Parental Deception; chapter eight, part three

Chapter Eight; Part Three

Predictably, I start getting antsy, but I don’t want to disturb our fragile détente. I breathe smoothly and slowly, trying to expel the tension from my body. I roll my neck around, which helps. My leg is falling asleep, but I don’t want to move it because it’ll disturb Onyx. Rembrandt’s breathing slows down, and when I peek at him, I notice that he’s fallen asleep. He and Ginger are snoring in a compatible rhythm, and I wish I could join him in la-la land. I put Onyx on Rembrandt’s lap next to Ginger and move Jet’s paws off my thighs and onto the couch. I ease away from Rembrandt without waking him, then go outside to smoke. I’m not pleased with the way our conversation went, even though Rembrandt was more gracious than I had any right to expect him to be. What I wanted was for him to say he was fine with us being open, but I knew that was unrealistic before I even brought up the subject. I also know he won’t be happy that I left the couch, but what does he expect? For me to sit around meekly waiting for him to wake up? I’m working myself into a snit, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know it’s because I’m panicking at the commitment I’ve made to Rembrandt, as limited as it is.

“Hi, honey,” Rembrandt says, putting his arm around my waist. “It’s a bracing night, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say leaning back against him. He puts his arms around me and holds me close. I can feel his heart beating against my back, and it’s strangely comforting. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. I can feel the tension draining out of me as all the strawman arguments I had created in my brain melt away. Rembrandt is such a sweetheart, and any woman would be happy to have him doting on her. What the fuck is wrong with me? Maybe I shouldn’t even be dating if I’m dithering this much about having a wonderful man care so much about me. I push the thoughts to the back of my mind and try to stay in the moment.

“Can I stay the night?” Rembrandt asks, his voice tentative. I can feel his cock digging into my ass, and my body responds accordingly.

“Yes.” I turn to face Rembrandt, kissing him hard on his lips. He grabs my head and kisses me in return. There’s a fierceness to his kiss, and I know I’m in for a night of raw sex, which is fine with me. Sometimes, I want slow and gentle loving, but other times, I just want to be fucked. That’s what I want now, and Rembrandt is more than willing to oblige. We race upstairs, tearing off each other’s clothes as we go. By the time we reach my bedroom and close the door on three inquisitive cat noses, we’re naked. We hit the bed with a thud, and there’s little conversation between us. We’re totally focused on the business at hand, and I’m more than ready to fuck him. Normally, I like a fair amount of foreplay, but not tonight. I want his cock in me as soon as possible, and I push on his arm to indicate it’s time. He rolls a condom down his erect cock and thrusts all the way into me in one go. I bite down on his shoulder, leaving a distinct bite mark. He returns the favor on the back of my neck, and I moan in pleasure. I turn us over so I’m on top. I’m in the mood to ride him, and ride him I do. I slam myself down on his cock, clenching around him with my muscles as I do. He has his hands on my hips, but he’s letting me set the pace. I lean forward and kiss him on the lips. He bites my lip, and I bite his in return. Then, he grabs one tit in his hand while sucking on the other nipple. I know I’m close, so I speed up. I need to come now, no delayed gratification for me. My orgasm hits me in an explosion, and Rembrandt isn’t far behind. I’m screaming something as I come, but I’m not sure what. Once I’m done, I collapse on him. I have no energy or strength, not even to roll off of him.

“Girl,” Rembrandt croaks, his voice hoarse. I don’t know why as he didn’t say much as we were fucking, but I dismiss it as not important. After a few seconds, I flop onto the bed, a silly grin on my face. I hear the cats meowing to be let in, but I can’t make my legs work. Rembrandt rolls himself off the bed, staggers to the door, and lets them in. They scold him as they jump onto the bed, smack dab in the middle. The three of them twine around each other and promptly fall asleep. Rembrandt laughs and lies next to them. They are between us, acting as a barrier. I want to cuddle, so I move them, one by one, to my other side. Predictably, they don’t approve of that, but they begrudgingly comply. I scootch over to Rembrandt. He puts his arm around me and falls asleep. I’m content to lie in his arm for several minutes before I need to move again. I slip out from under his arm and go to the bathroom. I take a quick shower to wash away the sex funk, and it feels good. As much as I like sex, I don’t like to wallow in the fluids. When I whisk back the curtain, I see my cats staring back at me. I assume Ginger is still with Rembrandt, which is fine by me. I go down to the living room to check on my blog. I’m still receiving comments on my post on families, and I know it’s time to write my next post. I decide it’s going to be on sex.

