The Dark is not Light Enough

I am sitting here in the light waiting for it to begin. It must be soon, but I feel nothing yet except the pain of loss.

It has been many years now that I have kept the darkness at bay, but now the time has come when it must soon engulf me, and I shall not be sorry.

My grandmother told me that in nineteen forty four, with my father away in the army, my mother not long having given birth to me was diagnosed with an incurable disease. She travelled thousand of kilometres in the uncertainty of war time trains to arrive in Adelaide. There she was met by my grandmother into whose arms I was thrust with the words, "Here's your grandchild."

Shortly after this my mother went to hospital and there she died. I have no memory of my mother, nor for that matter my father at that time. When he was demobilised at the end of the war I still went on living with my grandparents. My father felt he was unable to care for me properly, and when eventually he married his new wife, whom I have always referred to as "Wicked stepmother," she did not want me.

So I was brought up by my grandparents in their strictly religious home until the time I married Mark.

I met Mark when I was sixteen through our attendance at the same church. From that time on I only had eyes for Mark. He was also brought up in a strictly religious home, one of its main dictums being, "No sex before marriage."

In my case a threat was hung over me that should I step over the bounds of the church's strict moral code, I would be sent to live with wicked stepmother. This was sufficient deterrent since wicked step mother was a strangely remote and a seemingly unfeeling sort of person. Her marriage with my father had produced two children – looking back now I wonder how they managed it – and this only added to her desire to keep me at a distance.

I went to work in an insurance office and there I began to discover some things about my female attractions.

To prevent any suggestions that I am engaging in an ego trip I point out that I have never considered my self particularly attractive physically. I was thin, and with what I considered to be an overly large nose curved rather like a beak. Yet there was something about me that seemed to draw men of all ages, whether they were single or married.

If I can point to anything about me that attracted men, one feature is my big blue eyes that some have referred to as, "Come to bed eyes." Added to that is an air of innocence, a sort of perpetual virginity.

I had men trying to engage me in what is now called, "A relationship," and several begging me to marry them. One poor boy, on my refusing him, ran off to join the navy.

As I have said, from the age of sixteen I only had eyes for Mark, my hero. My engagement to him at eighteen, joyful occasion that it was, ended up a nightmare of frustration. Whenever we wanted to set a date for our marriage his father in particular would object; "You haven't got enough money saved yet," was his usual cry.

By the time I arrived at the age of twenty four I had reached such a level of frustration at the delays that I broke down. The doctor told my grandmother that my marriage had been delayed for too long, but sparing her religious modesty he did not add that my breakdown had been brought about by sexual frustration.

That brought about the end of waiting. Mark and I married and that was a day of light and happiness – that is, until bedtime.

Despite the importuning men I came to the marriage bed a virgin, as did Mark. The first night was one of fumbling pain and frustration, and nothing like the glorious pleasure and gratification presented in the media.

The following years may have lacked the pain of the first night, but did not lack the frustration. Mark did not only prove to be an inadequate lover on the first night, but went on being inadequate. This might have been an early warning sign of what was to come, but I was too ignorant of things sexual to recognise it. I came to accept that what we did was the norm, and what I'd read about and seen on the media was all hype.

While accepting the situation I did discover a sexual passion in my self that Mark had no possibility of satisfying. Looking back now it seems amazing that I had no knowledge of masturbation, dildos or vibrators. Night after night I would try to persuade Mark into copulating me, and most nights I would end up crying as he used the excuses that rumour so often ascribes to women; "I'm too tired," "I've had a hard day," and eventually, "You're a sex maniac."

So I often ended up crying with frustration, unable to sleep because of my sexual hunger.

Despite the paucity of our sex life we did manage to produce two children during the first five years of our marriage. It was during the sixth year the first clear indications of things to come took place.

Along with no sex before marriage our religion had spelt out another; "No alcohol, ever."

By the sixth year of our marriage we still attended church but a much more liberal minded church. We met and socialised with people from the congregation who to our initial amazement did drink alcohol. This led to Mark and me imbibing during our evening meals.

