Nation...I have known for quite some time that every life touches so many other lives, mostly in ways we can never see. I raised my daughter with that knowledge, always trying to have her see that everyone has something positive to offer - sometimes you gotta dig a bit.
When I read the posts I have previously made, I cannot believe they were written by me. I feel like a surfer, riding the waves in an ocean of raging hormones. Cowabunga, dude!
More often than not, I cry while reading...how can this porr person even go another day? Then I realize "omg...it's me." Then I cry harder.
Yesterday was an exceptionally bad day when I started blogging. I had some heavy concentration on how the husband paid me very little attention at all, save to berate me. I have a feeling he is probably on the borderline of a depressive crisis. I hadn't really taken the time to consider that possibility, instead focusing on me and my overflowing pity-pot.He received a phone call yesterday morning from a friend of his; the friend's wife had a cousin who was indicating they wanted to stop drinking but couldn't, or was scared, whatever (I didn't ask many questions as this is not a matter for family discussion). The husband made some calls and started what became a sort of telephonic intervention, which in the end was for naught as the woman felt better after several hours (of people paying attention to her; it seems to strengthen the fortitude of an alcoholic, to know they haven't totally screwed up yet) and wasn't quite ready to stop drinking.
All in all, just a few hours wasted in the attempt at helping another human being. The husband takes these interventions (as well as complete sobriety) extremely seriously; it's life or death for him. But it gave him a purpose for the better part of the morning. I made sure to let him do what he needed to do, and busied myself with laundry.
After his first set of calls were made and lots of reading was done. he came into the bedroom where I was folding and gently came up behind me. He made it clear, quite quickly, what was currently on his mind. I stretched to fold the towel out before me and he reached around, supporting both my breasts in his hands. "God, they're so heavy. They feel fantastic."
I can't even remember how long it's been since he even said that to me. He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled me in between his legs, and rubbed his thumbs over my nipples through my very thin shirt. My nipples have no conscience and were ready to make their demands known. He slowly lifted my shirt and again held my breasts in his hands, eyeing them appreciately. "They're so lovely" (yes he said lovely - I couldn't believe my ears) "god, they're perfect." And then began a too-short demonstration of the oral worship of heavy, perfect breasts. It was like a hit-and-run; then he was gone. I was left wet & giddy.
After dinner - hours later - we were watching tv. I was laying on the cat, using her as a pillow, he was sitting near my feet. He leaned over and started rubbing my back and neck, then reaching around...god it was wonderful! I sat up wanting to continue the oral worship of earlier in the day, but instead was manually convinced to go back into the bedroom for a proper servicing.
I don't know if there is a moral to this story or not. But I felt alot better after a bit of positive attention, which I'm sure became available because someone needed positive attention from the husband. Maybe like "paying it forward". I'm not even sure, I'm still on cloud 9.
Gay hormones.
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