My Body As Currency

Dom R was in town, today. He asked if I wanted to see him, and I said yes. I meant it, at the time. Because I care for him. He was 100% there for me when I realised that my marriage was a lie and I had to leave my husband. R was loving and supportive, and such a great….. kid. He’s not much younger than me in years, but the differences in our life experiences is vast. So vast, in fact, that sometimes I’m almost certain he can’t see where I am and what I’m really struggling with.

He came to visit, and Summer took my littlest boy. My older son was out with his father, so that left me and Dom R alone…

“Do you want to go to your room?” he asks me, suggestively. One year ago, I would have jumped at the chance.

“If we go to my room, I’m going to take a nap,” I respond.

“Do you mean nap, or ‘nap‘?”

“I mean NAP, motherfucker. I’m tired. I have two kids.” I think that put a dampener on things. But FUCK. What the fuck do people expect from me? I had to go back to my vanilla job this week; I can’t stay out on maternity leave, no matter how much I love spending time with my baby, because I’m the sole source of financial security for my family; the ex pays NOTHING in support for the boys. Shoes on their feet, clothes on their back, roof over their head? That’s all my work. And in walks Dom R, who asks me if I want to go down to my room with him and give him a blowjob?

And do you know the worst part? The worst part is, I was tempted. Not because I was aroused and wanted to do it, but because he’s such a nice guy. He really is. He was there for me, and he had driven down, and I know he cares for me. A part of me kept pushing:

“Just do it. Just make him happy. Why not?” went the little voice in my head.

Why not? Because it’s MY BODY, and I DON’T WANT TO. What have I been doing for the past 6 months, if not working toward a life where I do what I want with my time and my body?

“He’s such a nice guy…” Yeah. Yeah, maybe he is, but I DON’T WANT TO.

Why am I fighting with myself? Dom R wasn’t pressuring me; it was all something inside of me, compelling me to just make things easy. Why resist? Just make it easy. But then, I suppose that’s how I got into a 9 year relationship with a man who would step over me when I collapsed in the kitchen, and told me to “stop faking it.”

Honey, I faked loads of things in our marriage: fake laughs at your jokes, fake interest in your stupid rambling, and not the least of all, fake orgasms. I sure as shit NEVER faked having asthma… but I also won’t be faking interest in something sexual, if I don’t honestly want to do it. That time has past.

In my head, I turned away from that voice, and let the comments get further and further away from me. Because my body is not currency for your niceness and time.


4 thoughts on “My Body As Currency

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