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Devoir conjugal

This evening feels sex.
At the moment, just back, he took off his jacket and leaned to kiss him - kiss marital usual anodyne - envy is seized.
Something in the way the press against her, a quiver of his lip, a sly rippling basin, has warned. He smiled, amazed, amused, she made her smile with a gleam and sparkle in the depths of the lustful eye.
Tonight.
When the child is lying down and sleep, sleep angelic which little monsters exhausted by long days in kindergarten.
Tonight, in bed, sweat, saliva and semen, multiple copies if possible.



* And now the child is lying and they are finally alone. The kisses become more impatient and more profound. They hug, touch. She feels her sex of a sudden dip and open to accommodate the equipment sound and warm it began, gently, to shake - as she loves going.


The child is, the calls and it calls for a glass of water. Floating minute, they observed, it contemplates the despair she petted protuberance few seconds ago and who, too visible, forbids him to go himself to console their offspring. She puts her pants, his pants, look for the file called glass of water, comforted, embraced - caring mother tortured by this sudden urge to kiss that still haunts him when his lips murmured words of appeasement.
The child lies down again, promises to sleep, it's late now my heart, good night and tomorrow.


He waits, she grabs. He did not really disbanded, she bends over, grabs it in his mouth, licks, mewing of lust. He lets go back, leaning on the pillows, close my eyes, breath and murmurs affectionate and obscene words to encourage him.

*

one bound she sits up and flip the duvet over him, just in time to hide his tail violet excitation. The child is scratching at the door, pulls on the handle, whining, pathetic, barefoot, scared. She runs, wins in his arms, growling tenderly. My little heart, my rabbit, you'll catch cold, then back to bed.
The child cries even louder, and only a long hug can now help him sleep.
Resigned, she lies down beside her bed in the small blue and the greenhouse against his chest to his memory by recalling the his favorite lullaby.




* The child is asleep. She rises very quietly so as not to wake him, extinguished the lamp, through the hallway, returned to their room. He collapsed across the bed and sleeps too, collapsed, inert and flaccid.
She lies beside him, was the quilt, silent, masturbates with the application of those sad fate leaves.

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She does not love, she kisses

Making love ... Expression
I have always found profoundly disgusting.

First, do is art. And that means this is a gesture, a mastery that makes me immediately think about these unbearable partners who address you, the lecherous eye, muttering: "You'll see, you, all I'm gonna do stuff like ..."
Me, I do not really like that I "do stuff". Because it gives me the impression of a medical examination.

But still, let's. Assuming that sex, that is to be done and doing stuff. Why, then, these different things, more or less pleasant if they are "facts", should identify with "love"?? Why the hell
mix of strength to love this kind of exercise?
What relationship is there between two mature individuals and (hopefully) consenting, enjoying their bodies with enthusiasm, and emotional this nebula is traditionally called "love"?


Really, no, I do not love.

I kiss. What a lovely word! As he describes this impulse that makes us embrace our whole body the body that we covet!
And although he maintains that embrace its rightful place: a nice kiss, happy, animal, serene ...

And for love, we'll see.
Before, after and sometimes even while I kiss, he also happens to love. But I sincerely believe that in this matter, humanity would gain by avoiding hazardous mixtures conceptual, refraining from making love.

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be a woman, slitting

"The body of the woman has no latch to close the path, which leads to the center of his body to that place of itself that it belongs as much as his hands, his eyes or his hair, but it does not, it does not control. " Marie Cardinal, That .
The only intrinsic fragility of the female body is so delicate in this opening to control.
linguistic irony, describes the area that restricts the gap by an architectural metaphor particularly misleading: the pelvic floor. Thence to conclude that a woman can only have poor foundations ...
is indeed a very curious animal, that has its floor, ie its ground, its base, under his belly, ie in the middle of his body. If the floor is at the center, the seat, the stability of this being bizarrely shaped by nature are perpetually threatened. And legs are reduced to useless appendages, telescopic or retractable, as if space was the belly right woman.

