Whores, Housewives and Paper Handcuffs

You can’t turn a whore into a housewife.

I mean you can. I played wifey for years, but I denied myself my wants and wishes. I had to stop being my slutty self and I hated it. Ended up hating them for it. The men who pretended to love me without knowing me at all.

You can turn housewives into whores too, if you fuck them right.

When the Ashley Madison hack broke I listened to an interview with a woman. She claimed a lot of the accounts were women like her, married 30-40 something looking to get fucked by a 20 something year old boy or two or three. I suddenly felt less alone, sitting in my car at a stoplight, mouth agape. Saddened me she felt the need to distort her voice. Made me wonder, if she and I exist, there must be others. Where our male counterparts at? The older wiser men that want their women wanton.

I’ve met typical housewives, in grocery stores, matching track suits, step calculators on their wrists, husbands on an invisible leash. Standing in the organic cereal aisle holding purses looking like bull-whipped dogs. Those men have my sympathies.

I’ve watched 20 minutes of those “real” housewife shows here and there. Like car wrecks on the highway and you don’t want to look but…

I have never wanted to get married. Not traditionally anyway.

I believe much too firmly in freewill, and will be satisfied with nothing less than that.
Being chosen over and over.
Not locked in with paper handcuffs that read marriage certificate, car payments or mortgage agreement.
Nay, nay.
I want to leave my love wild and have him come home on his own.

I want to be left wild. Come home because home is Him and he is where I want to be.

I have a closet full of dresses and fingers full of rings.

I know a boy, soft spoken to the point where I have to lean in to hear what he has to say. He is my French/Vietnamese angel-baby. He just knows things, has no filter about it. As one that gets asked to predict the future often, it’s nice to have an oracle of my own.  I put my palm up to him the other night and asked if anything changed. He clicked his tongue at me, smiled all the way to his eyes and said ‘you don’t have to live with him to call him husband’.

And just like that, I felt better.

It amazes me how often I have to have the obvious pointed out to me.

When have I ever wanted/been satisfied with mortal things?

Back when I was feigning mortal I guess. But even then my soul was in constant discord. I tried to play house. I can cook and clean and make a bed that rivals Martha Stewart’s guest room. I am good at these things because I enjoy the work. It’s not my life’s work. I do find comfort in providing comfort. But really? That is all he wanted me for? He should have gotten a maid and I should have been left to fuck and write.

I tried for almost 2 decades to exist in the purgatory called ‘marriage’.

I cried and raged almost every day in that prison. Unless I was numb.

I decided to change. Ever evolving, I am a strange changeling of a girl.

The true definition of apocalypse = When veils are lifted and we see something as it is as opposed to how we imagined it to be.

Once upon a time I found my work satisfying. Kept a single mom and her spawn from starving. Conquered my stage fright, the world blocked out for 12 minutes at a time. I never needed the acknowledgment, just the freedom to move. Dances in backrooms spoke of being chosen or successful hunting. I make them feel like they have to ask me.

It’s a Band-Aid on a gaping chest wound. It isn’t enough. I am seeing now it never has been.

Everything had to happen the way it has. I have known this for a long time but I do so love it when it becomes vivid and undeniable. All these skills I have acquired and honed in strip clubs ‘How to get what you want’. ‘How to move’. ‘How to be brave 101’. ‘How to spot your prey’.

The joys I find are in the push/pull. I look for fights now. I had a boy attempt to tip me on stage after being mean to me, I laughed at him and shooed him away with a wave of my hand. He could have been offering the Hope diamond and my satisfaction still would have lain in telling him to piss off. This is now satisfying to me. I still like the stranger-danger and the sensuality of it but I’ve found a better way.

Once upon a time I thought I had to choose between the things that sate me and being loved by a man.

I wasn’t dreaming big enough. There is always a third option.

I can be loved for all of the whorish things I am.

Home isn’t four walls and a locked door, it’s in his arms, his fingers tracing the maps of where I’ve been.

I love hunting, feeding on fuckboys and dismissing them with a wave of my hand. I now have somewhere to return to, where the stories written in braille on my skin by other boys will be read over and over and celebrated, examined.

I will always need my own space to retreat, gather strength, scream at the sky, write or just sleep, and he needs his.
We can share a maid, and share a bed on the days our bodies want for no other reason than absolute want.
This to me is better than any diamond ring, socially acceptable lockdown.

Solitude is beautiful because togetherness then becomes a choice.
I am sleeping next to you because we decided this.

I’d rather be his sexual soulmate than anyone else’s goodwife any day.