Hell Hath No Fury
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Chapter 1
When I was growing up I liked to write stories. My favorites were the dirty ones. I could act out sexual fantasies on paper that I was prohibited to by my religion. God didn’t approved of this behavior, I knew, and I was certain my parents would have been shocked and disappointed if they had caught me. But biology trumped my good intentions. As I had no friends interested in being with me sexually, I had to find other outlets for my feelings. When I began puberty we had no internet, I had no friends whose parents left porn lying around, and my artistic skills, as adequate as they were, were pretty useless without models.
I had sex the first time when I was sixteen. I met a girl in high school named Raquel who had some previous experience. And despite what my parents hoped for from girls educated in a religious institution, Raquel was more than willing to take part in my sex education. My parents had bought me a car. Dad wanted me to get used to working. If I was going to have to have a car, I was going to help pay its expenses. I barely made enough money at my job to afford gas, but I didn’t care about the pay. I just wanted to be with Raquel. I’m not going to describe in detail the things we did as the law won’t permit me to in a story like this. I can say that we dated until we were nineteen, and as young adults we did everything a couple could do in a car, at least within the bounds of our limited imaginations.
When I started college Raquel and I broke up. We’d had a rough relationship. We argued a lot. Premarital sex was a temptation in my religion. And as much as I liked it, I wanted to be good, I wanted to be good like my father was good. I wanted to obey the scriptures. When the end came I wanted to enter heaven. But more often than not my desire for Raquel overrode my desire for eternal life. Of course this was during our sexual encounters. After sex, even before my orgasm was finished, the severity of what I’d done would set in. I was trading a few seconds of ecstasy for an eternity of damnation. I was angry with myself, and that anger spilled out onto Raquel. We were both fighting this urge to have sex, and I blamed her for giving in just as much as I blamed myself.
When I left her I wanted to believe that she was just a bitch and that I just couldn’t stand her anymore, but that wasn’t the case. The truth was my sexuality wasn’t as simple as I wanted to believe it was. The stories I had written were a testament to my issues. A part of me wanted to be a regular guy. I wanted to be like my father who I imagined kept himself in the missionary position when I heard him ramming my mother upstairs in their bed at night. But I couldn’t keep my imagination in line with the morals my parents tried to impose on me.
It was after years of sexual exploration that I realized I didn’t hate Raquel. I was jealous of her. I was jealous of her because I wanted to be like her. It wasn’t that I hated my penis. I didn’t despise my manliness. As I got older I got more creative in my fantasy world. I wanted it all. I wanted to feel what sex was like as a woman. I wondered what it would be like to have breasts, to have them fondled, to feel oral sex, and to perform it myself. When I discovered internet porn during college my fantasy playground exploded into a vast universe of possibilities. I began shaving off my body hair like the actors in the porn movies. When my sexual feelings were strong I would wear lingerie under my clothes, wear it when I pleasured myself in my dorm room. I would stay on campus over the weekends when the college emptied out so I could play dress up for days at a time without having to worry about interruptions.
I felt guilty. I wanted to please my parents. I guess it’s just a biological side effect some of us inherit from childhood. I was so hung up on making them proud. It’s why I went to such great lengths to keep this part of my life hidden. I was afraid they would think I was gay, and the God in our church hated gays. There were times I felt so much self-loathing that I would throw away all of my sexual paraphernalia and commit myself back to God. I would attend church, read religious literature daily, and beg God on my knees to help me change. But eventually a lingerie catalogue would arrive in my mailbox, or I would get an email from a sex toy distributor. Sometimes all it took was a nice set of boobs walking by me on the way to class. I would drive to a big box store and load up on panties and dresses, wear out a pack of disposable razors shaving off all of my body hair, and call my parents with some excuse why I had to stay on campus that weekend.
