Confessions of a Bad Submissive

Chapter One-2

I didn’t even hear the rest. My heart was being torn out of my chest, and I was positive that all hope for happiness had just left me. But my interjections while he explained himself must have made me sound like a crazed cartoon character.

“Sure! Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Fine. Yes. Fine. Oh, I understand, I really do!”

I don’t think I could have sounded more upbeat and disconnected if I’d been doing knock-knock jokes at a funeral. But I simply couldn’t stop myself.

“Thanks so much for calling, and you have a nice day, you hear? Bye now!”

For weeks, I wandered around in a daze. Not only had I been dumped, but after numerous tests and months of frustration every time I started my period, my husband’s and my slow-learner specialist declared us hopelessly infertile. It would be impossible for us to have children together, and if I’d been smart I would have been delirious with joy. On top of all this, I’d accepted a new job. I knew within the first five minutes of sitting at my desk that I’d made a horrible mistake. And I couldn’t even keep a lover, so I must have really sucked at that, too.

About two months later, my ex-boss called and asked me to lunch. He said he just wanted to talk. I waited for him at the top of a long set of stairs in front of a downtown Los Angeles cafeteria, and watched him walk toward me from the end of the block. His athleticism made his walk graceful and slightly cocky at the same time, and I loved seeing those broad shoulders and big biceps that used to enfold me. At the top of the stairs, he reached out to hug me. I flinched and backed away.

“It’s okay,” he said. I let him hug me for a nanosecond.

While we were eating lunch, I tried to tune out a waitress dropping glasses, busboys slamming dishes into bins, silverware clinking on plates, and that weird hum a hundred or so voices make. The whole time he said his piece, I watched that gorgeous mouth of his and was able to hear him whisper, “I don’t see why we can’t be friends.”

He was back in the saddle—my grateful saddle—within forty-eight hours. Several weeks later, he broke up with me again. A few weeks after that, we ended up having s*x in his car in the parking garage where he worked.

As I was repairing my make-up, he said, “Guess what? My wife’s going to have another baby.”

“Huh?” I said dully, studying my lipstick in a compact mirror.

“Just found out. I’m going to be a father again. Isn’t it great?”

“What the hell did you go and do that for?” I yelled.

“I really like kids,” he said.

What a pathetic, desperate fool I’d been. How little he must have thought of me. That was a defense? That was an answer? That piece of crap response? THAT? He liked kids? Just how long had he been trying to get her pregnant? I thought back on the times he’d dismissed me, asked me to lunch, lured me back in, broken up with me then called, only to have me fall for it all over again. What a weak, needy, gullible, amoral, desperate, naïve, doormat, i***t slut-lump of flesh I’d been.

But I can’t say the man ever lied to me. The realization so thoroughly seeped into my brain: he and I would have no future together; he never said we would. I had no promises, no ring, no nothing, I’d been so sure we had enough of a foundation on which to build a happy life, and thought all I needed to do was be patient, wait for him to come to his senses and leave his wife. But just because every fiber of my being had cried out for what he gave me, it didn’t mean his feelings were as intense as mine. The curtain was down and the show was over.

He moved out of state a few months later. My husband casually asked about him one night when we were at a restaurant, celebrating my birthday. I confirmed that he’d moved away.

“Thank god that affair’s over,” he said.

I said, “You mean to tell me you thought I was having an affair but you never said a word?”

“I knew you’d be back when you were ready,” he said.

Well ain’t that a kick in the head. I concentrated on finishing my dinner without looking too sheepish, and he began talking about FCC Regulation issues he was dealing with at work.

My ex-boss visited me at my home a few times thereafter when my husband was out of town. We ended up in bed. When I moved to Arizona, I met him at a nearby resort where his company was having a meeting. We ended up in bed. He said he’d be back for another meeting in the next few months and would call me. I never heard from him again.

He once said, “You know, no matter what happens between us in the future, I don’t think a day would go by when I didn’t think about you and wonder how you were doing.” And I truly think it’s a rare day when I don’t do the same.

I left my nightmare job and took another, only slightly less nightmarish one. The owner’s son asked me one day when we were in the coffee room, “If I promise to buy every item of clothing you let me watch you try on, would you let me take you shopping?” I poured a cup of coffee and went to my desk. My boss and I would sometimes go to lunch with him, and she would often tell him to stop staring at me. My cool, calm indifference must have driven him crazy, but I look back now and see that he wasn’t even on my radar. He was obviously terribly hot for me, but my head was too far up my ass to notice. Let’s see: he was wealthy, successful, from a good family, single, hot for me and AVAILABLE. But I was busy thinking… thinking about… what the f*****g f**k was I thinking?

