2020.10.28 05:24 arielle_portraits Mature naked mothers
You don’t have to actually read this. This is basically my life story because I’m either addicted to retelling it and the pain or I’m still trying to process it. Or both. So I’m just ranting.
TL;DR: I escaped my narcissistic mother, she turned my siblings against me and made them hate me, I’m dating one of the best people I’ve ever met, we’re jokingly proving who loves who more by bringing up scenarios, title pops in my head, I start weeping.
I am turning 15 in December but I am very mature for my age, both mentally and physically. I have a long-distance boyfriend(16) that I have a perfectly healthy relationship with; we both have set boundaries that we respect, we communicate when we feel something is wrong, we know to talk to the other before doing something, we’ve discussed how comfortable we are with sex and what the minimum age is for that and if we were ready(which we are not! I am way too young!), we discussed how and when we would break up if we did, we shared our doubts and thoughts and ideas, etc. We basically treat each other with respect, as equals, and we support each other no matter what.
That being said, I have a lot more trauma than he does and I need a lot more support. I often feel sort of guilty about it.
I grew up with a narcissist as a mother, a father that was never allowed to be there and constantly threatened by said mother, and a stepfather that slowly became a physical abuser and a sexual harasser.
My three siblings were born, each about a year apart, in rapid succession. I actually remember the day my baby sister was conceived really clearly. I was left with the babies while they went upstairs. I started playing with them and after about 20-40 minutes, they started crying and I figured they were hungry. I went upstairs to get them and I knocked. After three times knocking and at least another 25 minutes, my stepfather at the time finally answered the door in his briefs. My mom was naked on the bed behind him. The whole time, the babies never stopped crying downstairs and I started to get really worried for them. They were in fact hungry. That was the beginning of my current very strong maternal instincts. You can imagine my role in all of my friend groups.
To speed this up, I’ll try to list the next few years quickly. We moved a lot, my stepfather started slut-shaming every girl and woman he saw on the streets in front of my siblings and I, I was never allowed to wear anything above the ankle for multiple years, I got extremely depressed at 8 and quickly became suicidal, my stepfather sexually assaulted me in 3rd grade and I didn’t know it until later, in 5th grade, it came out that my stepfather was sexually harassing my first ever real friends, causing me to not have friends for years because my maternal instincts believed the safety of the ones I loved were more important than myself, I was finally allowed to wear knee-length skirts, I was extremely insecure though and I was throwing up every morning from the trash, mold, maggots, etc everywhere, she brought in another man who nobody liked, this man was on house arrest when she found him and had him transferred over to our house, where he threw tantrum over tantrum, broke many things, vaped in the house, constantly talked about drugs and killing both people and animals alike(“blow his head in” was a phrase he specifically used with my stepfather), did dangerous maneuvers on bikes and encouraged the kids to do them, blew things up, started fires, just everything was absolutely terrible about this man.
Throughout all this, I slowly disconnected from the world and everyone around me. I started locking myself in my room, staying up at night and sleeping during the day to avoid people, and so on. I often daydreamed about ways to kill myself and letting it all go. I was falling asleep in class. And I was constantly rubbing my wrists to avoid actually cutting.
The only connection I really had was my mother. Outside the sexual assault in 3rd grade, I was never physically assaulted because I was considered the favorite. My siblings, though, were getting punished for playing among themselves. Once, my stepfather grabbed my brother by the collar of his shirt, pulled him above his head against the wall, got all up in his face, and screamed. My brother was practically choking and nobody did anything, including me. We were too scared and dead enough inside to actually have the determination to stand up.
My mother loves brainwashing people to believe that she is the victim of every story and she is very entitled. She’s brainwashed my older brother(deaf, mentally underdeveloped)against my father and she attempted to do it to me. It didn’t work with me because actions speak louder than words. For the few times I actually did see my dad, I was really happy and I respected him. If it wasn’t for him and the yearly school lesson about proper nutrition, I wouldn’t even know what most vegetables, fruits, and exercises were a thing. And my mother would have hourly screaming matches with everyone about everything, including my deaf brother.
About a year and a half ago, I moved in with my father. We were finally allowed to visit him for the summer in the past few years and I realized how much happier I was with him. And how much I dreaded going back. My stepmom has two teenagers that are both amazing(they visit, they don’t live here). I’ve been healing. My mother, of course, has been fighting us. We’ve been in a court case for over a year. Her excuse? “I’m fighting for you because your father is a manipulative bastard and he’s brainwashing you. Everything you do and think isn’t you, it’s your father, you typical, selfish, no-good teenager. I raised you better than this. You’re manipulative and toxic and just as bad as your father.”
She’s made my sister believe it(like my older brother, believes everything she tells her, loud, actually manipulative, constantly telling me that I don’t love them anymore because I left them and if I did love them, I would come back, brainwashed, could literally copy and paste texts from my mother and put it beside hers and wouldn’t see a difference), my brother is becoming like I did(quiet, numb, no longer speaking up, cutting off more and more connection), and there’s no mention at all about my youngest sister. She could’ve died and I would have no idea.
So basically, sister hates me and is now a child version of my mother, brother is slowly dying inside and shutting down, and the other sister no longer exists despite being the center of attention since she was born.
Switching back, I’ve been dating my boyfriend for 3 1/2 months now. And he’s one of the best things to happen to me so far. He’s helped shown me, along with my friends and this side of the family, that not all hope is lost and kept me going when I wanted to quit(which is quite often).
Today, we were playing the “I love you more” argument game and we were jokingly bringing up scenarios that we would do for the other person to prove that we loved them more.
This is where this whole thing came from. I realized that if it came down to choosing contact with him vs contact with my siblings, I would choose him. I reluctantly sent him this and immediately, I start weeping. Of course, being the sweetheart he is, he immediately started denying it. Saying that family should always come first and that they were forever. That he didn’t want to make me choose between them. Of course, I’m in a bad emotional state now and, out of habit, sort of trying to hide it. But only sort of. I did explain why, that they most likely all hate me and wouldn’t wanna talk to me anyways. He replied something like “If somebody doesn’t want to spend time with the most incredible person ever and love them, then they don’t deserve you.” He did make me feel quite a bit better and I stopped crying after a few minutes. Then he went to bed and I started typing this. Yay!
I have a bajillion more stories if you want. Sorry about this, this is a realllyyyy long rant. If you made it this far, damn. Congratulations. I’m both really grateful and surprised you actually wasted that much time reading all of it. Thank you! I hope you have a wonderful day. (:
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2020.10.26 21:06 incorruptible_bk Mature naked mothers
| This post will be used to aggregate news from the sentencing of Keith Raniere. I'll try to highlight the longtime beat reporters and voices of survivors.|
Given the possibility of crowding at the EDNY complex and COVID-19 rules, I will not attempt to enter the building to try to observe like with the Bronfman sentencing. I may check what goes on with the press gaggle outdoors and see if survivors wish to leave their statements.
If you find interesting Tweets or articles, please suggest them in the comments and I'll put them in the post with a shoutout.
Raniere Sentencing Day -1 (10/26/2020) Clips 7:35AM, NY Daily News "NXIVM sex cult leader Keith Raniere denied new trial, rants about justice" by Noah Goldberg
Judge Nicholas Garaufis ruled that Raniere’s motion for a new trial was filed too late, and that “even if Mr. Raniere’s motion were timely, it would fail on other grounds” — adding that affidavits from two devoted followers “is neither material nor exculpatory.”10:00AM New York Times: "Sex Cult Leader, Facing Life Sentence, Regrets Nothing" by Nicole Hong
Several victims are expected to testify when Keith Raniere, the founder of Nxivm, is sentenced this week for sex trafficking, extortion and other crimes.11:29AM Vice "NXIVM Survivor India Oxenberg on Why She Didn't Believe She Was Brainwashed" by Sarah Berman
The 29-year-old victim of a notorious slavery-themed blackmail scheme will deliver a statement at Raniere’s sentencing in Brooklyn federal court Tuesday, but Oxenberg says she won’t address the convicted sex trafficker directly. “He doesn’t have the ability to feel remorse or empathy, so it’s more about me communicating the facts,” she said in an interview with VICE News. “I’m addressing the judge.”2:30PM Ayla Ferrone tweets:
Excited to partner with @GiulianaBrunoTV and @WTEN for coverage on the sentencing of #NXIVM leader Keith Raniere tomorrow.2:30PM NYT: "A Timeline of the Nxivm Sex Cult Case" by Carla Correa
3:00PM Jaclyn Angro tweets:
"Supporters of Keith Raniere from Make Justice Blind are having a press conference outside Federal Court in Brooklyn."4:00PM ABC News: "NXIVM founder Keith Raniere to face sentencing" by Aaron Katersky
Keith Raniere returns to Brooklyn federal court on Tuesday to learn his sentence for running NXIVM, a self-help organization prosecutors labeled a "criminal enterprise" exploited by Raniere for power, profit and sex.4:51PM New York Post: "Nxivm sex-cult sicko Keith Raniere set to speak at his sentencing tomorrow" by Rebecca Rosenberg & Kate Sheehy
The convict’s lawyer, Marc Agnifilo, told The Post on Monday, “He has the constitutional right to speak to the judge, and I expect that he will do so.’’Raniere Sentencing Day (10/27/2020) Clips 1:21AM Our subreddit's own u/yescruz takes a late night photo of the MDC and says "i wonder if KR’s getting any sleep tonight!"
[Ed Note: here are some statements from survivors of the cult who have come forward. Many other victims are anonymous Jane/John Does or use only their first names. Please keep that in mind]
2:02AM Susan Dones tweets:
Having a hard time sleeping, but really need it, long week Flew into NYC today to speak at #KeithRaniere sentencing I know a lot of ExNx can't or don't want to be at this historic event. Know I stand strong & carry you all in my heart as speak to the 😈 man What's that? LIFE....5:39AM Mark Vicente tweets
Today prisoner 57005-177 will be sentenced. For us recent whistleblowers, this has been over three years in the making. For those who came before us, DECADES. We stand on the shoulders of many brave women who tried so hard to warn everyone. Thank you!7:32AM Ivy Nevares: "My victim impact statement addendum on Keith Raniere"
Raniere stole nearly 17 years of my life and labor. He took credit for the work I did and the skills I built during his nearly 11-year absence in our relationship, as he shunned me for an “ethical breach” I supposedly committed against him. Initially, the “breach” was raising questions about Raniere’s conduct and promiscuity, then it morphed into my gaining weight, then it became something no one could define. A solution is impossible if a problem cannot be defined. Through these imaginary infractions, Raniere directed most of the community to shun me, making me a pariah until I figured out the impossible task of remedying the “breach.”[Ed note: Here are a couple messages from the Albany press corps, some of whom hit the road early to get to the courthouse. Show some love to the Capital Region reporters who had to do a lot of travel to cover both the story and the local reaction from the Clifton Park area.]
