When the alarm went off at 6:00 this morning, I knew it was time to feed the cats. I also knew that if I hit the snooze button, I could go back to bed for a few minutes after I'd taken care of them.
That's what I did.
I did not, however, go to sleep again.
Instead, I lay in bed and I thought about all of the ways that Doc is better than other 3.5 billion men on the planet.
It started with my vulva and the second thing about Doc that made him attractive to me: he prefers his partners au naturale.
About 9 months before I met Doc, I started dating this man whom I met casually. In the grocery store. We dated for three months before it ended. This was all before I entered the world of kink, but well after my first kinky fantasies and desire blossomed at the tender age of six.
I was adamant with this man that I would not have sex prior to marriage, so if he was expecting sex in the near future, he'd best move on. I realize now that my complete comfort and certainty that not having sex with him would be an easy thing was an indication of just how little I liked him and how little I wanted to be in the relationship.
But, alas, there was much heavy petting.
Shortly after we met, this man was transferred for work and we ended up living three hours apart. Still, we continued to see each other a couple of weekends a months. I would drive down to see him as he worked Tuesday through Saturday and I worked Sunday through Friday. Friday nights through Saturday morning were the only time we had to get to know one another in person.
Frankly, he was mean.
Starting off, he was wonderful. He complimented me, constantly telling me how beautiful and worthy I was, how much he liked me just the way I was, that I was his dream girl. He was cruel, disrespectful, and insulting to everyone else when speaking to or about them. I was waring, wondering when the shiny glow of first attraction would wear off and he'd begin to treat me that way.
The relationship lasted three months, and it should not have gone for that long.
He was the first to indicate an interest in kink, telling me he wanted to spank me. I told him we should have a conversation about it, limits, boundaries, preferences. "But how will I know in the moment if you'll be okay with it?"
"Just ask me," I told him.
"But what if you say 'No' and get mad at me for asking and leave?" he asked.
"If I say 'no' it means I'm not in the mood for it at that moment, but I'd like you to ask again another time, or I might even ask you to do it at a later date. But I am NOT going to get angry that you asked and I'm not going to leave because you asked," I replied.
He refused to ever have a conversation beyond this.
He did, however, hit or otherwise harm me without consent. On more than one occasion.
In the middle of the night, I'd gotten up to get a drink of water. In the kitchen, he grabbed me from behind, turned me around, shoved me into the counter, bruising my lower back. He proceeded to dry hump me while I cried out in pain, pleading with him to stop. He bit my neck so hard he caused deep tissue damage and I couldn't turn my head for a week.
The next morning he told me how sorry he was, he has nightmares, he didn't mean to.
I told him I understand having nightmares but if he pulled that shit again, I was gone.
He never again assaulted me in the middle of the night, but he continued to bite me so hard he'd cause the tendons in my neck and shoulder to swell every time we kissed. "I don't know what's too much" was always his excuse, as though my telling him repeatedly while making out, "Ouch, that hurts, not so hard, stop!" wasn't enough.
On multiple occasions (basically every weekend I'd visit), he'd come up behind me at one point or another while I was in the kitchen, usually washing dishes, and hit me so hard on the ass that I'd slam into the counter. Often times I'd drop whatever I'd been holding. Once he hit me so hard, he knocked my hip out of place. When I complained he told me he was "just joking." His joke cost me 2 hours lost time at work, a trip to the chiropractor, and a $43 dollar co-pay I couldn't afford.
I started only washing dishes when he was at work. But his breaks would change, and often he would come home at a time different than I'd expected, and if I was at the sink with the water running, he'd sneak into the house (I couldn't hear him over the running water), sneak up behind me, and hit me hard enough to pop my hip out of place. Again.
Most lost time at work. More trips to the chiropractor. Another $43 I did not have.
When I was offered a potentially huge, career changing opportunity, I was so excited to tell him about it. It would mean we'd be a little farther away for a short period of time, but much closer in the long haul. He cared little for my success and picked a fight about the fact that I was going to be late, as the interview I'd had lasted 2 1/2 hours when I'd expected it to be only 60-90 minutes. We were going to miss the movie he had wanted to see.