My husband and I moved out of state. I was desperately horny again, and developed the hots for a very religious man who didn’t believe in s*x outside of marriage. But we were both certified hypocrites, and our interpretation of the Bible apparently told us we could kiss and grope, but we couldn’t actually have s*x per the William Jefferson Clinton definition. So while he was trying to navigate which acts would only be minor transgression in the eyes of his Lord, I was trying to get him worked up enough to fully transgress, knowing it would be better for my libido for him to just ask forgiveness later. My efforts were almost successful once, but he ended up coming in my hair instead of in me. I went home that night, rumpled-looking and unsatisfied, with the left side of my hairdo looking shellacked. A few nights later, I told my husband I wanted a divorce. When I told my so-called lover what I’d done, his face registered abject terror, and he ended the relationship by simply never calling again or returning my pages.

I recommitted myself to my dead and sexless marriage, and vowed never, never, never, ever again to screw around on my husband. And I backed it up this time: I enrolled in seminary. How such an unfaithful little horn-dog like me ended up in seminary is, as we say here in the south, a whole ‘nother kettle of fish. As part of my efforts to reduce the level of my blatant hypocrisy, I quit drinking and smoking.

Quitting smoking caused me to gain, like, fifteen pounds in fifteen days. I received a marketing letter in the mail from a personal trainer, and was able to book an appointment with him the very next day. Oh my god, what a physique. Oh my god. I could swear I actually smelled the testosterone wafting around this man, and it sucked me in faster than a heroin habit. At the third session, I asked what he would charge to let me run my hands over his gorgeous muscles. I really did. He probably thought I was joking. I really wasn’t.

I started working out with him four times a week and soon was in the best shape of my life. I no longer smoked, or drank alcohol; I ate no junk food whatsoever, I cut out all sugar from my diet, I took vitamin supplements, and by god if I didn’t feel like a million bucks. And the s*x drive I’d tried to shove down under booze, cigarettes and marital resentment came roaring back like a freight train. I imagine every place I went; men could smell my fume-cloud of horniness.

He and I talked so well together. We were comfortable with one another. Just seeing him when I walked in the studio each time never failed to excite me. Things started to get s****l between us during workouts. Keep in mind, this was a private studio, and he and I were often the only trainer and client there. He loved seeing me do any stretching exercise that had my ass up in the air, and he would step behind me to enjoy the view. He once slipped his hand into my work-out shorts and I flinched.

He said, “You let me touch you any time and in any way I want.” He added, “And you’re no longer allowed to wear a bra or underwear under your work-out clothes.”

Another time, he said, “Some girls need to just be quiet and do as they’re told.” I laughed my head off, as no man had ever spoken to me like that before, but I knew immediately that he’d struck a chord in me.

Oh dear. What to do, what to do. He became my very personal trainer, and we did as much groping as we could during workouts and on the stretching mats afterward. But we agreed we were going to finally truly consummate the relationship; i.e., f**k each other’s brains out, and that we would do it the following week when my husband was out of town on business. It turned out to be the last seminary class of the semester, so I thought it would end early, and I promised to meet my very personal trainer at his condo afterward. Well, wouldn’t you know it, the professor had come up with the requirement that every single last one of us to get up in front of the class and speak extemporaneously about a biblical concept. And it was a large class.

Keeeeeeryst! The clock was ticking! And ticking! What is grace? What is redemption? What is meekness? What is atonement? What is…what is… what is…?

What is f*****g taking so damned long? My very personal trainer is waiting to f**k me!

I quietly made my way to the back of the room, leaned down to my seminary professor’s ear and whispered that I was still battling a touch of a bad cold and wished to be excused from the rest of the class. It was hardly a lie. I really was recovering from a bad cold and I really did wish to be excused from the rest of class. Mission accomplished. I went to my car and called my trainer, who gave me directions to his condo. His bachelor pad. His love nest. His…

When I arrived, he excused himself and went to the kitchen to microwave some sort of beef dinner. He apologized, but said he hadn’t eaten in hours.

That’s okay, Big Guy. You’re gonna need your strength. Eat up. Eat your fill, you Manzilla, you!

I ended up on the couch in a weird, twisty-kind of position, with a spongy-soft p***s inside me. Every athletic thrust of his hips slammed my head against the rear corner of the sofa.

“Has anyone ever made love to you like this before?” he asked.

You mean, like, while giving me a concussion?

“Um, no,” I said.

“Let’s move to the bedroom,” he suggested.

“Sure, yeah,” I said, my head throbbing.

So I laid down on the bed and we resumed our activity. After ten minutes or so, things had not progressed from the spongy-soft stage. I checked out and studied the ceiling.

Let’s see…nine times seven is sixty-three. Nine times eight is seventy…seventy…seventy-two. Is that right? Seventy-two? Nine times nine…

He finally got hard and we were done. He told me things would be better next time.