5:00AM Democrat & Chronicle**: "NXIVM founder Keith Raniere faces possible life sentence Tuesday" by** Jon Campbell
Raniere, who spent much of his youth in Suffern, Rockland County, continues to have a series of devoted followers, including many who wrote letters to Garaufis in support of him.5:56AM Giuliana Bruno of WTEN tweets from the road:
On the road dark and early this morning. Headed from Albany to Brooklyn for Keith Raniere’s sentencing. I know a lot of you will be interested in this, so I’ll start a thread of some background & recent developments to get you ready for the day. @WTEN6:47AM Jaclyn Cangro of Spectrum News Albany tweets from Brooklyn:
Good morning from Brooklyn.7:01AM Albany Times-Union: "NXIVM founder Keith Raniere faces sentencing Tuesday" by Robert Gavin
At least eight victims are expected to deliver statements to the judge, including a Mexican woman, now 30, whom Raniere began a sexual relationship with when she was 15. In November 2005, Raniere took photos of the girl, which led to his conviction of a racketeering act of possessing child pornography.[Ed Note: Here's coverage from national-level media]
CourtTV (on YouTube today): NXIVM 'sex cult' leader Keith Raniere learns his fate
?:??AM Associated Press: "Long prison stint looms for defiant self-help guru" by Tom Hays & Larry Neumeister
6:39AM CNN: "Nxivm founder could be sentenced to life today. A teen victim's father and others are lined up in his defense" by Sonia Moghe
Jurors heard testimony about Raniere grooming the girl, whom CNN is not naming, and having sex with her. Her sister, who was identified only as Daniela during the trial, testified that after she found out Raniere was having sex with her sister, he told her, "... there were some women -- girls -- that were more emotionally mature than others."6:56AM CBS News tweets
The mastermind of the so-called cult #NXIVM Keith Raniere will be sentenced for his crimes today, which include sex-trafficking. Ahead on @CBSThisMorning, @NikkiBattiste speaks to one victim about what she hopes will come out of Raniere's sentencing.[Ed Note: remaining items will be sorted by time, regardless of source]
7:35AM Jaclyn Cangro tweets
People are already lining up outside of court. Many are members of the #NXIVM Five/@BlindfoldHer. Some are part of various film and documentary crews. When I spoke to the court yesterday, they said they wouldn’t be letting people in early (due to COVID).8:27AM Giuliana Bruno tweets video from the scene, and the line has lengthened (there are other -proceedings today so it may not all be Raniere related)
I’ll be live outside Federal Court in Brooklyn in about 5 mins. Keith #Raniere, leader of NXIVM, scheduled to be sentenced at 11 AM. @WTEN8:43AM Jaclyn Cangro tweets
Some of Raniere’s supporters were at his trial, but they were pretty quiet. In recent months, they’ve been showing more support for the #NXIVM leader. It’ll be interesting to see any interactions between people who have left NXIVM and those who still support him.8:46AM Spanish-language author Juan Vázquez tweets (w. machine translation below)
Ya afuera de la corte @EDNYnews donde hay una fila de gente esperando ingresar a la sentencia de #KeithRaniere líder de la empresa #NXIVM. En algunas horas más información.9:06AM J.T. Fetch tweets:
#NXIVM: Good morning from outside Brooklyn Federal court. Waiting in line to head inside for #KeithRaniere's sentencing at 11am. Social distancing is in effect & masks are being worn due to #COVID19. @CBS6Albany9:26AM Fetch tweets:
#NXIVM just saw Paul DerOhannesian, one of #KeithRaniere's defense attorneys entering the courthouse @CBS6Albany9:38AM Juan Vázquez tweets (w. machine translation below)
Llegada de la grandiosa Barbara Bouchey a la corte. Su historia a detalle en mi libro *#*NXIVM la Secta que Sedujo al poder en México, publicado por @megustaleermex @TheVowHBO #Raniere #Sentencia[Ed note: it's close to the 11AM start-time. I am sticking to aggregating coverage from Twitter and other sources, which will only be sporadic during the actual proceeding due to a blanket ban on devices in the courthouse. I would expect a recess to be called in the mid-late afternoon at which point there will be an update as to who has spoken.]
11:11AM Ryan Parker (of The Hollywood Reporter) tweets:
Wow. Per Keith Raniere sentencing: "Two overflow courtrooms and the cafeteria are full and public/media are not being allowed into the courthouse at this point," court official says.11:16AM, ibid
They may open yet another courtroom for overflow, official says.11:54AM Ayla Ferrone tweets (away from the courthouse):
Getting some intel on who will give victim impact statements today. Spoke with @ToniNatalie1017 this morning who is there in person, @catoxenberg says her daughter India is there in person as well. @sarahjedmondson tells me she sent a video statement. #NXIVM @WTEN12:05PM Reuters: "NXIVM leader Keith Raniere faces possible life in prison at sentencing hearing in New York" by Brandon Pierson
12:15PM Frank Parlato's blog (you know how to search for it) states that Camila has spoken. Awaiting corroboration elsewhere.
❗1:00PM NY Times: "Victim Describes Abuse by Keith Raniere, Leader of Nxivm Sex Cult" by Nicole Hong ❗
Her voice trembling, the witness, identified only as Camila, recalled on Tuesday the precise date that she was sexually abused by Keith Raniere, the leader of a self-improvement company called Nxivm that prosecutors described as a sex cult.❗1:14PM NY Post: "Keith Raniere’s first sex slave breaks her silence about Nxivm’s ‘monster'" By Lorena Mongelli and Kate Sheehy ❗
“He screwed with my mind for so long,’’ said the woman, Camila, during victim-impact statements before Raniere’s sentencing in federal court on charges including sex-trafficking and racketeering.1:26PM Daily Beast: "NXIVM Victims Confront Sex-Cult Leader Keith Raniere: ‘Nothing Noble About Abusing a Child’ by Pilar Melendez
Sarah Edmondson, a former top recruit in NXIVM who was one of the original whistleblowers against the organization, also addressed the court via video. Speaking directly to Raniere, she slammed the cult leader for being a “liar, parasite, and a grifter” who manipulated people seeking personal growth.1:48PM Pilar Melendez tweets
“I will be the victim of Keith Ranieres for the rest of my life—but I don’t need to act like one,” India Oxenberg told the court during #KeithRaniere's sentencing today.[2:25PM Ed Note: There is a recess and several journalists who were inside are recapping. I will post threads below. Apparently all victim-impact statements have been made, and all that remains is for Raniere and/or his lawyers to speak]
Four members of the Mexican family broken by Raniere spoke. Middle daughter confined to a room: “I survived not b/c you were merciful. Because I was resilient” The youngest, who had sex with Raniere at 15: “Survival is instinctive, even in the most extreme circumstances” #NXIVMGiuliana Bruno:
I talked to @bjbouchey while we waited in the security checkpoint heading into court. She said she felt more “at peace” heading into today than she did for Bronfman’s sentencing, adding that her relationship with Keith was “different.”Jaclyn Cangro (h/t u/swissmiss_76**)**
A number of the people who spoke brought up they have thought of suicide. The most emotional person was Kristin Keefe, who has a son with Raniere. “I can never get back the 20 years he’s subjected me to.” She is still trying to work out a child support agreement #NXIVMAyla Ferrone (h/t u/sly_boots)
Just spoke with @GiulianaBrunoTV on her break. She tells me they have wrapped up victim impact statements and are moving on to hear from the prosecution and defense. #NXIVM3:20PM I'm at the EDNY entrance where there's an incredibly large number of news cameras assembled. Frank Parlato is holding his own miniature press conference with a few reporters.
4:05PM Reporters are beginning to take up tactical positions, possibly in anticipation of a sentence announcement.
(Keep in mind that the court usually comes to a halt between 4-5PM, and the local evening news crews (the largest camera contingent) will want to be ready for live shots.)
BREAKING: SENTENCE IS 120 YEARS @EDNYNews: Nxivm founder and leader Keith Raniere sentenced to 120 years in prison. In addition, Raniere has been assessed a $1,750,000 fine, per Pilar Melendez on Twitter
As u/Trisolaran_arbitrage notes, Pilar Melendez (and Jaclyn Cangro) note that terms of Raniere's sentence include no contact with members of NXIVM. I believe this will require a close reading of Judge Garaufis's ruling, as there are possible issues involving the mother of Raniere's child.
Several persons have reported Raniere engaged in some strange incredible double-talk during his address to the judge. Robert Gavin noted the following:
Judge Garaufis has filed his own Sentencing Memorandum. This may clarify how the 120 year sentence was imposed. There are also extracts of victim statements that have not made it into the roundup.
But of particular note, the $1.75 million fine imposed on Raniere will result in a lien placed on the estate of the late Pamela Cafritz, Raniere's girlfriend from whom he is believed to have inherited a substantial sum. Cafritz has been accused of acting as Raniere's madam and co-conspirator, so perhaps some justice is being done beyond the grave here.
Last item: Mr. Raniere in the dock
Here is the courtroom artist's sketch of India Oxenberg giving her testimony about Keith Raniere, who was dressed in his prison jumpsuit. It may be the last depiction of Raniere we get for a while.
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2020.10.23 16:35 fulfilledwhitehouse Mature naked mothers
This may take a while: I will be completely upfront. We take our wedding vows seriously.
First we've raised three children and are subsequently raising two grand children, both are extremely high functioning autism (14M) & (11F) we're not empty nesters. Our relationship has had its ups and downs but recently it has come to a head...during intimate time.
