Our desires, even as they lurk in the deep recesses of our soul, run freely in our bodies, like our blood flow. But contrary to our blood’s circulation, which enters and exits in or out of our hearts in a straight path, our desires do not follow a clear route. Often, they go forward or backward, or their path may collide with misplaced or lost desires, creating disturbing turbulence inside our minds.
In our daily lives, we do not stop and ponder about our blood unless a blood vessel is ruptured, like an Aneurysm, or its flow is interrupted, like a heart attack. Then, it becomes an alarming emergency.
In the same fashion, we don’t think about our desires until their pressure is such that they explode in a hysterical attack or after we repress them so harshly that they emerge as compulsive rituals.
They become unbearable and disturb our daily existence.
It is then in the silence of the night or our solitude that these desires come to assail us, holding hostage our minds and spirits. Only releasing the passion built up by these unfulfilled desires will decrease our inner torment.
On rare occasions, unknown forces coming out of this realm may be the only ones to free our desires.
I
She sighed, trying to avoid a confrontation. Then she gave him a good, long inspecting look, the type she took whenever she was at the grocery store deciding whether to keep an item. She knew what he wanted. After a brief pause, she looked at him.
“I really don’t feel like arguing again tonight,” Jillian said, turning around and heading toward her room. “The answer is no”.
He was furious. He was about to explode again but stood in the wall that separated their rooms. Lost. One more night without sex. He felt entitled to an explanation or at least another lame excuse, such as being tired or that she had a headache, which were her usual excuses.
Their routine was well-worn now. Mark pleaded, at times demanding intimacy, only to be coldly rejected. He reacted with an explosion of anger. She would then clam up, shut down, and refuse to engage further, walking away from him. Defeated, he headed to the spare room, his default matrimonial suite.
It was no longer clear if he requested sex because he wanted it or just because that is what a married man is supposed to do. Or, in the most cynical or utilitarian of ways, if it is available, why not try to get it?
By the time this story was written, they had grown distant. They could not get over the mutual resentments. Jilliane’s list of accusations was long. She accused him of not being there for her, leaving her to raise the kids alone.
She complained to her younger sisters that Mark was “a controlling, a demanding Narcissist,” and she resented that he kept her away from her family. Julliane never forgot to mention her indignation after “I’ve given him the best years of my life… he never gives me credit for anything I do; he takes me for granted.”
Mark had a laundry list of his own. He accused her of not being supported while he grew their business or failing to back him off whenever he faced numerous challenges threatening it.
“She nags to no end…, so fucking entitled. God forbid I say I need a day off… she’s like a slave driver…with her, it’s all about the money”, he often said. But he felt that she was more concerned about spending it.
“It’s all about appearances…keeping up with the Joneses”, he said.
Their differences seemed irreconcilable.
The finger-pointing sessions became routine. They soon started talking less and looking past each other, if not overtly ignoring each other. Jilliane devoted herself without reservations to her children’s care. “They’re my life,” she said.
He found solace in his business and weekend golfing. He dreamt of his retirement and the day it would quit the grid for good. The prospect of getting a Hilton Head Beach condo was all that he thought about.
The silences became longer, and at some point, they became roommates. All commonalities, pleasantries, birthdays, and anniversaries died the same painful death of their passions.
II
“The thing is,” Jilliane told her best friend and next-door neighbor, Kathie, in their daily kitchen table therapy sessions. “I don’t even feel sexual anymore… I feel gross, bloated”. The friend nodded, reflecting a deep understanding of her feelings.
“I know Jill, I know… all they care about is getting laid. They take you for granted, don’t help you around the house, just sit on their asses watching football, and then they want pussy”.
Their conversation would inevitably derail into how long their days were and how there were not enough hours for all the things they needed to do. Jilliane mused that she thought once the kids were gone, it would be easier, but it is not, “When I’m in bed, my mind never stops. My thoughts run like a TV that is never shut off”.
The friend, Kathie, identified with her friend’s frustration.
“I tell you, Kath, it was getting out of hand… with his snoring, I couldn’t even sleep,” Jilliane confessed.
Kathie opened her eyes widely as if waking up from a stupor or she had hit a nerve. “No way!” she yelled.
It was the first time Jilliane confided they were not sharing the same bed.
“I can believe it… that’s exactly what happened with me and Bobby,” said Kathie.
Jilliane got animated, “Sometimes I can’t stand the sight of him.”
They spend the next hour comparing notes and sharing laughter about the romantic aspects of sharing a bed with a C-PAP wearer husband. However, Kathie was not being completely honest; she also had a C-PAP device. After she packed more than thirty pounds during her second pregnancy, and her deviated septum remained not corrected, her snoring worsened.
“Ha, ha, ha,” they had a belly laugh. “One night, I jumped from my sleep after I heard a loud, hissing noise; I thought it was a gas leak.” Said Jilliane.
As Kathie looked puzzled, Jilliane explained that the masks must have fallen off his face. She told him to go to the spare room. They had slept in separate rooms for a few years now.
“Between the damn mask, his demand for sex, I just about had it. I need my sleep”, she explained to Kathie.
