OK, so here’s the “not-so-skinny” on me.
In January of 2012, I weighed my all-time high of 245. I’m 5’10” To the few people I shared this astronomical figure… they were shocked. “You don’t look that heavy…” I’d be told. There was a little comfort in that reassurance, “I was tall, I carried it well.”
Bull shit. I was huge. Fat. When I stared to grow out of the size 18Ws, I knew I had to turn this around. But how??
It’s not like I didn’t know I had to turn it around for many years. Each year after the birth of my babies a few more pounds came on. At 5 pounds a year over 17-18 years– well, it wasn’t pretty.
I was painfully skinny as a kid and teen. I was the kid who could eat anything and not gain. I tried high-caloric nutrition shakes. Clothes usually hang on me. Nothing helped. In my 20s a few men encouraged me to “put some meat on my bones.” I was a waif. If anorexia had been a disease back then, everyone would have thought I had it. One man made it his mission to “fatten me up.” Our job took us to home-style diners where the food was plentiful, delicious and fattening. I put a few on. And it did look good to have some curves to fill out my then size 5 jeans (which these days would have probably been size zero). I was active, loved high-intensity sports like skiing and tennis, but never was a fan of “exercise” or “working out.” I’d periodically try to run, swim, lift weights, take a class… but never established a good habit.
Well, once the floodgates were opened, my body did not want to take a look back. I think I first began Weight Watchers in my mid-20s. When I was a whopping 135 pounds. Huge. LOL. I’d lose a few, gain them back, plus some.
Fast forward to 19 years of marital challenges and depression. I began to emotional eat in earnest by year 4. All the bad stuff–cookies, sweets, chips. I’d bounce up and down. Early in our marriage,
after my first pregnancy, I had gotten back to 155 and felt good. Then more babies. More marital difficulties. More sadness, more eating, more weight. All the way to 245. Ugh. I hated myself, I hated looking in the mirror and at pictures, I hated my body. None of my go-to methods would work: Atkins, South Beach, Weight Watchers.
In desperation, I joined the local running group, and 2 nights after my first 2-mile run, my heart went into Tachycardia– sustaining 140 bpm, which required emergency medical intervention to bring the rate back down to “sinus rhythm.” Yea, scary as hell. The next time it happened I was conveniently at the hospital doing a stress test– rushed to the ER, this time they tried to chemically stop my heart to “reset it” back to normal rhythm and rate. Yes, scary as hell, didn’t work. Two long heart catheter procedures later (the last 6 hours) by a genius cardio-electrophysicist, my rhythm was “restored” with an 85% guarantee of lasting success. I still lived in fear of venturing far from home, and I was miserable. I was 53 and too young to stop living!! Although my weight wasn’t considered a culprit in arrhythmia problems (heart-electrical), and technically I had excellent Cardio-Vascular health (heart-plumbing), I knew something had to change.
I am so thankful I tried one more thing. I had been extremely suspicious of all the commercial plans out there with pre-packaged foods, but when I heard about Medifast and read up on it, it sounded like something I should try.
I went in it with intensity. I was serious. I stuck strictly to the plan, and to my delight the weight began to melt off. The encouragement I needed was to be able to step on the scale and see downward trends almost daily. It kept me motivated. Within about 4 months, 50 pounds was gone. Then over the next 3 months, another 25 went away, more slowly. I felt so fabulous. I began wanting to exercise regularly, trying different things: running, walking, weights, Zumba, Body Works, swimming, yoga and Pilates. Even thought I planned to go 15 less, buying new size 8 and 10 clothes for my 170lb body was fun (and necessary). I could at least hide the sags.
The sags. That was one of the things I hadn’t expected. Lots of skin, and lots of sag. That belly that had been stretched by huge pregnancies and later excessive eating, did not shrink back completely. My breasts although still riding high, looked deflated. It was a bit demoralizing, and I was sad that my swimsuits and skimpier fashions were not going to work with my new body.
That summer, I made a decision I was going to incorporate more “normal” healthy foods back into my diet, even though I still had those 15 more pounds to shed (at one time I fantacized about being 150 again… but tried to have reasonable expectations). I had really missed fruit. Just for the summer, I told myself.
I never truly got back to “the strict plan” after that. I’d do some variations of it, but usually cheat in some way. I definitely had healthier habits–I pretty much had eliminated wheat, gluten and carbs from my diet: carbs are like poison to my body (not only weight, but allergies and intestinally), and tried to go paleo. I almost always cut my restaurant portions in half and boxed a take-home. I avoided bad stuff… fried stuff, desserts, chips, snacks, chocolate– but not enough.