There is nothing like the feeling of being thoroughly fucked. Nothing. Oh, I could sugarcoat it and say that it’s the emotions and the passion and the love. I’m nominally a lady, after all, and I shouldn’t talk frankly about sex, should I? Even though we’re in the 21st century, Americans have a weirdly Victorian view of sex. Yes, it’s everywhere, and, yes, it’s used to sell products, but when it comes to actually talking about it, we squirm around and shy away from it. We use euphemisms and nonsense words to describe sex and the genitalia involved. Have you ever read a romance novel? It’s all heaving bosoms and engorged manhoods and whatnot. No one can say vagina and penis, let alone cock and pussy. It’s hilarious to read, and yet, it’s also sad and discouraging.

I’m weird, I know, because I don’t romanticize sex. I really hate the idea that a woman’s virginity is the most precious gift she can give to her husband for so many reasons. One, if a woman’s virginity  is her only worth, then what happens when she ‘loses’ it? She becomes worthless. She has no value, and she might as well be tossed in the trash. Another reason it bothers me is because a woman’s sexuality is her own, and it is not something to be given away. She can choose to share her body with someone else, but it’s still hers. Thirdly, it’s a way of controlling a woman’s sexuality, which is still considered something to be tamed.

I don’t care if you wrap it up in religion—in fact, that makes it worse. Then, you’re just using some mythical god to justify your need to control a woman’s body. In some weird way, I would respect someone more if he just said, “My woman’s body is mine because I think I know better what to do with it than she does.” I wouldn’t agree, of course, and I’d want to kick him in the ‘nads for saying it, but it’s much more honest than, “My god has declared that I should be in charge of my wife’s body.” It’s cowardly to hide behind your religion like that, so just man up and own your own wishes.

Side note: It’s so funny how people’s gods often say exactly what the people are thinking themselves. No one’s god ever says, “Hey, you. You should be a slave and be beaten every day.” That’s not entirely fair as there are several verses about being humble and a servant, but funnily enough, people often ignore those verses.

I know I’m gonna get shit for this post, which, if I’m going to be honest, is probably part of the reason I wrote it. I don’t like being told what I can and can’t think, whether it’s overt or covert. It’s the contrary part of me—tell me I should be quiet, and I’ll simply raise my voice.

I don’t have long to wait. Within five minutes of posting my newest post, I get several comments about my heathen ass going to hell. I wonder if I’m on rightwing Christian nutter list somewhere in that the second I put up a post that mentions Christianity at all, I have comments hating on me. I don’t publish three-quarters of them because they’re in the same tired vein of, “You’re a whory slut who’s going to hell.” I’m bored of it by now. If someone is going to insult me, they could at least be creative about it. It’s as if they’re copy-pasting the same insults to a whole list of bloggers. Which they probably are. There’s one comment that makes me lift an eyebrow. SatansWorstNightmare writes, “Your tongue is sharper than a serpent’s tooth, and it needs to be tamed. I’d be more than happy to apply the discipline that you so desperately need.” I shudder and drop him in the loser folder. I mark it as important because he is seriously creeping me out. I don’t bother sending it to the police, though, because I know what they’ll say. “It’s just an email. There’s nothing we can do.” Policing hasn’t caught up with the internet yet, so internet stalking and cyberbullying aren’t dealt with.

There are a few thoughtful dissents as well. GodisLovenotHate writes, “I’m a Christian who believes that the primary goal of Christians is to love and serve others. It’s not enough to just say you’re a Christian if you’re not going to act like one. With that said, I do think sex is a sacred act that you cheapen when you do it thoughtlessly. It can deepen a relationship or tear it apart. I’m not saying it has to be restricted to marriage, but I do think that’s when sex is the best.” PraisingHymn adds, “I had sex with many girls when I was a teenager, but there was always something empty about it. I didn’t love any of those girls, and they didn’t love me, either. I became a Christian when I was eighteen, and I met my future wife at church. We waited until we were married before having sex, and I couldn’t be happier with my decision. Waiting made it even better, and we deepen our love every time we couple.”