I didn’t think I was gay. I didn’t want to be gay with all of my heart. Of course what I wanted to be defied reason. What I wished the world was like was an impossible fantasy. For me sexuality wasn’t as simple as being born LGBT. For me it was a spiritual torture caused by how I learned about sexuality. Mine was a product of guilt, of right and wrong, good and bad, a labelling of certain sexual behaviors as sinful that created a person like me. It created a boy who wanted to have a woman’s experience in bed yet wanting to avoid the intimacy with a man that this experience would require. I don’t think I can exaggerate just how odd this made me feel. I couldn’t imagine kissing a man. I couldn’t imagine him hugging me, groping me, penetrating me. I couldn’t imagine dating a boy. Even with her anatomy, I didn’t have the vocabulary of a girl. If I had spontaneously changed sexes, even if I did so today, I believe I would be a lesbian at best and a slightly odd one. I doubt I could even stomach the idea of sex with a butch female. Denying even the slightest possibility that I was gay left me alone in a fantasy world where all women were stereotypical, model beauties. All people were perfectly sculpted women in these scenarios, the only difference among us being that some women had penises. And of course every one of them wanted to put theirs in me.
My self-loathing continued to grow. I was naive. I couldn’t bring myself to date other women. What girl wants a boy who fantasizes about being a girl during sex? What female wants to have sex with a boy who dresses himself in lingerie because he likes the way the fabric feels on his freshly shaven skin? No young woman in the church would tolerate that. Still, I couldn’t stop playing out these fantasies in my head and acting them out alone in my dorm room on the weekends. The result was an overwhelming guilt. My fantasy world became a place of masochistic sex with penis wielding women. It was a place where I was a bad girl who needed to be punished. I found a new kind of enjoyment in all of this. I imagine it’s just as difficult to explain the allure of masochism as it is to explain sexual preference. The best way I know to explain it is that the more I thought of myself in these punishment scenarios the more I wanted it. I got to enjoy the pleasures of sex while suffering the punishment for my behavior at the same time.
Chapter 2
I didn’t start dating again until after I graduated college. In a fit of spiritual revival I decided to attend a religious school and train to work in the ministry. My desire to make myself as sexually vanilla as my father was so strong at this point in my life that I hadn’t masturbated for over six months. I believed that my constant church attendance had given me this newfound self-control. It filled me with such self confidence that I wanted to be at church all of the time. I believed this closeness to God was what had cured me. It had made me worthy of dating, worthy of marriage to a woman. And as a result of my salvation in church, no one would ever have to know about the fantasy world I had lived in before. Sex would be strictly natural in my future. I would be a man, a manly man. I would wait until marriage and use sex to make my wife happy, to give her children that we would raise in accordance to the American dream as God intended.
Then my father and mother
divorced. A twenty five year marriage was over. Two months later my father was remarried, and I had a stepmother and a stepsister. I was crushed. Divorce was against our belief system. It was the first time that I saw my parents as hypocrites. They had spent years pounding me over the head with scripture, and now they were both sleeping with other people. My faith in God faltered. Again I attribute some of my feelings to that biological connection between children and their parents that some of us inherit from childhood. If mommy and daddy could break the rules then I could too. And I did.
Needless to say my religious studies suffered. I even changed my major to a secular one. Granted I still played the church game. School required it. I even performed the school’s worship services twice a week. I didn’t abandoned my faith right away. No, I was torn, conflicted, confused for years. I tried to reconcile my parent’s choices with our faith, but I was on a slippery slope now and no amount of explanation from anyone could save me.
When I was in my dorm room in the evenings I would tell my neighbors I was going to bed early. None of them knew that I was still awake, shaving, dressing in women’s clothes, surfing internet porn. I returned to my old fantasy world to escape the confusion. After the divorce, ideas that had been too taboo to consider before became fair play. The women in my fantasies began bringing me men, and what had been gross before now became a part of my punishment. With a twisted kind of logic that only a masochist could understand, I had been very naughty and needed to suffer the unthinkable to make amends to God.