And the pounds have crept on again.
When I did my mommy makeover 7 months ago (hard to believe it’s been that long), I wasn’t at my ideal low weight. I think I was about 180ish. I just couldn’t get down and I didn’t want to wait any longer for the surgery. My healing and recovery was slow, and serious fat-burning physical exercise was impossible until I was nearly 5 months out. Over the months, which have involved lots of travel (always a dangerous situation with food and diet), the numbers on the scale have been creeping up alarmingly.
After our recent road trip, I stepped on the scale and saw 197. I couldn’t believe it, it didn’t feel like I’d eaten THAT badly, and we were active. I was crestfallen. At 180, I could still see the 170s. At 197 I see 200s again. Never. Never again. And the last thing I want to do is to ruin this surgery, and to be fat again. I just hope I haven’t stretched my skin too much already.
So I’m here “owning” this disgrace. I don’t even discuss my real numbers with DH, I’m too embarrassed because he’s only about 20 lbs more than me, and so much more disciplined.
- Back on Medifast. Nothing but Medifast until I see 170. Maybe 160. (since Wednesday, the scale is back 3 pounds to 194. Still horrible, but some progress–probably mostly water, DH has told me).
- Medifast means I seriously need to go back to weighing my proteins. No more eyeballing it.
- Medifast means I need to fill that damn Camelback water bottle AT LEAST twice a day.
- Medifast means I have to pre-package my daily foods and just stick with that.
- Medifast means no restaurants for a while until I’m in control. I can’t trust myself to be good. Definitely no Mexican restaurants where I justify that “fajitas aren’t so bad” as I scarf down the unlimited chips and salsa (queso and guac), and think corn tortillas are better than flour tortillas. Yea, right.
- Always have cut-up veggies ready in the fridge. Pickles. SF Jello. Other low-calorie snackies.
- Instead of just yoga/pilates each day, I’ll do another hour of more intense cardio, alternating days with an hour-long power pump (weight) class.
I really, really hate that weight has become such an issue for me, when at one time I didn’t ever think about it (other than how to gain more!).
But I’m not going into my next chapter of life with any further compromises to my health, my activity levels and my dreams.
Wish me luck.
(Oh, and as for DH–he’s in this with me, always has been. He’ll do whatever to help me stick with it…reach my goals… however we have long ago learned that him being the food police is not a good idea. He is a good encourager).
OK, so we’re a little bit travel weary– 8 days away, ALOT of one-on-one time. Together in close quarters 24/7. A little snapping at each other towards the end. We’re working on the finer details of traveling together and so much together time (i.e., I suggested each day we have an hour or so personal downtime). I totally and completely understand a need for some down time and maybe even a little distance. I mean, even the best of friends and lovers need a little break, right? My expectations were totally in check. In my little subbie head, I said, “He needs at least until the weekend to regroup.”
I was not expecting that paddling. And what followed.
Shivering and wriggling here a moment. Ahem. Excuse me.
He’d made a quick grocery run and I uncharacteristically asked him to pick up some fresh produce. I’m picky about produce, and usually do this myself. Among these was a cucumber.
Let me say, he enjoyed picking that veggie out. Won’t eat them cause of the burps… but he enjoyed his cucumber selection, and was showing it off to me in a very suggestive way when he came home.
Then I was ordered to the bedroom.
“Take a shower.” (I’d not changed out of the morning’s yoga gear).
The rest was wordless. No commands. No explanations. Just his total dominance.
I return to the bedroom naked and lotioned with his favorite orange-ginger.
That black leather paddle really, really stings. No warm up. He didn’t hold back. Oh my. Oh my, Oh my, Oh my. I was so close to using my yellow safe word. It’s not ever been this much. I was unaccustomed to the intensity, and struggling a little to get my head in the right frame. Deep breaths. Placing my feet so that my butt isn’t so taut. Relaxing into the pain I crave and love. I don’t want to scare him off by safe-wording too soon… Oh, geez, does this make me very, very wet…
At right about the time I’m thinking of safe wording, he stops the paddling. Wow. He’s reading me? He knew to take me a bit beyond? This is amazing.
He spent a few moments rubbing my very sore, hot bottom. Oh, that feels good too!
He pulls me to my feet and roughly draws me into his embrace. We make out, hands everywhere… everywhere… oh my goodness, he plunges his fingers in roughly and begins to rapidly finger-fuck me. I groan and whimper in the pleasure of being taken, of his assured, dominant moves. My knees are weakening…
And again, he knows I’m weakening. He’s reading me…
He continues to move decisively, dominantly. I’m pushed on my back to the bed and he already has the lube ready. Not sure I needed so much this time, but as dryness is a great fear of mine, I’m so grateful and turned on that he’s taking care of this. He’s reading me…
Dominating me is good for him. Do I LOVE this decisive, dominant man taking over.