There are a few responses to those comments. One, predictably, by MNborn. “Sex in my marriage was horrible because my husband was a selfish, abusive, asshole. He didn’t care about my pleasure—only his. Conversely, my man right now is the most generous lover I’ve ever had, and this is the best sex I’ve had bar none. We’re not married, and I don’t ever intend to marry again. In other words, it’s the partner, not the status of the relationship that determines the quality of the sex.” Sexysex says, “Sex is what you make of it. It depends on your mindset, not what some religion says about it. I can be reverent about sex without dragging God into it. Sex is about me and my partner—not some old guy in the sky shaking his finger at me.” BeeBeeGuns adds, “Sex is joyous and life-affirming. I get sad when it’s made to be a chore or a sin or all these needless restrictions are placed on it. It’s one of the most beautiful things in life—why make it so ugly?”

I am glad my commenters can discuss contentious issues without deteriorating into name-calling. I want everyone but trolls and bigots to feel comfortable on my blog. Yes, I’m a flaming liberal, but I’ve scolded other leftists for being jackasses. I’m not a group player, and I insist on basic decency in my comments. I think that’s why I have sincere Christians who comment on my blog without fear of being ridiculed. I’ve blocked rabid atheists from my site, much to their dismay, but as I’ve said time and time again, I will not stand for hate or bigotry on my blog.

“Hey, babe.” Rembrandt materializes in the room, a huge yawn splitting his face. His hair is endearingly messy, sticking straight up in spikes. Ginger is nestled in his arms, also yawning. They are so unbearably cute, I can hardly stand it. “Man, I sacked out hard.”

“You always do after a good fucking,” I say, smiling up at him. He plops down on the couch next to me, careful not to jostle Ginger too much. She snuggles against his chest and closes her eyes again. She’s asleep within seconds and doesn’t even flinch when Rembrandt sets her on his lap. She simply curls into a tighter ball and wraps her tail around her nose. Onyx, who is on my lap, reaches out her paw and pats Ginger on the ear. Said ear twitches, but Ginger doesn’t move otherwise.

“I read your blog,” Rembrandt says suddenly. I’m startled because it’s the last thing I expect him to say.

“What?” I ask inelegantly.

“I read your blog,” Rembrandt repeats. “You’re a good writer. Very personal. You know how to speak to people.”

“Well, thanks,” I mumble, blushing at his uplifting words. I don’t take compliments well, though I’m better at it now than before. In the past, I would vehemently deny any kind words, getting almost angry in response. Now, I just say thank you and change the subject as quickly as I can—which is what I try to do now. “How about those Vikings?”

“I’m serious, Megan,” Rembrandt says, refusing to be swayed. “I don’t think you know how good you are.”

“I know I can write well,” I say, feeling as if I’m admitting a crime. “But it’s something I was born with, so I don’t feel as if I can take any credit for it.”

“You have the talent, yes, but you’ve had to work at it,” Rembrandt replies. “Do not sell yourself short.” There is heat in his voice, and I’m not sure why. I look at him quizzically, and he understands my unspoken question. “My mom was a painter when she was younger, but she never felt she was good enough, so she gave it up when she became a mother. It’s a crying shame because she’s damn good.”

“Ah.” I get it now, and I like him for standing up for his mother’s talent.

“I read your post about feeling guilty about my eye,” Rembrandt says, staring intently at me. “You shouldn’t. It’s not your fault—it’s that psycho woman’s fault and only hers.” I flush because I don’t want him to have to manage my guilt as well as his recovery.

“I know it’s not my fault—intellectually. But, in my heart, I can’t help wondering if I led her on or that if I’d figured out it was her earlier, you would still have your other eye.” I gesture at his missing eye which is covered with an eye patch as usual. “Also, I’m sorry you read that because you just need to focus on your rehab, not on my guilt.”

“Megan, I care about you—very much. I don’t want you to feel bad for something that isn’t your fault. At all.” He hesitates and adds, “I don’t meant to be harsh, but it wasn’t your job to find Julianna’s killer. Kudos to you for figuring it out! You went above and beyond.” I want to snap back, but he’s right. It wasn’t my job to figure out who killed Julianna. I just had to do it because she’s my best friend, and I would expect nothing less from her if the situation had been reversed.

“You’re right, Rembrandt. This isn’t about me. It’s about you and your recovery. I’ll try to keep that in mind.” I squeeze Rembrandt’s arm, and he smiles at me in return. We sit on the couch, just cuddling, with our respective cats. It’s a nice way to end the evening.

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