During and after childbirth, the problem does not come what may "enter" in this slot (as in the case of coitus, consented or not), but what may come out (a baby, and then the bodies that are more restrained in their descent). The urgency, therefore, in the weeks and months after parturition, is to reconstruct (architects remain) the pelvic floor, therefore the successful achievement of making the closed with drilled, and hard with soft. The maintenance issue is indeed strictly muscular, not intrinsic to the body and may become stronger or weaker, it is likely to vary. A woman who works
"good" is open, but not too much and should let the penis, it must retain this did not get out.
It must therefore send a responsibility towards this part of his body if the perineum is still yawning, that he has not been properly rehabilitated, she was treated with leniency, as a stubborn little animal.

I have heard a midwife smiling and full of good will explain at a meeting of childbirth preparation, as now, the exercises that taught us would be to implement all our lives. All our lives ...
whole life to tighten and loosen his perineum spasmodically every moment of leisure. And it will not do, of course ...
What human being other than the woman who gave birth is thus required under penalty of dereliction internally maintain such attention, constant with respect to her belly and her sex?
We learn therefore keep the woman, with constant vigilance, feeling that his body is pierced.

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Birth, horror and resentment

Small precision first: the text that follows is probably pretty hard.
It is both a reflection of a singular experience and subjective, and the fruit of many years of cogitation on the matter. It has enriched testimonies to the right and left, exchanges, discussions.

In other words: no, it does not describe the ultimate reality of childbirth in general. Yes, the birth of a child can be a great celebration of body and mind, thank you, I am aware.
But sometimes (often?), This is not the case. I write for this second category of women, the first may already store your memories bright and sweet memories in her drawer to staff, failing to come to share it here, thank you very much.

Childbirth is an experience of loneliness and death.
A self-sacrifice, sacrifice relatively extended, until the woman in labor realizes what is happening. Then began a fierce struggle between mother and child. The mother refuses
what happens to him, she refuses the pain, she refuses to become a mother with all that that implies, she refused the humiliation associated with the medical environment in which it is immersed to above the neck.
Because the medicalization of childbirth remains a solid bastion of social control over women.
It's about being compliant; to bed, make the back round, walk, make sound, be visited by multiple gloved fingers coming evaluate the progress of work in one word: obedience. Because he must leave this child. And nothing can prevent this output at this time. It will force if necessary.
The body of the woman is humiliated, just as we should exalt him, just to infuse the necessary heroism - the heroism that would take until after the sacrifice is in the process of taking place. But
submission seems a more convenient; submission to suffering, acceptance of the opening where the child will slide into the blood and screams.
Exits to use the technique if the bid is evil - or at the wrong time, too early, too late. And the instrument, guided by the hand of one who knows, midwife or obstetrician, the book ends.
Within minutes, the woman feels curious mixture of despair and relief. The door was reached, something irreversible has occurred, terrifying. The pain gradually subsides
, replaced by a diffuse discomfort. The body is heavy, bulky, even when it is emptied. The baby is like a dream between two levels of reality, or in the womb or in the hollow arms, somewhere further ...
It is different, he looks at us, we look at it, that being that we no longer feel in us that is born at that moment has always been not only a human being is speculation as such .

But this speculation is embodied in a man (boy or girl), which owes its existence to the submission of his mother. We must rise to force the passage and push a door, destroying always a bit around there. Women
silent but their anger, either themselves or (more often) because they receive, along with their baby clean, terrible injunction to forgive.
Forgive the child, love child. Love yourself again, when we lived was faulty, dirty, denied. Resume a social life, sexual, emotional.
And the injunction seems less insurmountable, it is argued that women are "strong", which means in reality is expected of them as they are, he must endure as they are to accept motherhood and, if possible, several times, being "forced ".
But this force is invoked, however, is frightening for those who ask. It requires both endorse and silent; the stunning birth, follows the self-censorship of the mother, which would anyway be hard to say what no one has said it before, this she never heard.
Having no real cultural foundation articulated nor literature, nor reflexive or narrative tradition that takes the road, the young mother can only register in the empirical, the "lived", the "felt", compassionate and often mawkish.
be compared with dismay that void with the abundance of literature known as heroic or epic epic tongue, she, nobody cares.