The wand is intense for me… and I’m struggling to find my release. He is determined, ever attentive. I’m edging, I’m climbing, I’m enjoying his control. I’m trying so very hard to get out of my head and tip over into my climax.
“I want you to take my orgasms…” I whisper with hope. And it’s not for lack of his trying.
He gives me the gift of taking over the wand to try to find that sweet spot that will topple me. I consider this a good thing now, as his eyes are on this process, his hands are caressing my thighs, he’s seeing what works for me… what pushes me over: on–off–on–off-near, near, near.. and we have lift off: my clit can’t take constant direct stimulation. It likes that dance.
Five delicious explosions follow. He attentively takes in every one, every contortion of my pleasured body, every toe curl, every leg stiffening, every back arch, head toss, the thin veil of perspiration on my face, the gasps. He’s watching the anatomy of my orgasms. And that is very, very sexy indeed.
“Am I your Dom?” he asks as he pulls me into spoon with him as my aftershocks rock my body.
“Oh, yes sir.”
(FYI–NOT a fantasy)
I can’t recall exactly why, but I was having a bit of a bratty morning. Perhaps it was because it was our third night in the smallish queen bed and I hadn’t slept well; or maybe it was too much togetherness on this vacation.
The day before we had accomplished an incredibly difficult, steep, and strenuous climb to a canyon rim. At moments I wasn’t sure I was going to make it, so it was a triumphant feeling when I reached the summit more than a mile later, and more than 1,000 feet higher. My heart continued to pound hard in my chest through the rest of that night, as I lie in our bed trying to fall asleep. Three years ago, without warning, my heart rhythms went crazy with tachycardia, and after several very intricate surgeries later I was “cured.” However I still live in fear of that condition returning. I keep this worry to myself.
Today as DH and I drove along scenic roads with fall foliage, amazing vistas, rivers and canyons, I tried to express to DH both about my bucket lists, and my wishes for end care. I know, crazy thoughts. Our parents are aging and facing those issues of aging, particularly when one partner’s health and mobility deteriorates more quickly than the other’s. It becomes a sad dance where the weaker partner hates that the stronger partner feels fettered and held back, and the stronger partner may feel overwhelmed and resentful in caregiver duties.
I knew a couple in their 50s—vital, smart, healthy, fit, educated, and world travelers. They were so vibrant, and then in her mid-50s she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Her decline was gradual, but eventually she required 24 hour care and for her safety, he had to put her in a full-time care facility. That healthy, strong, fit woman’s body kept her alive for at least 15 years after the onset of the disease. I wept every time I thought of their situation. Eventually, to his credit, the husband began to move on. I know this may have been a difficult decision, as his wife was still “alive;” but she was not the person he’d married any more—she didn’t recognize him, she was just a shell. He saw to it that she had the best care, but he went on with is life—traveling, having a new companion, living to the fullest.
I often think of this couple and I am adamant that should something like this ever happen to me, or if I become otherwise seriously incapacitated to the extent that I can’t live life at the same level as my partner—I don’t want to hold him–or anyone else—back from living a full life. I’d want him to enjoy life to the fullest. I’m not saying I’d want to be abandoned; I do believe we made a vow to care for one another no matter the circumstances; however if I mentally was not the same person he married, he needs to move on with his life, just do the honorable thing and make sure I’m cared for.
I know this is heavy-duty talk. And I am not sure my husband agreed with my philosophy. I am afraid he was concerned that this thinking would go both ways. I would never abandon him; and I believe he’d also never want me to stop living life to its fullest. But he didn’t really say as much. He certainly hasn’t realized my fatalistic thoughts today.
Eventually he told me that I was talking too much.
Yes, that hurts.
And yes, I do understand how he might feel this way. I can go on and on sometimes.
So I got silent with my thoughts as we drove along. Oh, my muse becomes so very active in such moments. I began to write my thoughts into my iPhone notes app: why was I obsessing over all this now?
Today, I had really wanted to go horseback riding in the mountains. I LOVE horses. I rode as a kid, and I would have loved to own a horse. Stick with me here… it all ties in. I love doing adventurous, active, even daring and crazy things. DH doesn’t like all the same things I do, but he’s often been a “good sport” and gone along because he knows I love something. He reluctantly said he’d go horseback riding with me if I really wanted… but he was quite unenthusiastic about doing this. I was resentful, talking myself into being a good submissive and not insisting on my own way. If he really didn’t want to, I didn’t want to force the issue.
