ADH and Pornography

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I wrote about this a long time ago. Probably more then once. Now it seems it's time to write about it again.

Face it. I'm just not that into porn, either.

It was in Tennessee. March maybe? I don’t remember. But it was still cold outside.

I could have been anyone. Leaning up against the brick window ledge of my miniscule soldier apartment, watching the cars fly by. One every 3 or 4 minutes. Feigning disinterest in the world around me as I focused inward and thought about what was going on inside. Pretending I could blow smoke rings with the frost of my breath – though I had never touched a cigarette. Not yet.

My new husband wanted to be adventurous. Wanted to involve me. Wanted to… get me to try new things.

No… My new husband wanted to look at bitches with better tits then me. Pretty, pink nipples. I envied. He lusted.

My new husband wanted to fuck me up the ass – guess he thought the “Anal Craze” tag on the side of the dull VHS tape would really lure me in. Convince me.

I know that I tried. Thinking back on it, I was at that point where I would have done anything to make him happy.

But I looked at the television. Looked at him. Looked at the hand draped casually around his erection. Looked down at myself and compared my body to the ones on the TV. Gathered every BIT of self esteem I had…and still it was not enough.

I left him there. Horny. Angry. Whatever else he was I don’t know. Don’t care. Didn’t then either. He was so disappointed, as I blushed and stared at the wall, just above the television, pretending to see. And hating myself. For my failure as a “cool” wife and for the way my stomach didn’t cave in just right, for my lack of…adventure.

I went outside. I guess I thought maybe he would follow me. Stop the movie. Pause the damn thing. Talk to me.

But I was alone on the little piece of sidewalk we “owned”. Every few minutes, maybe more often, I would try to peek thru the window. To see if he was visible thru the gaps in the blinds. I may have seen…something. I am not certain anymore. But I just waited.

I wasn’t sure how long it would take. I had no experience with these things. No stolen moments turning the pages of a Father’s Playboy. I think I saw a snippet of a rather…interesting…version of Cinderella once. I stared at it long enough to figure out what they were doing with corn cobs and spinning wheels, then flipped the channel. Never been around when it was time to gauge the timing of…male masturbation. I’d never seen…ANYthing. I was 19. Maybe I was sheltered? No simpering virgin, but certainly not knowledgeable. (Hell, I’m still not knowledgeable.)

I was offended. Embarrassed. Scared. I hated him for doing that to me. He tried to force the issue. I was so…belittled?

That ruined it for me, I guess. Pornography. He ruined it for me. But I didn’t miss it. You cannot miss what you don’t know. But I went for years…avoiding it. Hating it. Questioning myself as a woman, as a wife. I wouldn’t even watch the pretty soft-core that you often catch on late night Cinemax. Didn’t please myself. Was cold. I’ve been called “frigid” and a myriad of other almost insulting words ever since.

But I ignored it.

Until I started dating someone who was…addicted. I didn’t know right away, of course.

From the beginning, when I poked thru his bathroom cupboard and found a stack of magazines that would have made a whore blush. Maybe. Maybe I should have known?

I brushed it off. Eh. It’s a guy thing. He was single. He has me now.

But the women he liked to look at. To think about? They all had these…breasts. Breasts I would never have. Even with a million dollars in surgical implants. Breasts that could kill a man. Big Beautiful Women. Only to me they were…not really something to emulate.

I shrugged it off. I mean…skinny chicks with pretty pink nipples? I could be jealous of that. But women that were bigger than me? Why bother? Not like I was gonna eat Twinkies by the box just to be a size 30 and make a man happy. Nope.

It wasn’t until later, when I started finding the poorly hidden files on the computer. The Yahoo Group subscriptions. The misnamed .jpg folders. The pop-ups. The spam. The weird video link showing up on my desktop.

So I did what any (non) self respecting woman would do. I checked his email. There they were. Staring me in the face. All the subscriptions a man could want or need. More then enough, I think. The instant message chat archives that chilled me to the core. And then I found the movies. Hidden. Barely. Later discovering that it was not just the mammoth breasts and spread thighs that turned him on so desperately, but the secrecy of it all.

He lied to me about it… Maybe for years. “I didn’t sign up for that. I don’t know how that got there. That’s not mine. It’s just spam. I didn’t download anything. It wasn’t me.” The bastard was channeling Shaggy and had no idea.

At first, for a long time, I was…disgusted. Terribly hurt. Painfully shy. Desperately jealous.

We’d fight and he would intentionally go sign up for more stuff he knew I would find. Some sort of vindictive cruelty that even now I have yet to forgive.

Then I said to hell with it and started writing for an adult site that required adult links. Thought maybe I could…ease up about it a little. See if I could involve him. Try to…share it with him.

It only half worked. I became a lot less uptight. (I mean, look where I am writing now.) Pornography is not and probably will never be my thing – and that’s ok. But it doesn’t make me ill anymore.

Sadly, having him as a partner in crime just never succeeded. It was the sneakiness of it all that really did it for him. When I opened up and said, “Fuck it. Come sit with me and look at this chick. Is this a good link? What do you think?” he got bored.

We broke up a few years ago. Imagine that.

But I’m different now.

I suppose I still envy every beautiful woman I look at. And pornography continues to do very little for me, though I have not tried to use it in the way it was meant to be used. I’d rather read some lesbian erotica and play with a bullet for a few minutes. (Ok…maybe I’d not rather, but it’s about the best I’ve got right now.) I saw a movie not too long ago…some chick was fucking another woman. With her foot. Yeah. Gotta love that.

I don’t know if my self esteem was ruined by it or if that’s something that happened a long time ago. Probably a little of both.

My only recommendation, especially if I have any male readers (I know I do – hello you sexy creatures) is to try and approach bringing porn into your bedroom with a little, well, grace. Some of us, despite all pretense, are a little…nervous about that sort of thing.

I suppose I think it might have its uses. I don’t hate it. I’m not afraid of it. But it’s not for everyone. If you’ve got someone in your life who resents it or even despises it? (As many a femi-Nazi is prone to do?) Let them know you’re gonna indulge – don’t be a sneaky bastard – but don’t force the issue.

And that’s the ADH lesson for the day. ?

 

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ADeadHeart's Room

Former Domme and wanna be switch considers alternative lifestyles in Hickville. Man eating, spell casting drama queen and femi-nazi with no qualms about silly things like love, romance and other things that do not exist. If it's the thrill of the chase you want, it is certainly what you will get.


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