For the past couple years it seems like she was/is giving me pity sex. She was not into it at all which makes me feel fucking useless. I feel devastated. That's how things came to a head. We were naked and read to go at it but I could tell that she was not into it at all which hurt me, I could blatantly tell she didn't want to do it. I asked what was wrong, she lied and said, "Nothing, just go ahead and get it over with." WTF??? I pulled out left our bed and couldn't even look at her, I sat down and lost it, I broke down and cried. I felt destroyed. The woman who I've committed 32+ years of my life and raise kids together was essentially only agreeing to sex because that was her marital duty, and to hurry up and get it over with.
I've opened up a dialogue with her expressing our marriage shortcomings. I let myself go; I've become obese over the past 15 years.
She was a single mother when I met her in January of 1987. She had a 5 year old son. When we married I was 24M stood 72.75 inches tall (Almost 6'1") and weighed 185 pounds. I was serving as an Infantry soldier, an Non-commissioned Officer in the US Army. I served 10 years; the last four with her as my wife. I deployed several times and we have been faithful our whole marriage. Infidelity is a deal breaker, for us both. I can't imagine a life without her.
Now I'm 340 but have changed my eating habits and lost 24 pounds so far, I was up to 364. I realize, though I am a handsome man, how could she possibly be attracted to someone as overweight as I have become. I have 140 more to go. I have bad arthritis in both knees and can't do things. Walking hurts and standing on my feet for periods of longer than 10 minutes are excruciating.
She has been telling me that her medication has reduced her libido and deadened her sensations to her clitoris; that is why she has not been initiating sex. She tells me what she needs for intimacy and over the course of our marriage of 32+ years it has fallen on deaf ears until this incident.
(You ladies call it selective hearing)
Well we had a real discussion and it hurt like hell to know how much I have hurt her over the course of our marriage.
I admit my deficiencies and own up to them. Hence the loss of 24 pounds in the last two weeks to show her that I mean what I say. When I set my mind to do something I will not be deterred, I have determination and the will do my best to complete the mission at hand. However the medications she takes has said that she has no feelings in her genitals as all and does not orgasm. She has not for a couple years. This devastated me all over again, but... The woman I've committed myself to has been faking her orgasms to ...... WHAT THE FUK???
Hey, to be upfront, our sex life is vanilla. She does not want oral, giving of receiving. I want to enjoy the pleasures of oral she does not. Because I love her, I will not force or coerce her do those things she does not want to do. This has limited us to vanilla sex, face to face with me on top, which I enjoy. I get to read her facial expressions and gage how close she is to Cumming. I guess I am not that good of a reader if she can fake it that good. She rarely ever moans but when she does I can tell by how her body reacts to mine during intercourse. Usually when she finishes it causes me to finish by how strongly she grips my member and her bodily reactions to her orgasm.
I want to recapture our intimacy and see if it is possible to restore her libido; I want to be pursued by her again; for her to be the one to initiate sex. I was never happier than when she wanted me to make love to her. That has not happened in over 2 decades, plus its been over a year since he had an orgasm.
A little background: Due to my faith in God we never had sex until our wedding night. She didn't even get a kiss from me until our wedding day. I didn't want to enter into a marriage with God knowing that I had sinned with her before I had married her. That is how I felt; and she found this outs after we married. She asked and I told her the truth. I was born with a congenital birth defect of the penis, a hypospadias with a penoscrotal opening. My penis is perfectly shaped for the most part but is marred by extensive scar tissue from multiple sutures to correct the malpractice of the attending physician at my birth. Seeing that I had 10 fingers & toes and without inspecting me fully he simply performed a circumcision and thereby destroying my chance at having children normally. The foreskin is used to reconstruct a urinary canal to the end of the penis to correct the birth defect. That negligent doctor destroyed my chance to have kids normally by cutting and throwing away my foreskin without inspecting me after birth. My patents didn't even know I had a birth defect for the first 3 months of my life. Mom found out when she was changing my diaper three months later when I peed on her. That's when she understood that I had been born with a birth defect.
Consider the ramifications of surgery on the genitals of a child at 2 & 5 years old and being subjected to all the pain and psychological experiences that I to go through and to be ridiculed by my siblings as I age and mature. It had a lasting effect upon my psyche. Some men are sensitive about the size of their penis. I thought I'd never find a woman who would love me because I was born defective. I was fearful to let her see my penis. I thought she'd reject me and my defective penis. I married her hopeful that she'd love me despite my defect. She did and come to find out I'm above average. 7"+ length and 8" girth. I thought I was smaller than average, sometimes its good to find out you're wrong.
We didn't have sex until our wedding night. I was fearful and nervous with very little experience. I had no game whatsoever even though I was handsome and a physical specimen of extraordinary dexterity. She was the 7th woman that I'd been with and our wedding night was the 12th, 13th, 14th, 15th & 16th time I'd ever had sex. She couldn't get enough of me that first night and it remained that way for the first 7 years of our marriage. I still remember that night like it just happened the night before. There's multiple times that will remain in my memory, for the remainder of my life.
To me, Sex has always been the ultimate expression of love and intimacy between two people, one of the most important aspects of a relationship within a marriage. Can we survive? How can a woman who loves her man fake an orgasm.... you just don't want to deal with hurt feelings from your partner?
I provide the only income in a small 3 bedroom home that we bought and moved into on Father's Day in 1994. She is a stay at home wife. I am blessed. I lover her irrefutably and she says she loves me. I've been cuddling on the couch and relaxing with her while watching TV when I get home now instead of sitting alone in a recliner. I work 9-13 hours a day, 6 days a week. I am a successful Master Electrician. With lots of Overtime I can break 100k a year. I give all of my income to her except for Tithe and $100 a week plus what I use for gas. $100 is my allowance; my spending cash. (I've been saving. I'm going to use it; a surprise Christmas present to her with what ever I don't spend I will give as a present. I've been hoarding my allowance and by Xmas it will be over $2k. I send or buy flowers for her sporadically throughout the year.)
She takes care of the bills, the home and the kids. Honestly its what she wanted; to be a stay at home mother. I worked two jobs and went to school full time to gain my expertise as a master Electrician and graduated at the top of my class, 1993-1997.
I went to UNI from 2003-2008 to attain an AA ECET & BS Business management. 2 & 4 year degrees while working full time 3rd shift while attending UNI on days & evenings.
I've been listening to her when we talk. It hurts deeply to know the truth; from her perspective. I admit, I have not been the emotional support she has needed over the past 2 decades. You ladies are awesome. It has taken years to understand what you need > emotional intimacy. Wow there is so much more to intimacy than what I, as a man, ever considered. She doesn't want to be groped or fondled (something men enjoy doing-our needs not hers) but held and listened to. To be attentive, to understand and to shut-up unless she asks for input.
She likes a neat and orderly home & yard with a man who cares about her financial & emotional needs by listening and not always trying to fix things for her. UGH I still have difficulty providing this to her but I'm a work in progress. I want what she wants, an emotional connection. I want to give her what she really wants. Help me find a way or give me some ideas to establish this emotional connection she wants more than anything. And I want to bring her to Orgasm, to enjoy sexual release again.
I know saying I'm sorry does not negate the neglect she has been through but she sees my efforts to establish that emotional connection to her again. Honestly I've cried more in the past two week than I have since we've been married. I feel devastated by how badly I've been treating her for the past 2 decades. We were on the road to a separation and possibly a divorce and I was the a-hole who was going to initiate it!!!. I've said I'm sorry and show her, by my actions, that I am doing my best to change and become the man she needs. I'm still hurt by knowing that I cannot bring her to orgasm, she says she doesn't care if she ever orgasms again.... that hurts.
I was in a sexless marriage and she was in a loveless marriage, 2 entirely different things but sometimes the two go hand in hand. We were not getting what we needed from each other. Our marriage was comfortable, cordial and convenient, we loved each other but we didn't really communicate, we were both afraid to ask the tough questions. Fearful of disgrace and embarrassment or to voice any concern that could cause a rift that could not be healed. We were existing, not living. Now we both want to live life to the fullest and experience life together with an intimate closeness that married partners are meant to share. Can anyone help a faithful man who love his wife? Please?
Her 59th birthday is next week; I'm having birthday cookies from Cheryl's delivered to our home and I'm taking her to an expensive fancy dining establishment for her birthday after I finish work. (All I've told her is that I have a surprise for her birthday.) Then a horse & carriage ride downtown after dining. I plan on getting a room at a nice hotel for the evening so we can simply talk the night away without interruption or any type of distraction. I will not be the one to initiate any sexual advance on this evening. I want to simply talk about our marriage and find a way to fan the flames of our love. To see if she wants to continue or end this relationship. It breaks my heart to know how deeply I've essentially abandoned and then used her to meet my physical needs during the course of our marriage. I am at a loss as to why she has stayed for so long, but I'm grateful and so very thankful she has. I asked her and she said, "I take my vows to God and you serious. I meant what I said."
Any Ideas would greatly help, Thanks.
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2020.10.13 04:44 Hexellent3r Mature naked mothers
The entire simpsons movie
Because fuck you
We come in peace for cats and mice everywhere.
Hey, how you doing? Good to see you. Thanks for coming out.
Dad, we can't see the movie.
I can't believe we're paying to see something we get on TV for free.
If you ask me, everybody in this theater is a giant sucker.
Movie on the big screen!
Excuse me. My heinie is dipping.
All right, well, thanks a lot for coming.
We've been playing for three and a half hours.
Now we'd like just a minute of your time to say something about the environment.
2020.10.12 04:57 captaincolts Mature naked mothers
Buckle up boys and girls this is going to be a wild ride.
I woke up sweating profusely after a long uninterrupted 14 hour sleep. I felt as if I had awoken from a coma. The dream I had last night was lucid one and I had a large amount of control over it. I couldn't forget about it afterwards either. It's like it's now as vivid as the memories of today's breakfast. So I decided to write it all down in hopes to capture it. I've written it from start to finish in great detail. I made a few embellishments, but it's pretty much shot for shot what happened.