So now after being chastised for talking too much, semi-denied my horse riding adventure, and the strenuous the climb yesterday… my thoughts vomited out on my iPhone notes app:
I want to suck every drop of juice out of life that I can. I don’t want to miss any opportunities for adventure! I want to: ride a horse in the surf at sunset; sail the Greek island; ski on every continent; ride on the back of a Harley; visit Antarctica; visit the Galapagos; Safari in Africa; climb Machu Pichu; scuba the Great Barrier Reef; see the aurora borealis; tour the US in a motor home for 6 months… before my heart says, “I’m done…”
Whoa. What brought all this on? I have expressed most of this list to DH, but I think sometimes I overwhelm him when I give him my bucket list. He wants to do many of these things too, but he doesn’t have that same sense of urgency I do. So I know today’s funk has a lot to do with the fear that I’m going to miss out on something in life before I (or he) have time, health, energy to accomplish it.
“Why do you care if you miss something?” he had asked me with frustration during this trip as I obsessed over knowing our plan each day, researching all there was to do. He often prefers serendipity, stumbling upon surprises.
“Because I don’t want to think that I’ve missed something.”
“Who would care?” he asked.
“I would. I’m here now, I don’t know when I might ever return. And if someone says to me, ‘Oh, did you see xyz there?’ I’d be upset I hadn’t.”
DH just shakes his head at me.
I don’t get to finish writing my bucket list into my phone. DH takes a sudden turn off the road onto a dirt path.
WTF? I have been trying so very hard today to be submissive, understanding, to go with the flow and his treasured serendipity, even though I really did want to go horseback riding. But going off the map was not my idea of fun, especially in a cheap compact rental car. I bit my tongue as he drove the car higher up the isolated dirt path. He had my attention now and I looked up from typing into my phone.
He pulled the car into a grassy area.
“Get out…” he commanded.
“Huh?” I frowned. What the heck?
“I’m going to fuck you here.”
GULP. WHAT? I’m sure my mouth was hanging open in shock.
“Don’t you want to?” Oh please, don’t ask me… just DO IT! I think to myself.
“Uh… yes sir…” I stammered as he came around to open my door. “But- uhm… well… we don’t have lubrication…” I whisper.
“We’ll figure it out…” he says gruffly, leading me towards a stand of trees. He pulls me into him and gives me a searing kiss, as he unbuttons my shorts, and pulls them and my panties down to my hiking boots, and delivers several hard spanks to my naked-to-the-sun bottom.
Oh my. I look around. Is that the wind through the aspens or is someone coming?
He drops his pants, and I stoop before him and take him in my mouth. I feel the breeze on my naked backside, the tickle of the grass beneath me, the sun beating down, the heady scent of the outdoors.
He pulls me up, turns me around, and enters me from behind. I support myself with the tree before me, and close my eyes for a moment and enjoy the fullness. I whimper as he moves in me.
Damn, this is sexy… and scary… and daring…
And very bucket list-ish :-)
And life affirming…
When someone has good humor, they are a popular person to have around. Everyone loves a good laugh.
I’d like to think that I have a good sense of humor, fairly evolved (meaning Three Stooges never did it for me). I’m not good at making jokes or making people laugh, but I enjoy laughing at things that are authentically funny. I’m pretty picky about comedians—the ones that get overly vulgar or deadpan often don’t do it for me. I loved Robin Williams’ humor—it was highly intelligent, quick, witty, often self-deprecating– seemingly effortless. Joan Rivers was another story. I hated how she used humor to cut others down, but when she turned it on herself, it was funny. Lucille Ball is one of my favorites, she truly was the Queen of Comedy especially in the I Love Lucy days. Carol Burnett also could make me howl.
I know that people are authentically surprised and delighted when I show my profane or humorous side—it’s not a frequent mode for me, and it’s very dry and quick, sometimes sarcastic. They don’t see it coming because that’s not my public persona, and generally I’ll only open that side to me to people I trust. It’s always fun to see the double take when they realize I’ve actually cracked a joke.
However sometimes I feel like a humorless person, the worst thing you can be. Mostly because, for my dear husband, humor is very important, and in his eyes he doesn’t feel I appreciate his enough. I admit he’s somewhat right. His humor often evokes eye rolls and sighs from me rather than laughs. I’m accused of taking myself too seriously.
No one wants that thought of them.
And I hate that about me. I want to be a fun person, and I want to appreciate his gift for humor. It is such a huge part of who he is.
He realizes my issues about humor, understands them, but he still feels disappointed that I can’t trust him on this.