It was a fun conversation, but Kathie needed to go.
“I need to get home; I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The travails of her friend always brought joy to Kathie’s heart. Not in vain, the sage once said, “Misery loves company.”
III
Jilliane was not in the mood for arguments this evening, but she knew that he would be again asking for sex. -He has been hounding her for weeks-. It was Thursday, and that was his “Horney day”. She tried pacifying him. Perhaps a nice conversation and a nice meal together would suffice. It had the opposite effect.
Mark saw that she did not appear angry, so his hopes were up. “Maybe I get some tonight,” Mark thought.
Mark never prided on being a sex machine, but after his stamina and sex drive took a dive, he took his doctor’s advice and started Testosterone treatment. It turned out to be the right decision. He felt renewed. He was now energetic and often getting morning “Bonners”.
He made his careful advance. Jilliane, frustrated, replied with a maternal, condescending tone, “Hon, I take a rain check… maybe tomorrow”.
The statement reminded him of his mother’s answers whenever he pestered her, wanting a toy. His mother made the same empty promises, never to be fulfilled, to get him off her hair. Jilliane knew well that she was no longer interested in having intercourse with him. He knew as well.
Mark became a fan of watching porn online. But not for it; he was less frustrated and angry. The skin of his hand was not a substitute for her warm vagina. He did not see any point in starting a fight, even as he was ready to explode again. He was unable to get over the thought that it was time to end their charade. There was no hiding it any longer. Maybe they needed to talk about divorce.
IV
Over the years, Jilliane became a creature of habit. Monotony and rituals inevitably find fertile ground in housewives. Once their kids grew up, Jilliane became more fixated in her home. It was as if she had a built-in radar detecting any minor irregularity in her home space. She prided herself in saying that she was a detective.
Nothing would happen around her or move out of place without her watchful eye taking notice of it. The house was her sole domain. Mark was just another object in it. She scanned the walls with obsessive attention to any minute imperfection. She ran a daily inventory of her space and what items needed to be cleaned or rearranged but never disposed of. Getting rid of any house article, regardless of its utility or not, was sacrilege, an unforgivable violation of her sacred right of possession. Having more, it was a good thing. Having less was unthinkable.
She enjoyed time in the bathtub before bedtime. “It’s time for myself,” she liked to tell Kathie. It was time for her candles, scented oils, and all those gimmicks of no proven health value that made her feel she was doing something to improve herself.
She dozed off briefly in the tub but, seconds later, sprung out and headed for the mirror. “I need Botox,” she said every night. She then grabbed the bottom of her boobs as if weighing them, nostalgically remembering her faded youth. She turned around and looked at her rear; she was heavier, but she still liked her body. Her ass is still firm, and her boobs were not sagging.
Jilliane knew that guys in the office secretly wanted her or at least enjoyed checking her out. She said to herself that she was not the cheating type but truly enjoyed being a subject of desire. -What woman in her fifties does not appreciate being desired? – Quickly, she removed the thoughts from her mind. One fleeting thought she could not avoid. She was still a sensual woman, capable of orgasm.
The years of marital estrangement did nothing but build up her sexual needs. She became a deep reservoir of unfulfilled passion. After she reached her forties, Jilliane got a newly found joy for sex. Her orgasms became more intense, profoundly felt, and widespread. Often, during that period, she even thought that she enjoyed having sex with Mark. But, for the past few years, having sex with him was out of the question. Her vibrator would have to do.
Time heals all wounds, they say. But also erase the traces of our path. Once, a renowned Spanish poet said:
“Caminante no hay caminos, se hace camino al andar… Al andar se hace camino y al mirar la vista atras, se ve la senda que nunca mas se ha de pisar…para que llamar caminos a los surcos del azar”.
While traversing marital life’s road, they lost sight of each other and could not find the road again. Time deleted all paths leading back to their known commonplace.
For Jilliane, all she had to look forward to were pent-up desires, compulsive shopping, and the promise of glorious babysitting days for her grandchildren.
For Mark, all that life held in storage was the promise of a secure retirement, a South Carolina condo, and a joyful time on the green.
For both, the cumulative weight of almost a decade of resentments, disappointments, and ill feelings was all that was left.
There were no longer household distractions. Their kids were gone. It was only Jilliane and her private longings. Mark and his business and golfing escapades.
V
Jilliane hopped into bed. She could hear her husband snoring next door. “One of these days, he’s going to choke to death,” she thought. He must have forgotten to wear his C-PAP or just ripped it off his face in his sleep. Either way, she did not care. She jumped out of -bed and closed her door. – She needed her sleep. – However, she did not lock the door; she knew there was no need. Mark knew better. The last time he tried to sneak his way into bed, looking for sex, she made him have it. He knew better than to wake her up.
She tried reading some book, “Fifty Shades of Gray,” that Kathie was raving about, but she kept drifting off. Jilliane found it too arousing, like flaunting a sirloin steak in front of a hunger-stricken, homeless person. Even though she had never been into S&M stuff, in a twisted way, it was like the attraction of the unknown. The fascination that some girls have with danger and bad boys. For her, it was too painful to read, like burning a brush without the means to extinguish the fire.