It's early morning and I just finished watching my favorite show. I've left the TV on to play what's next. My sister joins me on the couch. She's tired and scruffy. She’s hap hazardously thrown her school uniform on. She leans up against me sapping what little warmth I have left. Fixed to the tv, I peer at a school. The school feels strangely familiar as if I've been there, My sister watching too. The screen flickers to a classroom full of young children. They look around my sister's age, eager and vulnerable. The teacher flashes a wicked smile and announces to the class that today's a special day. She scribbles strange symbols on the blackboard which doesn't seem to phase the children. The teacher then proceeds to flick on the tv mounted in the corner of the room. The screen starts to hiss. The screen flashes with strange images, some cute and innocent, some graphic and sexually explicit. My sister huddles up close to me clearly afraid but doesn't want to interrupt my curiosity. The class begins fidgeting, some just can't sit still and begin to claw at themselves, scratching and scraping. The teacher continues to maintain her wicked smile with her piercing gaze staring right through me. As if she can see me, through me. My sister's grip tightens around my arm and she finally begins to utter words, her voice quietly trembling. I'm scared, this is scary can we turn it off? Her voice falls on deaf ears. I'm too fixated and locked to the screen. My morbid curiosity taking control. The class within the tv continues to escalate now starting to flail their arms striking students. One of the students leaps up to their feet and begins to laugh a crazed laugh with a wicked grin plastered over his face. Some other students begin to follow suit. My sister pleads burrowed into my side. Turn it off! Turn it off! But i still continue to ignore her. Frozen in front of the tv. The classroom full of students erupts into chaos and students begin to sprint around the room grabbing, clawing and swiping at anything sharp object they can find. Pens, rulers, paintbrushes whatever and begin to throw them around the room. They can’t control themselves. They have become rabid. My sister scurried off the couch in search of the tv remote, crawling on all fours. I however maintain my gaze towards the tv. The students begin thrusting there makeshift weapons into themselves puncturing all manner of flesh and orifice. They seem to be impervious to the pain and their crazed faces emitting only wild pleasure. The children begin painting themselves in each other's blood, the teacher standing composed at the front of the room smiling her wicked grin. Stopping periodically to scrape her nails against the chalkboard which only serves to further enrage the classroom. The kids attempt to climb walls and swing from light fixtures. The screams and wails of young children reverberate throughout the living room, my sister growing more frantic. The brutish and chaotic violence inside the classroom fuels the children like ecstasy. Their eyes popped open wide seeking more, more, more. One child throws a chair across the room. The sharp metal legs puncturing a child in the chest pinning them to the ground. The other kids swarm him and claw at the top of his skull. Finally sinking deep enough they pull his head apart in a fountain of blood. The children all laugh with their heads tilted and mouths gaped hoping to catch the rain now torrenting from the boy. A piercing laugh from the teacher snaps me out of my trance. “Oh fuck oh fuck, no no no…” I drop to the floor and scramble around the living room looking for the remote, the tv still billowing out suffering. James! My sister calls out, my gaze snaps to look at her. She's crying. She has been for a while now. In her hands rests a remote snapped into 3. How on earth did that happen? I think to myself. Stumbling forward to embrace her. I pull her into a hug. She begins to calm. Burying her face into my stomach. I sigh and close my eyes.
Upon opening my eyes it’s sunny, a cool breeze wafts over me. Where am I? I look around me feeling intrinsically familiar with my surroundings. It’s my school. Or was my school I no longer go to school, but my sister does. How did we get here? My sister prys herself away from me. The destroyed remote still in her hands. “I’m going to find Dad”, she exclaims.”What? Why? Where?” Before I can stop her she disappears out of my sight. I take off and begin exploring the school. The school looks abandoned and eerily quiet. I feel cripplingly alone. It’s suffocating. Jogging past empty classroom after empty classroom, calling my sisters name. I hear a voice. It’s a woman's voice soft and gentle. I bolt around the corner to locate the disembodied voice but as soon as I clear the corner I freeze. It’s a class of young kids lined up in double file. With a young teacher standing in front of them. The woman looks up with a pleasant smile and gazes at me. Her gentle smile peels away revealing a crazed grin. I’m still standing frozen like a deer in headlights. My heartbeat begins to thump... Hard. Blood filling up in my head, I begin to tremble. The noises in my head become piercing and debilitating. Shaking away her gaze I dash away frantic and panicked. Where is she? I mutter as I scrabble around the school grounds. Found her. She stood in front of none other than my father. She holds up the tv remote to him. His stare switches from her to me. He looks at me with a stern and serious face, but his eyes tell another story. His eyes drowned in fear and sadness. “Take your sister! Hide! Make sure they can’t find you!” He yells gesturing at my sister towards me. I’ll be back. My father pushes my sister into my arms and takes off leaving me and my sister. She looks up to me, trembling in fear, blinded with anxiety. My fight or flight response kicks in as she looks at me and I grab her wrist and pull her along with me. I’m unable to sprint because she wouldn’t be able to keep up with me. I glance around the school looking for a secure and hidden spot to hide. There is nothing. The school was a small private installation and was designed to be quite open, I enjoyed it when I was younger but now it only appears problematic. AAAUAUAUAUGH! A piercing scream echoes down the halls. The sound emulating the screams of the kids on our tv. My sister begins to cry, I pull her in close, panicked hoping to shush her. I glance around hoping nothing has spotted us. A hand suddenly grabs my shoulder yanking of balance, I spin around and steady myself. “James! Take this and hand me your sister.” It's my father. He drops a sub machine gun into my arms. I recoil in shock. “It’s a p90, I recognize it”. But it’s way heavier than i’d imagined, I guess not everything is the same as in the games. My father has a large rifle strapped to his back. And my sister firmly held in his arms. “Follow me!” He commands and runs off to a side room. It looks like a bag locker, small and cramped, but hidden. We scramble into the back of the small room. Father rests on his stomach peering through the glass of the door we came through. “If they find us I want you to grab your sister and climb through the window behind us”. I look behind me and there is a small window about a meter high. I preemptively open the window and stick my head out. The drop appears to be about 4 meters. That's gonna hurt, I think to myself. Crouching in the back of the room, I clutch my p90, it feels alien and cold. My father looks at me and says do not fire it unless absolutely necessary. Loud and frequent thuds start to shake the small room. Peering through the glass I can’t see anything. Just a clear pavement with chalk drawings scribbled across it. The thuds become louder and more frequent. My father grips my sister's mouth, shushing her breathing. I Take a deep breath and hold my own. The thuds stop. A pair of bare legs walks in front of the door; they look like the legs of a teenager much less a child. Sharp gashes and cuts resemble markings down the thighs. The legs halt. And twist on the balls of their feet in front of the door. Panic swells inside of me. My heart begins to thump against my rib cage and the pressure in my head builds. I feel dizzy and my vision blurry. The legs are still, blood running down from the wounds. A torso swings down to look through the glass window at the bottom of the door presumably attached to the legs in front of us. Eyes pierce through the small glass window. It’s a girl she looks much older than the kids I saw earlier but I recognize her. She's just older. Maybe by five or six years. Her figure has matured quite a bit and her bare legs are strangely alluring. She gazes into the dark room. Her eyes burning a fiery yellow. Frozen in fear I pray we are shrouded by the darkness off the room. It feels like an eternity, like time is standing still. The girl finally stands up straight and continues past the door. I release the breath I’d been holding in and continue to hyperventilate, starved of oxygen. The loud thudding continues, only now there are more. Thump thump thump. It’s like a gallop of horses increasing in volume. The room is violently shaking. The violent thuds reach a crescendo and a loud bang follows. Father grips his rifle tighter in anticipation. Cracks begin forming on the wall to the left of my father. I stand up leaning against the window behind me prepared to jump. My father, climbing to his feet. The banging continues as the crack begins to form into a large gash. Maniacal laughter and screeching leaks through the hole in the wall. A body punctures through the wall. Luckily it gets stuck halfway through, swinging and clawing at my father's pant leg. My sister clutches my father's arm, shifting his focus. I have my p90 locked onto the crazed teenagers face. He’s missing an eye and dripping blood, gurgling and babbling about the suffering and the blackness. “Don’t!” My father exclaims, “hold your fire”. He looks me in the eye. Staring at my father I notice the crack in the wall begin to bloom. Rupturing and crumbling forward onto my father. Ruble tumbles towards him along with a torrent of students all crazed and blood soaked. “FATHER!” I call out. The only response I hear back is only a muffled “GO!” Stumbling back I tumble out the window. Falling hard against my back… Shaking off the pain I stare at the window I just fell through. My father is attempting to roll out of the window. My sister his arms.. They’re being mauled by the torrent of crazed students. My father plummets out the window. Dragging several bodies with him. They crash into the ground and more begin to barrel out the window. All landing into a pile atop my father. They writhe and slam against one another trying to take out my father. AAAAARGH! The pile of the crazed erupts and students fly backwards tossed from the epicenter. Using the but of the rifle my father smacks the remaining students off of him. His clothes a little torn and wiping the blood from his teeth he runs towards me grabbing my upper arm and dragging me to my feet. He spurs me into a sprint, my sister is missing. “Where is Grace?” “Dead”, my father responds coldly. “You don’t know that, we have to go back for her.” “No she’s dead we must keep moving.” my questioning is silenced. Sprinting across a grass field I check over my shoulder. A hoard of now fully grown teenagers chase us. They look nearly my age, maybe eighteen, nineteen. They sprint with aggressive vigor, their wounds only appear to fuel their rampage, clawing and scraping at each other. They all seem to be fighting to be the first to tear me apart. Many of them are brandishing sharp chunks of metal piercing through their skin like armor or defensive weapons. I’m pulled aside to a long hallway. A blade narrowly whizzing past my head, a large wire tied to the end of it, leading right to one of the crazed students. Continuing to sprint my body is exhausted, pain envelopes my whole body. Some of the crazed begin to catch up brandishing wicked smiles. One of the girls begins to run alongside me, her uniform mostly intact. Razor blades fastened to her skirt. Large needles thrust deep into her ear canals. She laughs at my horrified expression and lunges toward me. Her eyes, lusting over my flesh. I press my palm hard against her face pushing her away from me, snagging and tearing out one of her needles. Turning my attention back in front of me, the hallway has come to an end with only a singular classroom left. I quickly dive through the window into the room gashing my arm on the broken glass. The girl I fended off tumbles sweeping the legs of the front few students. Under the heavy foot of the hoard the fallen students are crumpled. One unfortunate to be trodden on the face. Their head, immediately exploding like a melon, showering the students in chunks of meat and bone. One of the girls in the hoard gazes at me as I lean up against a wall in the back of the classroom. Still in a sprint she licks her lips with lust sparkling in her eye. It’s the girl from earlier. Her markings across her legs matching, yet now appear as metal inlaid tattoos. One of the crazed students barrel through the window crashing hard against the wall next to me, dazing itself. 3 massive spikes pierce through his skull splitting it in two. I roll away frantically and stare back in shock. The girl with the markings grinding her crotch against the face of the crazed who had just been eviscerated. Massive spikes are fastened to her pelvis. She snaps her gaze toward me. Her eyes burning through me like a fire. Large plates of metal slide from beneath her skin forming armor. She holds her arm up halting the entire hoard. The room falls silent. And four other students walk up behind her. Coated nearly head to toe in metal they look nearly insectoid. Coated in shiny metal exoskeletons. I quiver in fear crumpled into the corner of the room, surrounded by children's books. One of the monstrosities tosses something at me, violently thudding into my chest. I clutch it and take a deep breath. Rolling the object over my heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach and my face ghost white. Violently shaking, I stare into the disembodied head of my sister. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. I Erupt into a scream of existential terror staring up at the metal automatons stood in front of me. The metal woman in front of me, no longer human at all starts to walk toward me, wielding a wicked smile and that lustful gaze. I close my eyes in anticipation of my demise. Clutching the head in my arms, I close my eyes.