As a kid growing up, the kind of “humor” I was mostly exposed to was sarcasm and belittling humor. If I wasn’t the brunt of it, it was a relief, however I grew to pity anyone who was at the receiving end of Dad’s sarcasm. And, of course, that was the kind of humor I learned how to offer up—ironically, to be told by Dad that “sarcasm was the refuge of a weak mind.” I couldn’t win.
In school I was teased a lot, mostly by the boys. When younger, I’d melt into tears. I was such an easy target, and I grew up in the era when no one blinked an eye about bullying. It was a national pastime, and it became a feeding frenzy sometimes. I had a thin skin and clearly was upset when teased. It made most of my high school years miserable. If ever I tried joking or fighting back, it seemed to get worse and meaner. I’d be told, “just laugh it off” when you’re teased. Tried that too, and it seemed to get worse because they’d say I was an idiot for laughing at their put-downs.
(And this is why I went back for one, and only one, high school reunion about 10 years out… because by that time my self-confidence had grown, I carried myself proudly, and I was secure with my looks. I had to go back to at least show them what losers they really were… )
Hand in hand with the humor for me is the sense of not being taken seriously. Once again, Dad made it his life’s ambition to tell us kids how ridiculous we were. We rarely got a pat on the back, an “atta girl,” or “good job.” When he couldn’t avoid acknowledging when we did something exceptional, he’d dryly “joke” “What, just an A? Why not an A plus?” or “Ah, it’s not half bad…” or “Not too bad for a girl.” Looking back I realize he was dealing with some serious insecurities about his own IQ, due to academic difficulties growing up. And despite becoming a good student, obtaining a Masters, and working in some highly placed positions over my lifetime, I still had insecurities about being taken seriously. If someone was laughing, I was certain it had to be about me.
I’m insecure, I know it. However few other people would ever guess this about me. I put on a very good show of confidence and capability. DH even says I tend to intimidate people with my abilities or smarts.
So in spite of my knowledge of this past conditioning, I tend to always be on the defensive when humor seems to be at my expense, when I want to be taken seriously. It pulls at something inside me on a very visceral, little girl level. On the outside I’ve learned to show the expected response—I smile, I laugh, I try to joke back. Inside, I’m often cringing or crying. I’ve improved, and if I don’t have a personal relationship or anything at stake, I generally just can laugh and not feel targeted.
Enter DH. He is greatly appreciated for his sense of humor by friends and family. During our whirlwind, long-distance relationship, the only times I witnessed his humor was in social gatherings, and it was great to see how much his humor was enjoyed by others, to see others laugh at his clever quips and jokes. However in our alone moments, he didn’t employ too much humor during our courtship, unless he was cracking jokes about others or situations we both were familiar with. I liked this light-hearted side of him. He and his lifetime best friend always are vying for the funniest guy award and it’s amusing to be in their company as they try to one up each other. The humor is dry, double-entendres, and intelligent (rarely coarse or stupid—OK, sometimes stupid guy humor).
However after marriage, when his teases and jokes turned to me, I would get my feelings hurt. It dredged up those old feelings of the past of being made fun of or not taken seriously. DH wouldn’t get the reaction he wanted from me, and I’d grow upset and resentful. I am sure 90 percent of his jokes were innocent enough, not intended to belittle me, but it just often felt that way.
Our kids love his humor. He’s the Dad who will mug for a silly selfie with them, or repeat a phrase or a joke when least expected to crack them up. I try to engage in the fun, but I’m too uptight to be silly. I always hated silly pictures because I was insecure. I always feared being laughed AT because I was considered pathetic, rather than funny.
I discovered that humor was also a way that DH deals with stress or tense moments. He frequently tries to lighten a heavy moment with a joke. For most women, when we’re having a serious discussion, we don’t appreciate humor, we feel it is an attempt to diminish our issue/problem/concern. D/s has been like that for him too. He has to keep humor running through it to process it, I guess. Yet there are just times that I’d love for his Dom face to not crack into a boyish grin (accompanied by some silly quip) as though D/s is the biggest joke to him.
Sexy time has also been rife with humor for DH. My gut reaction—insult and insecurity. At a time I want my man to express how turned on he is by being with me, he’ll crack a joke. Yes, I am overly sensitive, but sex is usually a vulnerable time for most people and jokes don’t always fit. Having fun, laughing, yes. Sensual teasing, absolutely. But jokes? There are few jokes I can think of that enhance a sexy moment. To his credit, he’s gotten much better. I think he gets that a naked person doesn’t like jokes that may or may not allude to a defect in anatomy.