He proceeded to yell at me and ridicule my inability to navigate traffic in an unfamiliar city to get to his apartment faster, despite my telling him that the interstate was basically shut down due to a traffic accident several miles ahead. It took me 40 minutes to drive two miles. There were no exits to take back roads I wouldn't know how to navigate anyway. I was stuck and there was nothing I could do.
Nothing I said mattered. "I have to get back to work," he told me. "Just make sure you move to get your ass here fast when you're off the freeway."
At his next break he called me and continued to yell at me while I drove as fast as I could to get there in time. I got pulled over and ended up with a speeding ticket. The cop was nice enough to knock the speed down from 25 mph over the limit to 6-10. It was still $114 I couldn't afford given the gas prices and 400 miles I was driving every other weekend just to see my boyfriend.
When I finally got to his place, he berated me for getting pulled over and then said, "That's what you get for taking the back roads. This wouldn't have happened if you'd just stayed on the interstate."
"There was an accident. Traffic wasn't moving. You told me to get here as soon as possible and take the back roads around the accident," I reminded him.
"Well how was I supposed to know there was an accident?" he asked.
"I told you that traffic was at a stand still when you first called. I told you it was because of an accident the second time you called."
"Well, I just thought that traffic was going really slow and you couldn't figure out how to navigate it. I didn't realize you meant it wasn't moving at all and that there had been an accident," he said.
'Ummmmm, that's what a stand still is,' I thought. 'Traffic isn't moving at all.' I didn't say anything because I wanted to avoid another fight.
This was Valentine's weekend and the first time he insisted that I shave my lady-bits. He'd asked before, telling me that whatever I preferred was fine. This time, however, he told me how a woman who shaved was "just cleaner" and it proved she "cared about herself."
I wanted to start by telling him that if evolution gave us pubic hair, it was there for a reason. I had already explained that my skin is sensitive and prone to ingrown hairs and folliculitis. I wanted to tell him about the studies that indicate that genital shaving leads to micro-tears, an entry point for bacteria, and the possibility of staph infections. I wanted to tell him that women who shave their genitals have higher rates of bacterial vaginosis.
I said nothing, because more than anything, I wanted to avoid another fight or being hit again unexpectedly or being bitten so hard I couldn't turn my head.
Instead, I pulled out shaving cream and a razor and shaved my labia, because it was what he wanted. And because he promised that if I did shave, he'd go down on me, and no man had ever gone down on me before.
Shaving my lady-bits seemed a small price to pay to avoid another fight, to avoid another trip to the chiropractor, and to finally figure out what all my girlfriends raved about.
Incidentally, after spending 20 minutes doing shower yoga to make sure every last hair was dispensed with, he begged off the cunniligus because he'd cut his lip shaving that morning and was afraid the saltiness of my fluids would be hurt.
Three weeks later, when I called him for moral support after a bad day, he dismissed my feelings with a sneering remark. When I told him that I expect a certain level of emotional intimacy in a romantic relationship and his options were to either engage in the relationship in a mutually caring and supportive fashion or not date me, he chose the second option. Thank God.
But by that point, habit had become ingrained - shaving 3 days a week because it's what expected of women.
I hated doing it, but I did it. After all, if there's anything worse than shaving your labia, it's the discomfort, abrasions, and itching that comes with the early stages of hair regrowth.
So, when I met Doc and I asked him if it was true that he preferred his partners be unshaven and he confirmed it was true, I knew I would never shave again for anyone. Because whether or not Doc and I are together for the long haul, there are men who prefer women with pubic hair.
What's more, if the men out there who prefer women shaved do not respect a woman's right to bodily autonomy and will insult the choices those women make about their own bodies, then those are men I would not want to be with anyway.
It also helps, certainly, that Doc, on occasion, tells me how pretty my pussy is now that my hair has fully regrown.
Because, you know, he's better than the other 3.5 billion men on planet earth. And when he gets home on Wednesday, I fully intend to make sure he knows how much I appreciate him.
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