Cold metal fingers stroke beneath my chin raising my head. I open my eyes to the woman, staring me in the eye. She pauses. Looking deep into me, as if judging my soul. Bang! A large 50 caliber round pierces through the window striking the woman in the head knocking her off balance. She seems dazed, but the bullet deflected off her metal exterior. The hoard erupts and clears out of the classroom, chasing after the source of the bullet. It’s just me and the woman in the classroom now. Completely naked and coated in metal, she steadies herself. And licks her lips. She lowers herself down to her knees in front of me, metal clinking against the floorboards. Grabbing my chin once again she leans in toward me, maintaining eye contact. She brushes her face against the side of mine breathing heavily in my ear. Running her metallic hand down my chest she presses her chest into me. Sliding one knee into my pelvis, I tense up and she bites the tip of my ear off. Aarrgh! I cry out only to be silenced by her lips pressing against mine. Feeding the chunk of flesh from my ear into my mouth. Strangely calmed by the interaction my heart rate begins to settle. Her tongue slowly sliding down the back of my throat. Frozen, and in shock I can’t move. She’s still slowly brushing her metal body against me. Her tongue now thrust deep into my esophagus. It’s quiet, the air has settled. Her eyes alight and gazing into mine. A piercing pain floods up from my chest and up into my mouth. The most excruciating pain I've ever felt pierces through every nerve in my body. She pushes away from me, ripping her tongue from my throat, a heart skewered on the end of it. My heart. My vision quickly begins to fade as she engulfs my heart. My vision blinking in and out she stares at me licking her lips. That lustful gaze piercing me as I Fade.
After a while I open my eyes, I see me. My corpse resting in front of me. I’m dead, but still floating here like a disembodied soul, observing my final fate. Thankfully the pain has left me along with my body. I watch as the woman leaves the room. Floating along behind her, I’m no longer tethered to my body. She struts down the halfway clearly searching for the horde and my father. Rising up into the sky seeking a better view I phase though the ceiling and peer down to the school below. I can see my father, running in between classrooms. Battered bruised and shaken he still fights on sprinting away from his four pursuers. The four other metal automatons from earlier. They appear to be what's left of the hoard, swiping and slashing at him seeking blood. Using the rifle as a shield he deflects the majority of the attacks. Smashing between classroom after classroom. The metal horde taking out chunks of each room as they rampage and smash through. Running into an open field he sprints towards a cliff. The school grounds are sat on a massive vertical pillar extending far above a metal city below. All four sides of the school are a vertical drop, he has nowhere to go. The sides of the structure have forest growing up like the vines of a tree. Forced away from the toxic city below. They spiral and climb the pillar, protruding from all four sides. As father narrows in on the edge of the pillar the trees begin to grow towards him. They look to be drawn to him, trying to take hold of him. With the cliff approaching father does not slow down, lest he speeds up. Embracing his fall. Launching himself off the edge. plummeting down below. His four pursuers tumble off after him. The fifth automaton following not far behind dives off to continue her pursuit. Falling and falling my father looks up at the crazed metal monstrosities snapping and clawing at him, out of reach he calmly breaths and accepts his fate. The trees enveloping around the pillar appear to part as he passes by allowing his fall. The four automatons aren’t so fortunate getting smashed and swatted as they fall shattering and splintering the massive tree trunks. The fifth automaton brandishes blades along her arms to slash and cut away the trees, maintaining her speed and rapidly closing in on my father. Vines begin enveloping my father, careful not to slow his descent. Cocooning around him as he falls into the metropolis below. Far into the under belly and out of sight. I look out across the horizon, The cold metal city extending as far as I can see. Metallic structures devoid of life pierce the clouds. The air is still, silent, undisturbed. once again I’m cripplingly alone. I stare up at the pillar, made entirely of stone. It looks timeless against the cold sunset. There are no birds, no bugs, the only life left are the trees which seek to shelter against the pillar, like weeds. I think back on what has happened. I think about my Father and my sister. The way her head felt cold and lifeless in my arms. Her hair flowing across my forearms. The gaze of the metal woman piercing my soul and the fear that welled up inside me. All of which I now feel indifferent towards now that i’m separated from my body. The feeling of the metal woman brushing up against me erks at my mind, her hand against my chest. Her breath in my ear. Those fiery yellow eyes gazing at my soul. I shudder.
Floating back atop the pillar I stare at the school, reduced mostly to ruble. Chunks of people lay sprawled across every surface. Some look like fully grown adults and others only just barely old enough to read. Floating past limbs and severed heads punctured by sharp weapons, pens, knives, and any other blade close at hand. I float in and out of classrooms some left untouched like echoes of the past. Young children's desks, beanbags and reading corners. The teacher’s messages, written along the blackboards. Passing through the next wall I emerge in another classroom. Ground zero. The same class from the tv I was so fixated on. Blood coats every surface. Pieces of child laden everywhere. Looking up at the blackboard I see the severed head of the teacher still brandishing her wicked smile pinned up to the wall alongside the claw marks grazed deep by her own nails. BOOOM! A massive explosion erupts, shaking the classroom, knocking desks and furniture around. Rushing outside I glance along the horizon at a massive green explosion with vines emitting from the center. Wrapping and strangling the buildings all throughout the city. A figure emerges from amongst the chaos swinging and propelling itself around the city coating it in lush green as it passes by.. 5 Metal automatons chasing close behind rocketing around behind it. Scraping along, in and out of buildings. The figure remains elusive. I fly alongside the figure. It’s my father imbued with the last of mother earth's life force. Looking back at the pillar every tree that once dotted up along it has withered and died. Crumbling and brittle. The last hope of mother earth now held within my father's hands. coiling and swinging through the once blacked city he leaves his mark. Life sprouting throughout the city. Wildlife flooding out of the structures and the once silent metropolis is coated in a thick layer of hope. The metal automatons struggling to claw through the thick vines and trees . Their once foreboding chaos and unruly terror being swatted and snuffed out. Green is pulsing from the epicenter of the earlier explosion and envelops the city as the sun falls below the horizon shrouding the city in inky blackness. Succumbing to the black my consciousness fades and I pass away, My tether broken and my last light flickers out…
Clink, clank. I can hear the sound of knives and forks knocking against a plate, opening my eyes. I'm in a living room. My living room. I’m still a lost soul it appears. The room looks massive, dwarfing me. Glancing at the coffee table ahead of me 3 metal automatons stand, only they are tiny as well. Appearing only about 5 inches tall. Two of them are struggling with a knife and fork, trying to cut apart a bagel. The other trying to fish a marshmallow from the top of a large mug of hot chocolate. Pressing up against the back of the couch, I look on in confused terror. Though my fear quickly washes away as I see my father emerge from around the corner. A plate with a bagel in one hand and a hot mug of coffee in the other. He looks like a giant easily 20 times my size. I look at him and cry. Everything is alright. Another tiny automaton wrestles out from his breast pocket falling to the table below. A strange yet humbling sight. My farther grins then parts his mouth. The fifth and final automaton wriggles from his mouth. It’s her. She gazes at me, at my soul and grins… Dropping from my father's mouth, striking the tv remote as she lands flicking the tv on. Words flashing up on the screen...
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2020.10.07 16:21 Meda7Octl Mature naked mothers
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2020.10.04 19:39 normancrane Mature naked mothers
Part 3 <-- You are here.
- - - I awoke to a world without women.
I rolled off the bed into sore thighs and guilt, got up to emptiness that echoed the slightest noise, and left my wife’s clothes on the sheets without thinking that eventually I’d have to pack them into a plastic bag and slide them down the garbage chute. I felt magnified and hollow. In the kitchen, I used the stove top as a table because the actual table had my wife’s tablet on it, and spilled instant coffee. What I didn’t spill I drank in a few gulps, the way I used to drink ice cold milk as a boy. I stood in front of the living room window for a while before realizing I was naked, then realizing that it didn’t matter because men changed in front of each other at the pool and peed next to one another into urinals in public restrooms, and there weren’t any women to hide from, no one to offend. The world, I told myself, was now a sprawling men’s pisser, so I slammed the window open and pissed.