As I sank deeper into taboo, I found myself falling in love with my stepsister. She was a few years younger than me. She was smart, sexy, and she thought I was funny. I began to believe that we could be together some day. My parents had committed the sin of divorce after all. They had gone even further and remarried new partners. Not only had they divorced, now they were committing adultery too. So what if I wanted to be with my stepsister. It wasn’t incest, not real incest. I integrated her into my fantasy world. We became lovers, and I served her willingly doing whatever she asked of me. It made me happy. I loved her.
Then I made the mistake of letting her know how I felt about her. At least it felt like a mistake at first. I approached her as purely as I could, simply declaring my love for her. When she rejected me I was so embarrassed, and so was she. She never spoke to me again. I don’t suppose I blame her, looking back. I think my fantasy world got the best of me. Something like love between stepsiblings is considered taboo by society after all, even by most atheists. How could I expect her to return that kind of love? How could I expect her to remain my friend after revealing something as strange as that? But it was not all a loss for the masochist in me. My stepsister’s role in my fantasy world changed. She became obsessed with punishing me. I became her bitch, and she was as brutal and as cruel in my dreams as she wanted to be. I loved it.
Chapter 3
My sexual practices began to broaden. I explored the darker realms. My lingerie went from pieces decorated in flowers and teddy bears to vinyl skirts and fishnets. I bought sex toys that mixed pain with pleasure. My willingness to violate myself overrode my desire to make God happy to the point that I was willing to put myself through the pain of autofellatio.
I wanted to let religious life go. I thought I could just move on and accept myself the way I was. But I found quitting self-righteousness just as difficult as stopping my dirty daydreams. I would pleasure myself in the darkest ways I could imagine at night, and the next day lead my peers in worship of a God I no longer understood. Part of me wanted to be punished while the other wanted me to be righteous. Neither wanted to give up. I couldn’t just throw God away, I couldn’t just throw away the propaganda fed to me by my parents. I couldn’t throw that away any more than I could throw away my sexual desires. My religion was too ingrained. My sexuality was a part of who I was. I was being torn in half by my desires.
Then I met Dana, the woman who would one day become my wife. Her beauty wasn’t in keeping with my ideals. My stepsister was far prettier in comparison. Dana was overweight. Her hair was way too long, like a flower girl from the sixties. She had large breasts, but I could tell they were the kind that sagged even before I saw them outside her bra. Still, I loved her, and she did many things that made me feel that way. She laughed at my jokes. She was willing to help me with whatever project I was doing at school. She listened to me and tried things I suggested. Eventually, she seemed to worship me. She left her boyfriend back home and gave herself to me.
We consummated our love many times during our first summer break together. Somehow I managed to ignore my idealistic views of female anatomy. My first girlfriend from high school, Raquel, had a nearly perfect body. Everything about her made it impossible for me to refuse her desires. How I managed to get off with a girl fifty pounds overweight, a girl who had stretch marks on her body from rapid weight gain before ever bearing a child, was my ability to hide inside my fantasy world during sex. What I really wanted was an underwear model, but my imagination made it possible to settle.
I thought I was using her back then. I probably was. We started out as friends. I knew she wanted more than that, but my ego told me she was a step down for me. Then I got to know her. When one of my friends told me he was going to ask her out I panicked and declared my love for her. I thought I was being cruel. I thought I was playing with her emotions, but really this was all a denial of the truth. My wish before I ever met Dana, when I was dressing myself in lingerie as an undergrad, was to find what I called an alternative girl. I dreamed of finding a woman who wouldn’t flinch when she heard about my sexual fantasies. She was a girl willing to have sex before marriage. She was willing to do everything Raquel and I had done in my car back in high school. She went to church but wasn’t married to religion. She just wanted to have me, please me. Dana had all of these things. And the more acceptance she showed me, the more I fell in love with her. I thought I had finally found a woman who would accept me no matter how strange my sexual behaviors were. Dana seemed interested in this at first, but as time passed she began to reveal who she really was.