DH wants me to trust him enough to realize that he would never make a joke at my expense or to belittle me. It’s hard for me to explain to him that this just isn’t that easy. I don’t want to squelch his fun, I don’t want to be a killjoy, and I want to support and appreciate his humor. But if it directly involves me, I feel targeted. And there is also that other 10 percent of the time when his humor is sarcasm, a put-down, whether he’s willing to admit it or not.
We recently watched some of his family’s old home movies—the silent kind. Most were Griswold-type family road trips. There was my DH as a young boy, Mr. Hyperactive, cutting up, making faces, face-bombing the camera, teasing and annoying adults and peers alike. You could see his family members’ reaction—he was the cute little imp they enjoyed, to a point. But there were a lot of shaken heads, eye rolls—and silent sighs. But, DH’s humor was there from the start. It is part of him.
This 60 year old man thinks it’s hilarious to lightly brush his skittish wife’s neck 200 feet underground on a dark, creepy cave tour. His jumpy wife tries to be equally humorous and reach behind her and grab his package in retaliation. OK, that was a fun exchange… But then he kept it up. I wanted to say, “That stopped being funny five minutes ago…” but instead I managed to maneuver myself way ahead of him, placing a dozen folks between him and his teases. Calling him down on humor usually gains me an accusation of being no fun or too serious.
We hiking on a very strenuous primitive mountain trail. It was tough, and I was proud and euphoric that I made the steep, challenging, trail. As we were in our descent, he stopped to take a leak (which I admit, I do tease him for). I was around the bend ahead of him, so when he approached, I gave him a full flash of my boobs. He grinned a little, and that was fodder for a whole array of jokes later.
“Did you like seeing my boobies in the woods?”
“Man, those mountains were something…”
“I was like deer in the headlights…”
OK, I’ll admit, funny jokes. Not mean. He had several others that I can’t remember now. Non-stop.
“But… sexy?” I finally asked. Yeah, I was teasing, but I was trying to get a SEXUAL response from him.
“Uh, yeah…” and some other jokes followed. He has an endless array.
I sighed. Yeah, I sigh a lot.
“Some men might find something sexy and arousing about that… and I guess some men can just see the humor in it,” I remark. Yes, I was being a tease, trying to be fun, but deep down I wanted to be alluring to him. For him to gulp a little and think, “Wow, those are MY boobs… My wife is sexy…”
I love his humor. I know I’m overly sensitive sometimes.
And sometimes… sometimes… I’d love for him to give me a passionate moment that doesn’t involve my underwear on his head.
So, lately I’ve been barraged with info on the Little Girl or Baby Girl model of D/s. I’ve been teased and accused of it. Dear friends write about it with descriptions I can relate to in some cases. Yet I staunchly resist such appellations.
Mind you, I don’t really care that anyone else likes this “dynamic.” To each her own. Whatever works, whatever rings your chime… go for it. Most of us who have been pursuing this lifestyle of D/s for a while are far beyond the “labels.” We just know it works for us.
The personal problem for me is the word/concept “Daddy.” My husband will never ever be my “Daddy.” I can’t regard him in this way, I can’t call him that name, and he wouldn’t go for it either. That’s just us. A lot I will admit is my own incredibly, awfully F-upped relationship with my own abusive father. A man who insisted we call him Daddy while he was emotionally and physically abusing us. Sometime in my 20s, I realized how ludicrous it was to continue speaking this tender, loving honorific to a man who did not deserve it. Daddy inferred that he had taken care of me and loved me dearly. I began calling him “Dad.” After all, he called his own father “Dad” or “Pop” (the latter of these I felt sounded a little coarse) as he would verbally abuse him. Dad, or Daddy, was a bully, pure and simple.
I do get the tenderness in that name “Daddy.” It connotes someone who loves and cares for another person sacrificially, tenderly, protectively. In The South, it’s not uncommon for women to call their husbands this. DH is a wonderful Daddy to our kids. The girls who are near 20 will still call him that now and then and I think it’s precious. I think he loves it too. Adult son would think it’s weird or sissy (and DH might agree). I have to admit, that on the rare occasion when my grown kids will say “Mommy” to me, my heart melts.
Am I a woman who desires her main man to treat her tenderly and lovingly, protectively? ABSOLUTELY! Am I screwed up by mixed signals from society that say I need to be tough-as-nails in the world to be taken seriously as a woman? To a degree, yes.
