The stains on her sheet mirror the pain in her heart. The times she said no exemplified by the orgasms she faked. To her love is but a fallacy, a phallus like a fist the sole purpose of which is to give momentary bliss to another yet discomfort to her. It is not as though she has traded her dissent for consent. She means what she says when she says no. No is not a come-on, not a tease to enlarge the swollen gland nor appease the shallow ego. No means what it says on the label so why don’t he read the signs?
The truth of the matter is her body is not her body it is his body to rent and rip and shred in the same way their marriage vows have been shredded. There is no sanctity in their union – he fucks her like a subway train, up the tubes before pouring his pleasure down a drain. She knows she is better than that. Every inch of her, little by little, gramme by gramme, inch by inch, pound for pound. She’s better than that, she knows she is.
He justifies his foreplay by claiming natural forces, says they dictate his desires. Mother nature turns an idle eye when pent-up passions provoke masculine impulses. Should she then throw a sharpened axe at his head when menstruating?
Image courtesy of Bea Serendipity