This seemed harmless enough until I started to notice Mark drinking at other times. Over the following year his drinking increased, and with the increase went a diminishing of our already tenuous sex life and the consequent rise in the level of my frustration.

It reached the point where I was always ready for sex. There would be an ache in my lower abdomen, a constant ticking sensation in my clitoris and a perpetual wetness between my upper thighs.

The situation grew worse with Mark; increasingly he withdrew from me, and seemingly from everyone else. We agreed to sleep in separate bedrooms and all sexual contact ceased. Mark seemed to be locked into his own little world; apart from his work he was a friendless isolate.

Overall matters were made worse when Mark lost his job. This was a blow to his pride, and although he tried to hide it from me, his drinking increased. He eventually got another job, but now two blows fell in quick succession.

Mark was in the habit of rising early in the morning, around five a.m. One morning, after a restless night, I too got up early. I went out to the front garden to pick up the newspaper, and saw Mark standing there. He was wearing one of my night dresses.

For some time I had been puzzled about nightdresses and underwear that I had washed, ironed, folded and put away neatly in drawers. When I came to take an item out of the drawer they sometimes looked as if they had been disturbed and even worn; some things even seemed to be missing completely.

Now I knew what had happened to them; my husband had used and taken them. He was a transvestite.

I know now that some women don't mind this, but brought up in a narrow moralistic environment I was horrified. Mark was standing where any neighbour who was an early riser could easily see him, but he didn't seem to mind.

I was hysterical as I tried to drag him inside the house. I thought about the children seeing him dressed like that, or if seen by other children how mine would be treated at school. In my agitation I screamed abuse at him and came close to striking him, but my words did not seem to touch him. It was as if a steel shutter had closed over him, a shutter my words could not penetrate.

My revulsion was added to when later in the week he came to my bedroom dressed in panties and bras. He wanted to have sex with me, he even pleaded, telling me that dressed as he was he could perform sexually. I became hysterical again and flung ornaments at him, driving him from the room.

In the midst of this crisis the second blow fell.

My grandmother, morally stern as she had been, had always been a sort of pivotal point in my life, an ongoing security. She died, and I was grief stricken. Mark, who by this time I had come to see as lacking in sensitivity, was unable to cope with my grief, and shut down emotionally where I was concerned; I felt utterly alone in my misery.

It was at this time something happened that changed the course of my life. The only comfort and consolation I received came from people in the church. One day a prominent member of the congregation dropped in to see me, enquiring about my well-being. I poured out my grief to him. He put his arm round me as I wept my misery. He kissed me, and very soon we were naked in bed.

It was he who gave me my first ever orgasm. As I felt it coming I was frightened and begged him to stop, but he didn't; he held me tight and made me have the orgasm. For that I shall be forever grateful to him. The harrowing pleasure and the wonderful sense of peace that came afterwards were the real consolation that I needed.

My affair with him did not last long. He was married and well-known around the neighbourhood, and if he was seen too often at my house rumours would soon spread.

I wasn't in love with him, but he had taught me an important lesson; how easy it was to get a man into my bed. I only had to play "Little girl lost," and the man was only too willing to comfort me.

In quick succession I seduced a neighbour's husband, and then a man who used to work in the same office as me, and who had shown more than a passing interest. The latter was more cautious and used to take me to a motel for a few hours.

A couple more men from the congregation came to my aid until one particular guy stuck.

The marriage situation got increasingly worse with Mark drinking ever more heavily and becoming increasingly remote. His dressing as a woman also increased since he didn't seem to care how I felt about it, but he made no more sexual advances to me.

The guy who had an ongoing sexual relationship with me lasted for twenty six years. He was married and there was no chance of our getting together permanently. He would visit once or twice a week, and although the neighbours became fully aware of his visits, they also knew about my life with Mark and I had their sympathy, so no one gave me away to Mark.

That raises the point, why did I stay with Mark? To begin with it was the old reason, "For the sake of the children." There was also the hope that things would improve between Mark and I. Then the children left home and I wanted to stay in the house because it was my home.

Mark and I lived in the same house, but led separate lives. I had a wide circle of friends, Mark had none. As I have said, he was an isolate, so almost as a habit, I stayed.