I learned I couldn’t show my emotions, which equated to weakness, in the business world. Once I knew I could trust a male colleague, they got to see more of the gentle and tender me. I am so grateful to have had quite a few amazing male mentors in the career world, but there were also an equal number of chauvinists, sexists, and opportunists. The more my quotient of male mentors grew, the less the likelihood another man would dare act ugly or inappropriately with me. In a sense, these male mentors became sort of like big brothers, and I appreciated their dedication to helping me navigate the waters of a very male-dominated career (and I “repaid” them by a work ethic and loyalty of the highest caliber–these men who protected/mentored me knew that they would get nothing but my best work and that I would strive to always make them look good). I won’t lie, it never hurt to be a tall blond with shapely long legs– I could work it, I knew I wasn’t hard to look at, and that most men enjoyed my presence because, as Athol Kay would say, it increased their status to have a good looking woman sharing their company. I recall at one function of celebrities, Harvey Korman commented to my boss about the stable of beauties he had surrounded himself with. In the environment we were in, it paid off to look your best, but hell, it was chauvinism at its worse.
But I digress. I never, ever allow my vulnerable side to show. It’s always been too much of a liability. And now this. D/s. Submission to my husband, who I think wants nothing more than to take care of me like a “real man” does. Lots of years of distrust, concern about giving over my control, worries of depending on someone only to have the rug yanked out from under me. Slowly I’m “letting” DH take care of me, his wife. He also takes care of our children, as their Daddy.
And I can’t relate sexually to someone I’d call Daddy. Maybe he will treat me as tenderly– or spank me as harshly– but NO DADDY image.
Ironically, retired life isn’t all roses and rainbows. There are stresses even in the process of planning our calendar to make sure we are taking care of everyone–visits to kids, visits to family, upcoming holiday plans, and also attempts to “enjoy” travel together. I pride myself on my “travel agent” abilities. I research and research, put the puzzle pieces of air travel, lodging, rental cars, packing, pet care, etc. all together, get DH’s approvals, and usually end up with a pretty decent trip. It is a lot of work. I have high standards. I want to be economical but I abhor substandard lodging. I balk at the usurious rates surrounding college football (hotels that triple their rates on home game weekends, and allow 2-night stays). We depart tomorrow for 8 days; a few weeks later a football game (purchase tickets, find hotels, plan travel) to see our most distant CK; and then a week later another trip to move Dad and tack on some fun time for us. Lots of shuffling of dates, calendars, credit cards. Overwhelming.
I asked DH to sit with me and help me with the football tickets… it was too confusing, too many different sale sites. Things weren’t coming together as I was hoping. Hotels were outrageous. DH was getting impatient and snappy with me. When I finally hit “next” for the payment, I began to enter the info into my calendar app. I realized that was the weekend the other CK was planning to come home.
And. I. Just.Lost.It.
“What’s wrong?” he was still snapping a little.
“You’re being mean to me,” I sobbed into my hands. I don’t think I’ve ever said that to him. What a babyish thing to say.
“What? No, I’m not…I’m… well, I don’t mean to…” he begins, the tone of his voice beginning to soften with concern. He comes quickly to me on the couch and puts his arm around me.
“You are stressing over nothing. It’s OK! Why are you crying?” His voice is now soaked in sympathy. He rarely sees me sob.
Wow. This got his attention. I didn’t do it for that reason. Normally I’d suck it up and just be very pissed at him for oh, maybe the next 3 days. Or week. Think all sorts of awful things about him.
“I know it’s not that important, but I’m trying really hard, and you are snapping at me. I get to make mistakes sometimes, ya know?” I whimper.
“I’m sorry, I’m not snapping at you.” Well, now you’re not, I think to myself. But you were before. “It’s OK, DH. It’ll be OK. You put way too much stress on yourself. You are too hard on yourself. I don’t like you doing that. I’m not judging you. It’s OK!”
Wow. This is kinda good, I think to myself. It feels nice to just spill and be vulnerable and a little girl for a moment here. Yeah, he’s right. He’s one of the men in my life who doesn’t keep moving the pegs to prevent me from succeeding. He doesn’t get his jollies out of “gotcha” moments.
I allow myself to sink into his arm and take some deep breaths. I’m still beating myself up over my imperfection… and he gives me a few spanks to remind me not to let myself get so stressed…
But at least DH loves imperfect me.
Conclusion: No, I will not admit that I’m a “little” or a “baby girl…” however I won’t deny that it feels good to allow him to take over, take care of me, accept me for who I am, flaws and all. I think for me, that’s just called love.
We had a fun day today. A gorgeous puffy clouds blue-sky day. We took a little day trip to the seaside, we browsed in shops and DH had his favorite fresh seafood. It was an easy and laid-back time, no real schedule, no real agenda other than escaping the mundane ‘burbs, just being serendipitous, and eating at his favorite place.