I wanted to call someone—to tell them that my wife was dead, because that’s a duty owed by the living—but whom could I call: her sister, her parents? Her sister was dead. Her father had a dead wife and two dead daughters. There was nothing to say. Everyone knew. I called my wife’s father anyway. Was he still my father-in-law now that I was a widower? He didn’t accept the connection. Widower: a word loses all but historical meaning when there are no alternatives. If all animals were dogs, we’d purge one of those words from our vocabulary. We were all widowers. It was synonymous with man. I switched on the television and stared, crying, at a montage of photographs showing the bloody landscapes of cities, hospitals, retirement homes, schools and churches, all under the tasteless headline: “International Pop”. Would we clean it up, these remnants of the people we loved? Could we even use the same buildings, knowing what had happened in them? The illusion of practical thinking pushed my feeling of emptiness away. I missed arms wrapping around me from behind while I stared through rain streaked windows. I missed barking and a wagging tail that hit my leg whenever I was standing too close. Happiness seemed impossible. I called Bakshi because I needed confirmation that I still had a voice. “They’re the lucky ones,” he said right after I’d introduced myself. “They’re out. We’re the fools still locked in, and now we’re all alone.”
For three weeks, I expected my wife to show up at the apartment door. I removed her clothes from the bed and stuffed them into a garbage bag, but kept the garbage bag in the small space between the fridge and the kitchen wall. I probably would have kept a dead body in the freezer if I had one and it fit. As a city and as a world, those were grim, disorganized weeks for us. Nobody worked. I don’t know what we did. Sat around and drank, smoked. And we called each other, often out of the blue. Every day, I received a call from someone I knew but hadn’t spoken to in years. The conversations all followed a pattern. There was no catching up and no explanation of lost time, just a question like “How are you holding up?” followed by a thoughtless answer (“Fine, I guess. And you?”) followed by an exchange of details about the women we’d lost. Mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, girlfriends, friends, cousins, aunts, teachers, students, co-workers. We talked about the colour of their hair, their senses of humour, their favourite movies. We said nothing about ourselves, choosing instead to inhabit the personas of those whom we’d loved. In the hallway, I would put on my wife’s coats but never look at myself in the mirror. I wore her winter hats in the middle of July. Facebook became a graveyard, with the gender field separating the mourners from the dead.
The World Health Organization issued a communique stating that based on the available data it was reasonable to assume that all the women in the world were dead, but it called for any woman still alive to come forward immediately. The language of the communique was as sterile as the Earth. Nobody came forward. The World Wildlife Fund created an inventory of all mammalian species that listed in ascending order how long each species would exist. Humans were on the bottom. Both the World Health Organization and the World Wildlife Fund predicted that unless significant technological progress occurred in the field of fertility within the next fifty years, the last human, a theoretical boy named Philip born into a theoretical developed country on March 26, 2025, would die in 93 years. On the day of his death, Philip would be the last remaining mammal—although not necessarily animal—on Earth. No organization or government has ever officially stated that July 4, 2025, was the most destructive day in recorded history, on the morning of which, Eastern Time, four billion out of a total of eight billion people ceased to exist as anything more than memories. What killed them was neither an act of war nor an act of terrorism. Neither was it human negligence. There was no one to blame and no one to prosecute. In the western countries, where the majority of people no longer believed in any religion, we could not even call it an act of God. So we responded by calling it nothing at all.
And, like nothing, our lives persisted. We ate, we slept and we adapted. After the first wave of suicides ended, we hosed off what the rain hadn’t already washed away and began to reorganize the systems on which our societies ran. It was a challenge tempered only slightly in countries where women had not made up a significant portion of the workforce. We held new elections, formed me boards of directors and slowed down the assembly lines and bus schedules to make it possible for our communities to keep running. There was less food in the supermarkets, but we also needed less food. Instead of two trains we ran one, but one sufficed. I don’t remember the day when I finally took the black garbage bag from its resting place and walked it to the chute. “How are you holding up?” a male voice would say on the street. “Fine, I guess. And you?” I’d answer. ##!! wrote a piece of Python code to predict the box office profitability of new movies, in which real actors played alongside computer-generated actresses. The code was only partially successful. Because while it did accurately predict the success of new movies in relation to one other, it failed to include the overwhelming popularity of re-releases of films from the past—films starring Bette Davis, Giulietta Masina, Meryl Streep: women who at least on screen were still flesh and blood. Theatres played retrospectives. On Amazon, books by female authors topped the charts. Sales of albums by women vocalists surged. We thirsted for another sex. I watched, read and listened like everyone else, and in between I cherished any media on which I found images or recordings of my wife. I was angry for not having made more. I looked at the same photos and watched the same clips over and over again. I memorized my wife’s Facebook timeline and tagged all her Tweets by date, theme and my own rating. When I went out, I would talk to the air as if she was walking beside me, sometimes quoting her actual words as answers to my questions and sometimes inventing my own as if she was a beloved character in an imagined novel. When people looked at me like I was crazy, I didn’t care. I wasn’t the only one. But, more importantly, my wife meant more to me than they did. I remembered times when we’d stroll through the park or down downtown sidewalks and I would be too ashamed to kiss her in the presence of strangers. Now, I would tell her that I love her in the densest crowd. I would ask her whether I should buy ketchup or mustard in the condiments aisle. She helped me pick out my clothes in the morning. She convinced me to eat healthy and exercise.
In November, I was in Bakshi’s apartment for the first time, waiting for a pizza delivery boy, when one of Bakshi’s friends who was browsing Reddit told us that the Tribe of Akna was starting a Kickstarter campaign in an attempt to buy the Republic of Suriname, rename it Xibalba and close its borders for all except the enlightened. Xibalba would have no laws, Salvador Abaroa said in a message on the site. He was banging his gong as he did. Everything would be legal, and anyone who pledged $100 would receive a two-week visa to this new "Mayan Buddhist Eden". If you pledged over $10,000, you would receive citizenship. “Everything in life is destroyed by energy,” Abaroa said. “But let the energy enlighten you before it consumes your body. Xibalba is finite life unbound.” Bakshi’s phone buzzed. The pizza boy had sent an email. He couldn’t get upstairs, so Bakshi and I took the elevator to the building’s front entrance. The boy’s face was so white that I saw it as soon as the elevator doors slid open. Walking closer, I saw that he was powdered. His cheeks were also rouged, and he was wearing cranberry coloured lipstick, a Marilyn Monroe wig and a short black skirt. Compared to his face, his thin legs looked like incongruously dark popsicle sticks. Bakshi paid for the pizza and added another five dollars for the tip. The boy batted his fake eyelashes and asked if maybe he could do something to earn a little more. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I could come upstairs and clean the place up a little. You two live alone?” Bakshi passed me the two pizza boxes—They felt hot in my hands.—and dug around in his wallet. “It’s not just the two of us,” I said. The boy smiled. “That’s OK. I’ve done parties before if that’s what you’re into.” I saw the reaction on Bakshi’s face, and I saw the boy’s grotesque caricature of a woman. “There’s condoms and lube in the car,” the boy said, pointing to a sedan with a pizza spray-painted across its side parked by the curb. “My boss says I can take up to two hours but it’s not like he uses a stopwatch.” I stepped on Bakshi’s foot and shouldered him away. He was still fiddling with his wallet. “We’re not interested,” I said to the boy. He just shrugged. “Suit yourselves. If you change your mind, order another pizza and ask for Ruby.” The elevator dinged and the doors opened. As we shuffled inside, I saw Bakshi’s cheeks turn red. “I’m not actually—” he mumbled, but I didn’t let him finish. What had bothered me so much about the boy wasn’t the way he looked or acted; in fact, it wasn’t really the boy at all. He was just trying to make a buck. What bothered me was how ruthlessly we’d already begun to exploit each other.
For those of us who were heterosexual, sex was a definite weakness. I missed it. I would never have it with a woman again. The closest substitute was pornography, whose price rose with its popularity, but which, at least for me, now came scented with the unpleasantness of historicity and nostalgia. Videos and photos, not to mention physical magazines, were collector’s items in the same way that we once collected coins or action figures. The richest men bought up the exclusive rights to their favourite porn stars and guarded them by law with a viciousness once reserved for the RIAA and MPAA. Perhaps exclusivity gave them a possessive satisfaction. In response, we pirated whatever we could and fought for a pornographic public domain. Although new pornography was still being produced, either with the help of the same virtual technology they used for mainstream movies or with the participation of young men in costume, it lacked the taste of the originals. It was like eating chocolate made without cocoa. The best pornography, and therefore the best sex, became the pornography of the mind.
The Tribe of Akna reached its Kickstarter goal in early December. On December 20, I went to church for the first time since getting married because that was the theoretical date that my wife—along with every other woman—was supposed to have given birth. I wanted to be alone with others. Someone posted a video on TikTok from Elia Kazan’s On The Waterfront, dubbing over Marlon Brando’s speech to say: “You don’t understand. I could’a had a piece of ass. I could’a been a school board member. I could’a been a son’s daddy”. It was juvenile and heartbreaking. By Christmas, the Surinamese government was already expelling its citizens, each of whom had theoretically been given a fraction of the funds paid to the government from the Tribe of Akna’s Kickstarter pool, and Salvador Abaroa’s lawyers were petitioning for international recognition of the new state of Xibalba. Neither Canada nor the United States opened diplomatic relations, but others did. I knew people who had pledged money, and when in January they disappeared on trips, I had no doubt to where. Infamy spread in the form of stories and urban legends. There’s no need for details. People disappeared, and ethicists wrote about the ethical neutrality of murder, arguing that because we were all slated to die, leaving the Earth barren in a century, destruction was a human inevitability, and what is inevitable can never be bad, even when it comes earlier than expected—even when it comes by force. Because, as a species, we hadn’t chosen destruction for ourselves, neither should any individual member of our species be able to choose now for himself. To the ethicists of what became known as the New Inevitability School, suicide was a greater evil than murder because it implied choice and inequality. If the ship was going down, no one should be allowed to get off. A second wave of suicides coincided with the debate, leading many governments to pass laws making suicide illegal. But how do you punish someone who already wants to die? In China: by keeping him alive and selling him to Xibalba, where he becomes the physical plaything of its citizens and visa-holders. The Chinese was the first embassy to open in Xibalban Paramaribo.
The men working on Kurt Schwaller’s theory of everything continued working, steadily adding new variables to their equations, complicating their calculations in the hopes that someday the variable they added would be the final one and the equation would yield an answer. “It’s pointless,” Bakshi would comment after reading about one of the small breakthroughs they periodically announced. “Even if they do manage to predict something, anything, it won’t amount to anything more than the painfully obvious. And after decades of adding and subtracting their beans, they’ll come out of their Los Alamos datalabs like groundhogs into a world blanketed by storm clouds and conclude, finally and with plenty of self-congratulations, that it’s about to fucking rain.”