There was one thing that helped me escape the tension of the home; I took up house sitting for people who were going away for a week or two. Mark seemed to be quite happy for me to go off on my sitting jobs, and it enabled me to entertain my lovers in complete freedom in whatever house I was sitting.

Yes, I did say lovers. I had found it so easy to get men, and despite the ongoing relationship I grabbed any half-decent looking guy who came within range. Television repair men, plumbers, electricians, in fact any man who came calling. Also I was able to draw on the males in my wide circle of friends.

I drew much comfort and pleasure from this almost frenetic sexual activity and the truth is, it was this that kept me living with Mark more than anything else. I told myself it was sex that kept me sane.

Throughout my forties and into my fifties I continued to have no difficulties getting men. But this eventually gave rise to a problem. The man with whom I had an ongoing relationship began to get wind of my other sexual activities.

At first he only hinted that these activities would bring an end to our relationship, but I failed to take the hint. Then came the time when his suspicions became certainties and this brought our relationship to an end.

It may sound strange given my promiscuous sexual behaviour, but his departure shattered me. He had been the one secure anchor in my life in my life since the death of my grandmother, and for days I cried.

My problems were added to by the fact that Mark was several years older than me, and his retirement was drawing near. I came to dread those days when he would be around the place all the time, thus constricting my sex life.

I was so distraught at that time that I had to talk to someone, so I told my now married children of my life and of their father's habit of dressing as a woman. They had long known about my sexual behaviour, but were shocked by the news of their father.

It was a dark time and I even took to drinking myself, plus taking valium. I was fifty nine by then and I seemed to have lost touch with my casual sex partners. Alcohol and valium did nothing to reduce my sex drive, and although I had long ago learned to use the dildo and the vibrator it was not enough.

Then he came into my life. He visited the house to fix up some computer problems I'd been having. He was young, less than half my age. He was the sympathetic type and I poured out my woes to him with the usual result; we ended up in bed.

Older women who have experienced younger men will appreciate how I felt. To have the tongue of an ardent young man in your vagina, to suck his pre-cum soaked penis, to feel his warm young sperm spurting into you makes you feel alive and young again.

I loved him – loved him to distraction. He found every moment he could to be with me, and I gave no thought of what was ahead.

Mark retired and as I'd suspected, he just hung around the house. I made a mighty effort and found more houses sitting and that, together with my visits to my lover's flat made life sufferable for me.

For two years I enjoyed my lover and tolerated the times I had to spend at home with Mark. He was drinking more than ever to the point where I hardly ever saw him sober.

That I was deeply in love with this young man I had no doubt and I felt it was the happiest time of my life.

How the gods like to play with us. It seems that it is as they have allowed you the greatest joy they maliciously bring you crashing down.

One day while house sitting I was expecting my lover. He did not arrive. I was sitting around already naked because he had said that that was how he liked me to greet him. I waited and waited, but he never came…he never came again.

I telephoned his flat, rang him on his mobile, and there was no answer. The next day I waited for him again, and still he did not come. In desperation I drove to his flat, to find it vacant with a notice outside saying it was for lease.

For many days I tried to contact him until one day I learned that he had got married and had moved away.

"All the time…all the time he had made love with me…all the times when he had spoken of his love for me, he's been…"

I was torn apart. I should have known…of course I should have known, a young man of twenty four or five and a woman now sixty two…and I had allowed myself to think…. In my distraught state I went home to drunken Mark. I wanted revenge but the object of my revenge was beyond my reach, so I chose Mark instead.

I told him about my life…about the men I'd had, wanting to hurt him…to hurt anyone. He was unmoved. He gave a drunken laugh and said he'd known all along and he didn't care. He even went on to tell me that while I was away house sitting he had had women at our house; women who didn't mind his dressing up.

"You can do what you like," he added.

I went back to the place where I was house sitting. It has been two days now since my confrontation with Mark. I see nothing before me. No more lovers, no more bedtime comforting and pleasure. It is all over.

I have drunk half a flagon of wine and swallowed all the valium, and now I sit here waiting.

I want to vomit, but I fight it down. The room is growing dark and I feel drowsy.

The dark is not light enough and I must stop writing because…