As we strolled along and through beachy shops, I kept cracking risqué and naughty jokes to him. One store had handcuffs, and naughty dice, and he reminded me we already had a similar deck of cards at home (note to self, we need to break those out!). We saw a few t-shirts that made us giggle. At the Henna tattoo place, I mused at what sort of tattoo I would get… pointing to my bikini area and suggesting “His” with an arrow (no tattoo—not our scene and not a turn on for him at all).
I dragged him into my favorite candy shop, and we salivated over the chocolate cases. We both picked out some deliciously naughty delicacies, and he chose a dark-chocolate covered Twinkie as one of his treats. That began a whole rash of new ribald jokes… I told him I loved eating his Twinkie… and well… uhm… he mentioned the cream, not me.
It was a hot day, perfect for the floaty little sundress. His favorite blue panties and bra beneath (although he doesn’t seem to pay much attention to the lingerie issue, it means something to me that it’s pleasing to him and conjures up a good feeling. So, whenever I’ve asked him to “choose” my panties, he seems to like the electric blue ones).
As we walked along, I asked him, “Would you rather have a prude wife, or a naughty wife?” He smirked a little (signifying that my questions was loaded and he really didn’t have any choice to answer), and said “Naughty—but just the right amount of naughty…” (again, a joking reference to a SNL skit when General Patraeus’s Mistress is parodied at a book reading of “All In” and quoting a supposed dialog with the General—“Am I a dirty girl, Sir?” “Just the right amount of dirty…”).
As we sat in the upscale restaurant waiting for our food to come to the table, I excused myself to the ladies’ room. While there I slipped the blue panties off. Just as I was reaching our table, I saw the waiter with our tray… I beat him to the table by a nano-second, leaned over DH’s shoulder and whispered.
“Will you please hold these for me?”
I LOVED IT. I finally caught him by surprise. His automatic reaction was to take what I was offering to him. Upon seeing it was my panties in his hand (neatly folded up), he fidgeted a little, glanced nervously at the waiter who was setting the tray down, and slid them quickly into his pocket.
I sat across from him with a shit-eating grin, suddenly all sweet and proper in my panty-less state, and put my cloth napkin back on my lap. He grinned at me but tried to make the reproachful, “you are in trouble” eyes.
When the waiter had left, I smirked.
“I love being naughty,” I said coyly. “And my legs are open right now,” I teased.
DH recovered quickly, and didn’t make mention of it again, a bit to my disappointment (his intention).
After he’d finished his meal, he excused himself to the restroom. Hmmmm. Would he? After all, he’d used the restroom when we entered the restaurant…
When he returned to the table, he deposited his HUGE whitey-tighties into my lap. ACK!!! I had only my teeny-tiny Coach purse with no room in it, and here was the waiter coming back to the table. DH grinned a big “I so got you back” smile at me.
“We need to get you some sexier underwear, sir,” I whispered, but then slouched down in my chair, slipped off my sandal, placed my bare foot on his crotch, and wiggled my toes. He chuckled but tried to remain straight-faced.
“DO NOT PUT THEM IN WITH MY TWINKIE!” he growled.
So I did.
We left the restaurant in our silly moods and made our way onto the beach. I cannot be near a body of water or beach without putting my feet in the water, which we did briefly. The sea breeze wafting up under my dress to my naked kitty felt so wonderfully naughty. I took the skirt of my sundress in my hands, swishing it seductively, and I kept angling my body towards his eyes, trying to get an angle where Joe Public wouldn’t seem me flashing. He knew what I was up to and kept moving to foil my attempts. At one point, I think he realized that I was naughty enough to do this, public eyes or not… and he got his flash of my naked bottom.
On the drive home, I kept hiking my dress far up my legs so as to once in a while flash him a little naked kitty. The bright sun was hitting my legs full-on (which isn’t so flattering on 50-something thighs, sigh). I noticed peaking out of his pocket were my missing blue panties. Every now and then he’d teasingly reach over as if to diddle me… but he’s such a careful driver, he didn’t fully execute the move.
I didn’t get any funishment for my naughty or bratty behavior last night when we got home… but I’m hoping he’s just saving up his energy!
Oh, and did I mention I LOVE BEING NAUGHTY?
If you’re a wife for whom things have gone flat or stale in your love life– it’s time to break out the “naughty girl.” Most of our men do enjoy this girl. Teasing your husband tells him how much you desire him and want his attentions. Anyone else have a naughty girl story? I know in comparison mine are pretty low-key… but for us old conservative lovers, sometimes it’s just the little teases that go a long way…