It rained a lot in February. It was one of the warmest Februaries in Toronto’s history. Sometimes I went for walks along the waterfront, talking to my wife, listening to Billie Holiday and trying to recall as many female faces as I could. Ones from the distant past: my mother, my grandmothers. Ones from the recent past: the woman whose life my wife saved on the way to the hospital, the Armenian woman with the film magazine and the injured son, the Jamaican woman, Bakshi’s wife. I focused on their faces, then zoomed out to see their bodies. I carried an umbrella but seldom opened it because the pounding of the raindrops against the material distorted my mental images. I saw people rush across the street holding newspapers above their heads while dogs roamed the alleyways wearing nothing at all. Of the two, it was dogs that had the shorter time left on Earth, and if they could let the rain soak their fur and drip off their bodies, I could surely let it run down my face. It was first my mother and later my wife who told me to always cover up in the rain, “because moisture causes colds,” but I was alone now and I didn’t want to be separated from the falling water by a sheet of glass anymore. I already was cold. I saw a man sit down on a bench, open his briefcase, pack rocks into it, then close it, tie it to his wrist, check his watch and start to walk into the polluted waters of Lake Ontario. Another man took out his phone and tapped his screen a few times. The man in the lake walked slowly, savouring each step. When the police arrived, sirens blaring, the water was up to his neck. I felt guilty for watching the three officers splash into the lake after him. I don’t know what happened after that because I turned my back and walked away. I hope they didn’t stop him. I hope he got to do what he wanted to do.
“Screw the police.” Bakshi passed me a book. “You should read this,” he said. It was by a professor of film and media studies at a small university in Texas. There was a stage on the cover, flanked by two red curtains. The photo had been taken from the actors’ side, looking out at an audience that the stage lights made too dark to see. The title was Hiding Behind The Curtains. I flipped the book over. There was no photo of the author. “It’s a theory,” Bakshi said, “that undercuts what Abaroa and the Inevitabilists are saying. It’s a little too poetic in parts but—listen, you ever read Atlas Shrugged?” I said I hadn’t. “Well, anyway, what this guy says is that what if instead of our situation letting us do anything we want, it’s actually the opposite, a test to see how we act when we only think that we’re doomed. I mean what if the women who died in March, what if they’re just—” “Hiding behind the curtains,” I said. He bit his lower lip. “It sounds stupid when you say it like that but, as a metaphor, it has a kind of elegance, right?” I flipped through the book, reading a few sentences at random. It struck me as neo-Christian. “Isn’t this a little too spiritual for you? I thought we were all locked into one path,” I said. “I thought that, too, but lately I’ve been able to do things—things that I didn’t really want to do.” For a second I was concerned. “Nothing bad,” he said. “I mean I’ve felt like I’m locked into doing one thing, say having a drink of water, but I resist and pour myself a glass of orange juice instead.” I shook my head. “It’s hard to explain,” he said. That’s how most theories ended, I thought: reason and evidence up to a crucial point, and then it gets so personal that it’s hard to explain. You either make the jump or you don’t. “Just read it,” he said. “Please read it. You don’t have to agree with it, I just want to get your opinion, an objective opinion.”
I never did read the book, and Bakshi forgot about it, too, but that day he was excited and happy, and those were rare feelings. I was simultaneously glad for him and jealous. Afterwards, we went out onto the balcony and drank Czech beer until morning. When it got cool, we put on our coats. It started to drizzle so we wore blue plastic suits like the ones they used to give you on boat rides in Niagara Falls. When it was time to go home, I was so drunk I couldn’t see straight. I almost got into a fight, the first one of my life, because I bumped into a man on the street and told him to get the fuck out of my way. I don’t remember much more of my walk home. The only reason I remember Behind The Curtains at all is because when I woke up in the afternoon it was the first thing that my hung over brain recognized. It was lying on the floor beside the bed. Then I opened the blinds covering my bedroom window and, through my spread fingers that I’d meant to use as a shield from the first blast of daylight, I saw the pincers for the first time.
They’d appeared while I was asleep. I turned on the television and checked my phone. The media and the internet were feverish, but nobody knew what the thing was, just a massive, vaguely rectangular shape blotting out a strip of the sky. NASA stated that it had received no extraterrestrial messages to coincide with the appearance. Every government claimed ignorance. The panel discussions on television only worsened my headache. Bakshi emailed me links to photos from Mumbai, Cape Town, Sydney and Mexico City, all showing the same shape; or rather one of a pair of shapes, for there were two of them, one on each side of the Earth, and they’d trapped our planet between themselves like gargantuan fingers clutching an equally gargantuan ping-pong ball. That’s why somebody came up with the term “the pincers”. It stuck. Because I’d slept in last night’s clothes I was already dressed, so I ran down the stairs and out of my apartment building to get a better look at them from the parking lot. You’re not supposed to look at the sun, but I wasn’t the only one breaking that rule. There were entire crowds with upturned faces in the streets. If the pincers, too, could see, they would perhaps be as baffled by us as we were of them: billions of tiny specks all over the surface of this ping-pong ball gathering in points on a grid, coagulating into large puddles that vanished overnight only to reassemble in the morning. In the following days, scientists scrambled to study the pincers and their potential effects on us, but they discovered nothing. The pincers did nothing. They emitted nothing, consumed nothing. They simply were. And they could not be measured or detected in any way other than by eyesight. When we shot rays at them, the rays continued on their paths unaffected, as if nothing was there. The pincers did, however, affect the sun’s rays coming towards us. They cut up our days. The sun would rise, travel over the sky, hide behind a pincer—enveloping us in a second night—before revealing itself again as a second day. But if the pincers’ physical effect on us was limited to its blockage of light, their mental effects on us were astoundingly severe. For many, this was the sign they’d been waiting for. It brought hope. It brought gloom. It broke and confirmed ideas that were hard to explain. In their ambiguity, the pincers could be anything, but in their strangeness they at least reassured us of the reality of the strange times in which we were living. Men walked away from the theory of everything, citing the pincers as the ultimate variable that proved the futility of prognostication. Others took up the calculations because if the pincers could appear, what else was out there in our future? However, ambiguity can only last for a certain period. Information narrows possibilities. On April 1, 2026, every Twitter account in the world received the following message:
as you can see this message is longer than the allowed one hundred forty characters time and space are malleable you thought you had one hundred years but prepare for the plucking
The sender was @. The message appeared in each user’s feed at exactly the same time and in his first language, without punctuation. Because of the date most of us thought it was a hoax, but the developers of Twitter denied this vehemently. It wasn’t until a court forced them to reveal their code, which proved that a message of that length and sent by a blank user was impossible, that our doubts ceased. ##!! took bets on what the message meant. Salvador Abaroa broadcast a response into space in a language he called Bodhi Mayan, then addressed the rest of us in English, saying that in the pincers he had identified an all-powerful prehistoric fire deity, described in an old Sanskrit text as having the resemblance of mirrored black fangs, whose appearance signified the end of time. “All of us will burn,” he said, “but paradise shall be known only to those who burn willingly.” Two days later, The Tribe of Akna announced that in one month it would seal Xibalba from the world and set fire to everything and everyone in it. For the first time, its spokesman said, an entire nation would commit suicide as one. Jonestown was but a blip. As a gesture of goodwill, he said that Xibalba was offering free immolation visas to anyone who applied within the next week. The New Inevitability School condemned the plan as “offensively unethical” and inequalitist and urged an international Xibalban boycott. Nothing came of it. When the date arrived, we watched with rapt attention on live streams and from the vantage points of circling news planes as Salvador Abaroa struck flint against steel, creating the spark that caught the char cloth, starting a fire that blossomed bright crimson and in the next weeks consumed all 163,821 square kilometres of the former Republic of Suriname and all 2,500,000 of its estimated Xibalban inhabitants. Despite concerns that the fire would spread beyond Xibalba’s borders, The Tribe of Akna had been careful. There were no accidental casualties and no unplanned property damage. No borders were crossed. Once the fire burned out, reporters competed to be first to capture the mood on the ground. Paramaribo resembled the smouldering darkness of a fire pit.
It was a few days later while sitting on Bakshi’s balcony, looking up at the pincers and rereading a reproduction of @’s message—someone had spray-painted it across the wall of a building opposite Bakshi’s—that I remembered Iris. The memory was so absorbing that I didn’t notice when Bakshi slid open the balcony door and sat down beside me, but I must have been smiling because he said, “I don’t mean this the wrong way, but you look a little loony tonight. Seriously, man, you do not look sufficiently freaked out.” I’d remembered Iris before, swirling elements of her plain face, but now I also remembered her words and her theory. I turned to Bakshi, who seemed to be waiting for an answer to his question, and said, “Let’s get up on the roof of this place.” He grabbed my arm and held on tightly. “I’m not going to jump, if that’s what you mean.” It wasn’t what I meant, but I asked, “why not?” He said, “I don’t know. I know we’re fucked as a species and all that, but I figure if I’m still alive I might as well see what happens next, like in a bad movie you want to see through to the end.” I promised him that I wasn’t going to jump, either. Then I scrambled inside his apartment, grabbed my hat and jacket from the closet by the front door and put them on while speed walking down the hall, toward the fire escape. I realized I’d been spending a lot of time here. The alarm went off as soon I pushed open the door with my hip but I didn’t care. When Bakshi caught up with me, I was already outside, leaping up two stairs at a time. The metal construction was rusted. The treads wobbled. On the roof, the wind nearly blew my hat off and it was so loud I could have screamed and no one would have heard me. Holding my hat in my hands, I crouched and looked out over the twinkling city spread out in front of me. It looked alive in spite of the pincers in the sky. “Let’s do something crazy,” I yelled. Bakshi was still catching his breath behind me. “What, like this isn’t crazy enough?” The NHL may have been gone but my hat still bore the Maple Leafs logo, as quaint and obsolete by then as the Weimar Republic in the summer of 1945. “When’s the last time you played ball hockey?” I asked. Bakshi crouched beside me. “You’re acting weird. And I haven’t played ball hockey in ages.” I stood up so suddenly that Bakshi almost fell over. This time I knew I was smiling. “So call your buddies,” I said. “Tell them to bring their sticks and their gear and to meet us in front of the ACC in one hour.” Bakshi patted me on the back. Toronto shone like jewels scattered over black velvet. “The ACC’s been closed for years, buddy. I think you’re really starting to lose it.” I knew it was closed. “Lose what?” I asked. “It’s closed and we’re going to break in.”
