew I was offering myself a choice. I knew the path of Struggle, and part of me wanted to vent at Todd for daring to call me a whore. A deep part of me wanted to vent at him all the time since we lost our son. Maybe, I looked for excuses to vent instead of cry. Yet, both venting and crying over a loss so many years ago does nothing to ignite passion. It may have endangered Todd's self-confidence around assuring my happiness, and therefore threatened his virility.

I knew the path of Security. I could avoid confrontation and pretend that he had misunderstood my question. I could act as if I never heard him say that word to me. Yes, I could merely remain silent. That is the way Todd usually responded to problems. Yet, I knew the path of feeling secure due to not creating conflict can dampened passionate love affairs.

Now, I saw in my mind's eye some kind of zigzagging yellow-brick road path that touched upon the other two routes. I almost laughed when I considered the word "becoming." It means being attractive and flattering as well as the verb metamorphose. "Is there such a thing as becoming a husband's whore?" I wondered.

I went to the dictionary to look up "whore." I became irate as I read one derogatory definition after another. I was becoming more confused over what Todd meant, and part of me wanted to erase my appeal to Santa like deleting a video movie. That part of me wanted to go back to the safe, secure and dispassionate way of our marriage.

But, I thought of the third path and what this "becoming" might offer. So, I went into the spare room where Todd was watching football. I sat down in the matching tan leather recliner and pretended to watch the game. During the commercial I asked, "What did you mean by calling me 'my little whore' this morning," I asked without offering any preliminaries.

"I knew that was what you asked before you dropped the ornament!" replied Todd.

"Yes, but I was not asking you. I was asking myself, because I am disturbed by that word. It is derogatory to women. I could not find one good definition in the dictionary; they are all disparaging. Now, I am asking you, because I am confused by all of this," I confessed.

"It is not derogatory at all when used by a man who enjoys his lover. In fact, many men believe that the word was invented by women to threaten the ladies who enjoy sex more then they do. Maybe, the word puts fear into the minds of females, especially the attractive ones like you, in order to keep them sexually restrained."

"Then are only attractive women at risk of being whores?" I asked.

"Yes. But attractive does not necessarily mean outward appearance. It means becoming. It is a woman who is kind and eager to please from a genuine place of heart and who is comfortable with her sexuality. I would say that a whore likes sex and is good at it. Hell, in other civilizations such women held a very special status as courtesans and concubines."

"Go on," I encouraged.

"I now know that you enjoy sex. I never doubted it, but how could I really know for sure? Jeanette, there are times when you get so upset at me. So, maybe deep down I feared that you might not find me satisfying."

"But, a woman cannot fake spurting and gushing. Therefore, I know that you are taking delight in how I pleasure you, and that almost drives me crazy wanting you. You giggle and laugh after ejaculating like you have never done before in over forty years of marriage," smiled Todd.

"I feel like a young man receiving sexual enchantments from a sacred whore who has brought me back to life. It is as if you have become a regenerating fountain of cum elixirs. What more can I say? I love my little whore."

"Or maybe," he added, "the word 'little' should receive your objection. You are far from a little whore. You are my majestic whore whom I would offer my life devotion to in return for continued sexual favors."

I could feel falling tears tickling my cheeks as I listened to Todd speak to me from a depth of heart that I had never heard before. I wanted to unzip his zipper, reach into his fly, and allow my mouth to show him how much his words had moved me. But, I noticed the commercial break was over, and the game had resumed.

Instead, I said, "But you have always been devoted to me even though I was not always your majestic whore." And then, I thanked him for his honest candor and said that I wanted to finish decorating the tree.

"Wait!" called Todd. "You are wrong there, because you have always been my magnificent whore. You were just not ready to know it until recently. I am not sure why, but something in you has changed, or maybe ripened."

"Now, you seem to be allowing yourself to engage your sexual nature much more freely," he observed. "I always find myself imagining fucking you, but now you've changed. Now, I've discovered that passion has gone beyond mere thoughts. I get erections out of the blue, and they distract my attention from the stock market and even football. I constantly have to adjust my pants. Damn, it is as if I am twenty again!" exclaimed Todd as he held my eyes with a powerfully seductive gaze.

I giggled but told him that he needed to allow me to rest until at least tomorrow. I went back into the living room and continued unwrapping the trinkets. No two ornaments were the same, because each represented a year of our marriage. We even have some from our childhoods.

I had no system for packing up the ornaments. I just wrapped them in old pieces of tissue paper. So, revisiting each ornament involves the ritual of making quantum leaps back and forth in time. No longer preoccupied with being called a whore, my mind was free to engage memories that each elicited.

I picked up a round object covered with white tissue paper. A green globe with a golden embossed "2000" and stars shooting out like fireworks emerged as I took off the protective wrapping. My breath began to swirl within me, and my belly tightened. I almost felt faint.

I sat down on the couch out of fear that my legs would buckle from the weight of it all. That was the year that our son, Everett, died. His life was cut short just before he had matured into a young man of twenty. "Too many dreams left unmanifested," I thought.

I quickly shook myself away from thoughts that only lead to the threatening mires of moroseness. And so, like I always did, I changed my perception and embraced the swirl of energy as if Everett had again come to visit and to remind me that everything is just dandy with him.

Is that when I first discovered that traversing back and forth from the struggle of suffering to the stoicism of security actually created my own personal meandering path of becoming creatively engaged in life?

Now, my creative mind worked quickly to imagine that any heaviness of sadness was Everett's way of asking for my attention. Maybe, that is because I do not really think about him when I am happy.