Chapter 4
After dating for years, Dana and I finally married. After college we moved to Virginia. Our wedding was very unconventional. It was an eclectic combination of marriage traditions from all over the world. It symbolized our desire to have a union unbound by the expectations of our former religion. Not that we were out to break the law. We both appreciated society’s ideas of common decency, those based on scientific understanding. We just refused to dedicate ourselves to any particular religious voodoo.
Before we married I thought it was best to have full disclosure with my fiancé, and I told Dana everything I could about my sexual past. I didn’t want her finding out something after we were married that would make her regret her decision. But the idea of saying these things to her face was just too difficult, so I wrote it all down in letters and gave them to her. I worried the truth would repulse her. I didn’t want her to feel pressured to accept my history. A part of me even wanted her to leave. I couldn’t believe that a woman would stay with a man after reading what I wrote. But she did.
I didn’t verbalize it at the time, but I was submitting to her. I was giving her written record of my secret fantasies since childhood. I told her of my desires for my stepsister. I told her about my collection of sex toys. I wrote about my obsession with autofellatio and even demonstrated it for
her. I was giving her ammunition. I was giving her a written account of my darkest secrets, things I never wanted anyone else to know. I believed I was offering intimacy through full disclosure. I was letting her know that I loved her and would never leave her.
Dana didn’t appear phased by any of the things I wrote. In fact, she strapped on a few of my sex toys and used them on me to show it didn’t bother her. To me this felt like acceptance. She was willing to take part in my fantasies. What I didn’t realize at the time was that she was collecting. She saw my intellect, my desire to work, my employer’s satisfaction with my skills, and the likelihood of a decent inheritance from my rich father. She saw the money I would make if I applied myself, and she wanted that money for herself.
My wife was a gold digger. I wanted to help her. I wanted her to blossom just as much as I wanted to blossom. My belief was that paying into our relationship would bring us both into successful careers, careers where we both contribute. We both had degrees. We both went to work for the same employer. We both started at the same level. But it was our willingness to contribute time and energy to our financial wellbeing where the truth about our relationship started to reveal itself.
I didn’t realize I was being fooled. I thought I had found a woman who loved me because of, if not in spite of, my sexual interests. Yes, I realized I was damaged. My anger towards religion would burst out from time to time. But I don’t believe a man’s anger issues about being lied to his entire childhood by his own parents is license for a woman to steal from him. I think she smelled my guilt from the start. She wasn’t stupid. She saw my talent when she met me, and this is why she set her sights on my future. I was an investment to her. Eventually I would make something of myself. The higher my income went, the more excuses she found to avoid work. It went from a relationship of cooperation to one where she fed on my labors. She saw my tendency to submit, and it made her salivate. Once she had me in her grasp she would own everything I had, and I would be her workhorse.
When she became pregnant with our child she quit her job. Before we married she worked hard on her figure and dropped down to a normal, healthy weight. But when she became pregnant she gained not only her baby weight but another fifty pounds. She was just over five feet tall and weighed over two hundred pounds. I went to all of her to OB/GYN appointments during the pregnancy. Her doctor plead with her to consider what she was doing to her body. I tried to encourage her to watch her eating habits. But she didn’t care. Life was about consuming for her. She wanted to stuff herself even though it covered her body in more unsightly stretch marks. Life for Dana was about taking everything that came into contact with her. And she didn’t care about the consequences, because I was the one who would pay her consequences for her.
We bought a house. It was an old house, a hundred years old. I spent months of my own labor improving it. I even went to work for my father, working outside in construction year around, trying to make our lives better. I would work sixty hours a week and then come home and work on our foundations in the cellar till dark. I would come out covered in sweat and dust and cobwebs, and Dana would be on the couch still in her pajamas from that morning on her phone chatting with her friends. I would restrain myself from saying anything cruel, but it got harder as time went on.
When our son was born I took off work to care for him the first two months of his life. I still worked. When he wasn’t in my arms I was on my computer practicing my writing. I wanted to be a professional writer. My job in construction took me out of town for months at a time, and I wanted a job where I could be home with my son every day. If I wasn’t writing I was holding him as we slept.
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