random fictitious encounter #2
isiah, it has been seven years.
seven years in this tiny house in maloneville, utah. these floors i have scrubbed, windows wiped, carpets beaten, over and over and over. my hands adorned with callousses, not diamonds. no velvets, damask, satin here. i am no jezebel.
no jezebel, after the five children of yours i have carried in my womb. five babies that leeched and sapped the life from my body. there is no twinkle left in these eyes of mine. red stretchmarks yawn over my stomach like badly-sewn seams, breasts shrunken like deflated balloons. i would weep at my reflection in the early days, but you told me this was part of God's plan, that he would provide, that pride was a sin. and i had faith in you.
i wasn't counting on the upgrade.
you brought her home one day, five foot eight, ten years younger. your second wife. this is one of the perks of being a mormon man and one of the trials of being a mormon wife. i sobbed until i almost burst with anger, and plates were thrown, faces slapped. but i adapted to it, because what else was there to do?
the first three months you would alternate between our beds from night to night, but this diminished over time. excuses were made. i would lie between my sheets alone, fists clenched, shaking. the worst nights though were when you would come to me reeking of her. the scent of another woman smeared over your body, and i was expected to perform my loving wife act for you. lie back and think of eternal salvation. it made me retch.
lying here now, i can hear you and her through the thin walls of our house. moaning and creaking. one flesh. this isn't love or anything close to it, this is your indulgence. a threesome sanctified by your church, your god.
but tonight isiah, i am going to commit a mortal sin. onanism. a shaking hand up my own cotton nightdress, stroking and tenderness for the first time in i don't know how long. parting myself like the waves of the river nile.
my fingers like keys in the lock of myself. i am free.
seven years in this tiny house in maloneville, utah. these floors i have scrubbed, windows wiped, carpets beaten, over and over and over. my hands adorned with callousses, not diamonds. no velvets, damask, satin here. i am no jezebel.
no jezebel, after the five children of yours i have carried in my womb. five babies that leeched and sapped the life from my body. there is no twinkle left in these eyes of mine. red stretchmarks yawn over my stomach like badly-sewn seams, breasts shrunken like deflated balloons. i would weep at my reflection in the early days, but you told me this was part of God's plan, that he would provide, that pride was a sin. and i had faith in you.
i wasn't counting on the upgrade.
you brought her home one day, five foot eight, ten years younger. your second wife. this is one of the perks of being a mormon man and one of the trials of being a mormon wife. i sobbed until i almost burst with anger, and plates were thrown, faces slapped. but i adapted to it, because what else was there to do?
the first three months you would alternate between our beds from night to night, but this diminished over time. excuses were made. i would lie between my sheets alone, fists clenched, shaking. the worst nights though were when you would come to me reeking of her. the scent of another woman smeared over your body, and i was expected to perform my loving wife act for you. lie back and think of eternal salvation. it made me retch.
lying here now, i can hear you and her through the thin walls of our house. moaning and creaking. one flesh. this isn't love or anything close to it, this is your indulgence. a threesome sanctified by your church, your god.
but tonight isiah, i am going to commit a mortal sin. onanism. a shaking hand up my own cotton nightdress, stroking and tenderness for the first time in i don't know how long. parting myself like the waves of the river nile.
my fingers like keys in the lock of myself. i am free.