Suddenly, I got the idea to imagine seeing images of his full life within the ornament. He even had a girlfriend, and I smiled at my memories of him making sweet love to her. No, I never walked in on them. But, I did come home early one day, and I heard them both. That was the only indicator that could truly let me know.

I listened for awhile before quietly retreating back to my car. Her moans coming through the door told me that my son had experienced the joys of lovemaking with a passionate young woman. Everett proudly shouted his announcement of coming ejaculation, groaned out his amazement, and crooned tender words of endearment. Yes, he had experienced being in love.

I did not know at the time that I would hold this memory so dearly. Todd and I agreed that we would not impose our sexual "hang-ups" on our son or daughter. We taught them that intercourse is a beautiful act when done out of love with the right person. That included using protection. Condoms protect against disease; love protects one's honor.

"Well, that was an interesting reflection," I thought as I hung the ornament on the tree. Yet, I knew that I was smiling.

The next ornament that came out of its cocoon-like wrapping was an old clear glass globe with a small Santa and Mrs. Santa kissing inside. I was taken aback for a moment, because I had forgotten all about it even though it was our first. Todd and I bought it to represent our engagement. "Ah, so many dreams made manifest," I said softly as I recalled the young lovers at ages eighteen and twenty.

Yet, so much of me believed that we had changed from those two young lovers. We had evolved into responsible parents, then to mourners feeling the need to hold up the morale of our community of family and friends, then to the newness of having a son-in-law, and now as golden-age seniors with young grandchildren. I believed that responsibilities and disappointments along the way had all but extinguished passion. I believed that Todd and I had become disengaged. But, I was so wrong.

My mind went back to shopping at the mall this morning. I overheard two women talking, and one said, "She looks just like a mom." I thought about how our daughter looks like a mom. Now, I realized that I never really looked like a mom. My closet is full of low cut tops and short dresses and skirts. My shoe rack is full of toeless slings with two-inch heels. I look sexy and feel good about how I look. I wondered what those women might have whispered about me.

And then it all seemed to hit me. I had been on that zigzagging journey of "Becoming" all along. We all are journeying in our own inherent way. I had always had the whore in me, and I was always becoming: adolescent, maiden, mother, and now moving into a seasoned and liberated madame reserved for only one. Okay, reserved for two if I count Santa.

I put the kissing couple upon the tree, stepped back, and then respectfully nodded my understanding to them. I pulled one end of the satin belt, and my burgundy robe opened to reveal my full breasts, navel and mons. I let the robe drop off of my shoulders. I knew what I looked like in the nude; a shapely full-figured libertine goddess.

It was only then that I became aware of the holiday music coming from the television. The game must be over, and for some reason Todd had put on music. A jazzy new song came on, and I began to move my body to the beat. I danced a sexy Latin step, and heard the words, "I just want to say, 'Merry Christmas, Baby!'

I danced back and forth across the hardwood floor. I moved around in circles and allowed my arms to move fluidly from above my head, down over my breasts, to bending over and slapping my bare buttocks while shimmying my shoulders. Ah, how my full breasts jiggled. And then I writhed my way upwards like an entrancing cobra snake while touching my slit with one hand and then the other. I engaged myself in a dance of liberation, and a fire began to build from within.

Suddenly, I felt hands upon my shoulders, and then Todd's naked body pressed against my backside. His body moved in tandem with mine; the beat was hypnotic. His hard shaft pressed against my ass, and I pressed back against him as we danced to the rhythm.

Then the music changed to the adagio song by the Moody Blues' "Happy Christmas." Todd's hands were upon my mouth. I swayed slowly against his belly. He pulled upon my bottom lip, and I sucked each finger that lingered.

Then hands moved downward from my neck to my chest. I felt his fingers cupping each breast reverently as we rocked side to side to the music. His palms moved down to massage my belly and fingers circled my navel; hands traveling in opposite directions as I heard the lyrics: "And so this is Christmas. Let's hope it's a good one without any fears."

I froze when his fingers reached my pubis and then stroked my clit. Fingers parted my lips and searched out my slit. The new beat of "The Drummer Boy" began pulsating through my body. Against all my will, wet fluids jetted out into Todd's cupped palm. My hips thumped against his pelvis while drumming and bagpipes urged me onward as his hand dry humped my cunt. I heard myself emitting mammal cries and groans as I came again upon his palm.

Todd then lifted me up as if I were a new bride. He had not picked me up like that for decades. He carried me to our bedroom and lay me upon the bed. "Towel?" I gasped. He reached down to the floor and grabbed a tee shirt cast off yesterday. He wadded it up and positioned it under my ass.

I raised my knees and spread my legs open to receive him. He was on his knees, and I raised my hips to meet his hard upright shaft. The rubbing force burnished my clit and begged entrance to my opening. A mixture of powerful sensations from burning to entrancing tingles caused my body to protest with a stream of lubricating elixir. Todd bent down and tucked his head between my legs to drink.

"Don't!" I exclaimed.

But the sensations of his tongue exploring me overcame my resistance, and I gushed and spewed into his mouth. And he drank from me for the first time.

"Ah, you are like the fountain of youth!" he exclaimed. "How is it that I cannot get enough of you?"

I wiggled away from him and rolled over onto my hands and knees while pushing him onto his back. I went down upon the naked swollen golden bulb. I moved my hand up and down his cock while sucking, licking, and teasing that tiny slit with my tongue. I took him deeply down into my throat and could smell the intoxicating musty fragrance as I buried my nose in his pubic hair.