The chains broke apart like shortbread. The electricity worked. The clouds of dust made me sneeze. We used duffel bags to mark out the goals. We raced up and down the stands and bent over, wheezing at imaginary finish lines. We got into the announcer’s booth and called each other cunts through the microphone. We ran, fell and shot rubber pucks for hours. We didn’t keep score. We didn’t worry. “What about the police?” someone asked. The rest of us answered: “Screw the fucking police!”
And when everybody packed up and went home, I stayed behind.
“Are you sure you’re fine?” Bakshi asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Because I have to get back so that I can shower, get changed and get to work.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“And you promise me you’ll catch a cab?”
“I’m not suicidal.”
He fixed his grip on his duffel bag. “I didn’t say you were. I was just checking.”
“I want to see the end of the movie, too,” I said.
He saluted. I watched him leave. When he was gone, my wife walked down from the nosebleeds and took a seat beside me. “There’s someone I want to tell you about,” I said. She lifted her chin like she always does when something unexpected catches her interest, and scooted closer. I put my arm across the back of her beautiful shoulders. She always liked that, even though the position drives me crazy because I tend to talk a lot with my hands. “Stuck at Leafs-Wings snorefest,” she said. “Game sucks but I love the man sitting beside me.” (January 15, 2019. Themes: hockey, love, me. Rating: 5/5). “Her name was Iris,” I said.
Iris “What if the whole universe was a giant garden—like a hydroponics thing, like how they grow tomatoes and marijuana, so there wouldn’t need to be any soil, all the nutrients would just get injected straight into the seeds or however they do it—or, even better, space itself was the soil, you know how they talk about dark matter being this invisible and mysterious thing that exists out there and we don’t know what it does, if it actually affect anything, gravity…”
She blew a cloud of pot smoke my way that made me cough and probably gave her time to think. She said, “So dark matter is like the soil, and in this space garden of course they don’t grow plants but something else.”
“Just eyes, or body parts in general?” I asked.
The music from the party thumped. “But the eyes are our planets, like Mars is an eye, Neptune is an eye, and the Earth is an eye, maybe even the best eye.”
“The best for what? Who’s growing them?”
“God,” she said.
I took the joint from her and took a long drag. “I didn’t know you believed in God.”
“I don’t, I guess—except when I’m on dope. Anyway, you’ve got to understand me because when I say God I don’t mean like the old man with muscles and a beard. This God, the one I’m talking about, it’s more like a one-eyed monster.”
“Like a cyclops?” I asked.
“Yeah, like that, like a cyclops. So it’s growing these eyes in the dark matter in space—I mean right now, you and me, we’re literally sitting on one of these eyes and we’re contributing to its being grown because the nutrients the cyclops God injected into them, that’s us.”
“Why does God need so many extra eyes?”
“It’s not a question of having so many of them, but more about having the right one, like growing the perfect tomato.” I gave her back the joint and leaned back, looking at the stars. “Because every once in a while the cyclops God goes blind, its eye stops working—not in the same way we go blind, because the cyclops God doesn’t see reality in the same way we see reality—but more like we see through our brains and our eyes put together.”
“Like x-ray vision?” I asked.
“No, not like that at all,” she said.
“A glass eye?”
“Glass eyes are fake.”
“OK,” I said, “so maybe try something else. Give me a different angle. Tell me what role we’re playing in all of this because right now it seems that we’re pretty insignificant. I mean, you said we’re nutrients but what’s the difference between, say, Mars and Earth in terms of being eyes?”
She looked over at me. “Are you absolutely sure you want to hear about this?”
“I am,” I said.
“You don’t think it’s stupid?”
“Compared to what?”
“I don’t know, just stupid in general.”
“I like you,” she said.
“Because I don’t think you’re stupid?” I asked.
“That’s just a bonus. I mean more that you’re up here with me instead of being down there with everyone, and we’re talking and even though we’re not in love I know somehow we’ll never forget each other for as long as we live.”
“It’s hard to forget being on the surface of a giant floating eyeball.”
“You’re scared that you won’t find anyone to love,” she said suddenly, causing me to nearly choke on my own saliva. “Don’t ask me how I know—I just do. But before I go any further about the cyclops God, I want you to know that you’ll find someone to love and who’ll love you back, and whatever happens you’ll always have that because no one can take away the past.”
“You’re scared of going blind,” I said.
“I am going blind.”
“And I’m learning not to be scared because everything I see until that day will always belong to me.”
“The doctors said it would be gradual,” I reminded her.
“Because you wouldn’t want to find someone to love and then know that every day you wake up the love between you grows dimmer and dimmer, would you?”
“I guess not,” I said.
“Wouldn’t you much rather feel the full strength of that love up to and including in the final second before the world goes black?”
“It would probably be painful to lose it all at once like that.”
“Painful because you actually had something to lose. For me, I know I can’t wish away blindness, but I sure wish that the last image I ever see—in that final second before my world goes black—is the most vivid and beautiful image of all.”
Because I didn’t know what to say to that, I mumbled: “I’m sorry.”
“That I’m going blind?”
“Yeah, and that we can’t grow eyes.”
This time I looked over, and she was the one gazing at the stars. “Before, you asked if we were insignificant,” she said. “But because you’re sorry—that’s kind of why we’re the most significant of all, why Earth is better than the other planets.”
“For the cyclops God?”
“He cares about my feelings?”
“Not in the way you’re probably thinking, but in a different way that’s exactly what the cyclops God cares about most because that’s what it’s looking for in an eye. All the amazing stuff we’ve ever built, all our ancient civilizations and supercomputers and cities you can see from the Moon—that’s just useless cosmetics to the cyclops God, except in how all of it has made us feel about things that aren’t us.”
“I think you’re talking about morality.”
“I think so, too.”
“So by feeling sorry for you I’m showing compassion, and the cyclops God likes compassion?”
“That’s not totally wrong but it’s a little upside down. We have this black matter garden and these planets the cyclops God has grown as potential eyes to replace its own eye once it stops working, but its own eye is like an eye and a brain mixed together. Wait—” she said.
“Imagine a pair of tinted sunglasses.”
I imagined green-tinted ones.
“Now imagine that instead of the lenses being a certain colour, they’re a certain morality, and if you wear the glasses you see the world tinted according to that morality.”
I was kind of able to imagine that. I supposed it would help show who was good and who was bad. “But the eye and the tinted glasses are the same thing in this case.”
“Exactly, there’s no one without the other, and what makes the tint special is us—not that the cyclops God cares at all about individuals any more than we care about individual honey bees. That’s why he’s kind of a monster.”
“Isn’t people’s morality always changing, though?”
“Only up to a point. Green is green even when you have a bunch of shades of it, and a laptop screen still works fine even with a few dead pixels, right? And the more globalized and connected we get, the smoother our morality gets, but if you’re asking more about how our changing morals work when the cyclops God finally comes to take its eye, I assume it has a way to freeze our progress. To cut our roots. Then it makes some kind of final evaluation. If it’s satisfied it takes the planet and sticks it into its eye socket, and if it doesn’t like us then it lets us alone, although because we’re frozen and possibly rootless I suppose we die—maybe that’s what the other planets are, so many of them in space without any sort of life. Cold, rejected eyes.”
From sunglasses to bees to monitors in three metaphors, and now we were back to space. This was getting confusing. The stars twinkled, some of them dead, too: their light still arriving at our eyes from sources that no longer existed. “That’s kind of depressing,” I said to end the silence.
“What about it?”
“Being bees,” I said, “that work for so long at tinting a pair of glasses just so that a cyclops God can try them on.”
“I don’t think it’s any more depressing than being a tomato.”
“I’ve never thought about that.”
“You should. It’s beautiful, like love,” she said. “Because if you think about it, being a tomato and being a person are really quite similar. They’re both about growing and existing for the enjoyment of someone else. As a tomato you’re planted, you grow and mature and then an animal comes along and eats you. The juicier you look and the nicer you smell, the greater the chance that you’ll get plucked but also the more pleasure the animal will get from you. As a person, you’re also born and you grow up and you mature into a one of a kind personality with a one of a kind face, and then someone comes along and makes you fall in love with them and all the growing you did was really just for their enjoyment of your love.”
“Except love lasts longer than chewing a tomato.”
“Sometimes,” she said.
“And you have to admit that two tomatoes can’t eat each other the way two people can love each other mutually.”
“I admit that’s a good point,” she said.
“And what happens to someone who never gets fallen in love with?”
“The same thing that happens to a tomato that never gets eaten or an eye that the cyclops God never takes. They die and they rot, and they darken and harden, decomposing until they don’t look like tomatoes anymore. It’s not a nice fate. I’d rather live awhile and get eaten, to be honest.”
“As a tomato or person?”
I thought for a few seconds. “That explanation works for things on Earth, but nothing actually decomposes in space.”
“That’s why there are so many dead planets,” she said.
submitted by normancrane to stayawake [link] [comments]
2020.10.03 13:29 Pennywise_Poop_99 Mature naked mothers
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2020.09.19 12:11 Dickee33 Mature naked mothers
I'm new here. Mature Submissive Sissy, US Army combat medic. Fiancé & her Mother met my return at O'Hare.
I was frazzled. The Ladies kept me barefoot naked, screaming spankings several months. Just what I needed! 5 years later, Sandra filed for divorce.
BA, MA; English & History. Corporate/Military Speechwriter. Two adopted daughters, now married, FLS Dominas.
2nd wife, gorgeous Elite Domme, left me for a tycoon.
Firm believer in v strict Female Led Relationship/Marriage.
Live alone. Daughters visit occasionally. I need a Nanny.
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