The thing with being a woman and walking in on your partner when he's wanking, is that since guys are so visual, it's pretty darned hard not to notice what they are wanking to.
It takes a certain amount of mental strength and clarity not to personalize things like oh I don't know, certain morning exercise shows. I don't think with women, and maybe I'm being sexist, but form my own experience I don't think so, you aren't going to walk in on us wanking to Playgirl, yuck, or a muscle flexing, television show.
When I was with Robby he would always be so weird and sneaky about his sexuality. Scott is so much more loving and open, kind and gentle. I remember being so hurt when
I was much younger and in between jobs or had the day off and we were moving and I was the one at home, and the moving men came snickering out of our bedroom with the mattress. When I went to see what was so funny I found Robby's hidden stash of porn mags laying on the boxspring where he had been stashing them.
I really don't have any problem with wanking to imagery of other people. I certainly respect and understand the need to enjoy and explore one's own body and sexuality. But with my ex it was always something that he kept so separate and secret. Plus we'd go for so long without making love and there I'd be, laying in bed in the next room hoping he might want me, and there he'd be jacking off to some false juicy Goddess. He always made me feel like I was so much less than whatever he wanted to pretend he was having sex with, and it hurt. The same thing with porn videos or that weird semi blocked porn channel, where you can still catch a glimpse of a bobbing head here and there. It was always, "Hi honey what are you...oh I see, secret, separate, illicit television sex. Oops sorry." I always hoped he'd invite me to join him or say, hey come look at this with me. Plus he was so insensitive about it. One of the most painful memories along these lines was the time we were staying at a hotel and I was so hoping we could be loving and sexual together and I had gone into the shower with the baby to join him and he got out abruptly. So we played in the bath for a while and then I thought I would put him down for a nap and grab my man. But when we came out of the shower, there he was standing over the bed, dick in hand, radical hard core porn mag spread out before him, and a bottle of Astroglide in the other. I had just had a baby, I needed so badly to feel loved and wanted again, and he had actually taken the time to bring these things with him. I think I would have even been fine with it if he had been honest, if he had ever said anything like, hey baby it's just porn, fun, part of my sexuality, it doesn't reflect on you or anything I need you to be or do, I just enjoy it. Or if he could have said, Hey sorry, I was really wanting you baby, come on over here. But it always felt like, damn it's you, can't you just fuck off for a while, so I can be with my imaginary porn babe.
Whereas with my current partner, he will connect with me in the moment without shame, call me over for a kiss or talk to me, and then come check and see if I'm feeling insecure or affected in some way, and smooth my wounded female soul. Good kind sweet man. This morning was so nice; we were cuddling and he said the nicest things. He told me I was the curator, the tour guide and the docent of the museum of cute. then later he said, "Oh look it's the angel exhibit. How nice. Soft," and patted my hair. There was one more really loving and sweet thing he said but shoot I've forgotten. I tend to forget the wonderful things, acclimated as I am to ruminating on the painful, so it helps to write the good ones down. Nice night and morning with my Scotty.
I'm still trying to figure out how I'm going to round up the funding for Burning Man. I think I'm just too comfort oriented and out of shape to go without my own toilet and power source. I cold get by with my jeep and a small Uhaul for our stuff, we could bring our own shade structure and live on dry goods and water for a few days. But with my interstitial cystitis, wacky knees, and how easily I get nailed by heat exhaustion, standing in those long lines for the porta potties would be hellish for me. To say nothing of the grossness factor. SO I'm still working on the motor home issue. Since my Mom pulled out her funding support at the last minute, because well, damn, that might cost her a couple pairs of new shoes from Saks and a blouse or two, I've been scrambling to assemble the financial resources. I live so close to the margin and since she committed to defray the cost of the motor home, the biggest expense was covered. I just wish I knew some wonderful person with a spare Airstream trailer, that was just aching for someone to take it out to the desert, where a whole bunch of really wild, and sometimes wasted naked people would dance around it. It seems pretty clear to me that I would not make a suitable candidate for the new season of survivor in The Outback. Oh blah.
I realllly want to write this article about Burning Man for this online magazine, and take my beloved photographs. My favorite Black Rock City photographer is Super Snail. Photographing people and things at Burning man is such joy for me. I LOVE photography and nudity, and when you combine the two, for me, you just can't ask for a better photo opportunity. There's nothing else like it anywhere, it only comes once a year, and every single year it always seems like this will be the last.