Jilliane thought again about Kathie; she was well-intentioned. They understood each other’s plight.
“It’s not that I don’t love my husband,” one of them would say. “… I’m not in love with him,” the other would finish almost simultaneously.
She fell asleep. Her thoughts drifted from the quicksand that her marriage became to the restoring darkness of sleep. The night was cool, but the room was cold. She was comfortable and not battling with her hot flashes; she was not wearing panties anyway. One fact of menopause and hot flashes is that the less clothes you wear in bed, the less you suffer. It’s easier not to put on underwear than to remove it in desperation in your sleep. The distant whirling of the fan also helped.
Jilliane dreamed of floating balloons, hot air balloons, in a festival, like the one in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She was happy in her dream. A lot of happy faces were around her. The amalgamation of colors against the clear blue sky made them all smile. The dream stopped. The balloons flew away.
Julliane was back in the darkness of her sleep. Then, she felt a warm breeze, very comforting, covering her. It was pleasing. Her nipples touched her silk blouse. She felt some arousal. She started moving around as if fighting her sleep or her sensations. Her skin was electrified. She was restless, perhaps afraid. Was she dreaming again?
She felt a presence around her but could not tell who or what; she thought that she was asleep, but she was not; she was neither asleep nor awake; her arousal was undeniable. She concluded that her husband must have found his way to her bed, but she dared not open her eyes and risk the escape from her pleasures.
The tension in her body grew like a coil being squeezed to its max; opening her eyes risked, like releasing a coil, an outcome no one knew what would be. Plus, her body craved the sensations she was experiencing. The presence was enjoyable and arousing. She felt an unusual softness, an inviting caress, compelling her to lay on her stomach as if following instructions.
The warm presence, like a sea breeze, covered the entire length of her back, down to the arch of her hips. She was no longer cold. It was more than physical, as some electricity traversed her pores. She felt some weight on top of her, but it was not heavy, more like a pressure; not oppressive but affirming, as if something, or someone, was wrapping himself around her, possessing her. Her breathing accelerated. Then, there was no doubt she was having sex. Somebody, Mark, was in her bed, and she did not care. She refused to open her eyes. No harm no foul!.
She moaned as her body heated up, and wetness filled her leg’s inner space. The warm presence seemed warmer and harder. There was a noise like a whisper coming from the ocean. Then she lay on her back as if inviting the warm presence to enter her without regard. She needed to alleviate her tormenting desire. There is a point in the arch of desire where the wanting pressure feels like pain.
Her breathing grew desperate, her pulse irate. She pushed against an overwhelming force that tried to get in. Reflexively, she tried pushing it away from her, but at the same time, with double intensity, she wanted it inside her. Jilliane surprised herself. She wanted her husband to take her, like a hungry beast, with unfettered passion and without regard.
She did not smell Mark’s musky, old man’s odor, yet she supposed he was there. Jilliane was too intoxicated by her desperate desire to contemplate the scent or make him stop. She was filled with pent-up sexual tension and wanted it released.
Abruptly, the warm presence, like a cylindrical, hardened wind tunnel, forced its way in and filled her inner cave. It was animalistic and ancestral. He was possessed by lustful spirits while, with fury, he hit the walls of her desires. Then, with his repeated pounding and thrusting, all Jilliane’s deep desires exploded.
A giant geyser bathed her shores. It was not the destruction of a body but the unveiling of the most hidden secret of nature. The full possession of one soul by another has been completed.
Jilliane was no longer in control of herself. Something, someone, presumably Mark, robbed her soul once he hit the thin space between pain and pleasure. She screamed. How not to?
An explosive orgasm bathed her pubis’s shores. Her anatomy was inundated by sweat and the unfettered fluids of passion. She was exhausted. Jilliane has not felt such a sense of fatigue, relief, and happiness since she first became a mother. Something extraordinary had been accomplished.
“Only pain can reveal the greatness of our creation,” said once a great Psychiatrist.
She wanted no more; her tortured passion was released, and her hunger had been satisfied. She was free. Jilliane fell asleep again. She dreamed that, like a leave, she floated down a stream.
VI
The alarm clock rang, but Jilliane slept for a few more minutes. She finally woke up. She touched herself, and immediately, the memory of the night came to her mind. The bed reeked of sex. Jilliane looked for her husband in bed, but he was not there. She thought that he might have gone back to his room afterward. If he only knew that, he earned the right to stay.
She completed her morning rituals and left the room ready for her day. Mark walked at the same time, rumpled, as if he had gone down a hill in the woods. His usual morning looks. Jilliane smiled.
“Good morning, Hon”, she said.
He has not heard that in decades. He looked at her as if she had gone mad. He grumbled.
“Mark, you should have warned me that you were coming. I almost got scared”, she said.
Mark looked at her again in disbelief. Going back to her room after the way she trashed him last time was the last thing on his mind.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Mark asked, expecting the worst.
“You know…what got into you last night? You were like a Bull. It was like you were eighteen”.
He was now in shock.
“What? … don’t start some shit with me, I was not in your room “.
P.R. Thompson
5/18/2024
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