My Tripod Page

Surround by images of Mary, I sit. Maids in the purist sense. If I had been older I might have been one of them. Do I regret the choice which separates myself from these women? Yes.

In this country these are the common woman. Strong in their relationship they have not given in to their bodies. I once asked if they would have chosen differently, and was told No, since it was against how they had been brought up. For one woman the ‘wait’ has been eight years. Yesterday was her wedding night and as far as I can see standing in this shopping mall, looking at costars, there is no difference. I do not have the guts to wonder when she tells about her husband being drunk. I do not wonder if he performed or if they were too tired, I just laugh along with the rest of these women.

I wonder if this is a novel position, being the non-virgin surrounded by virgins. Back home it would be. Who at 29 would admit that they had not slept with their long term partner? Yet I wish I would have taken the high road, stopped her hand before it’s touch was too much. Her kiss meant the most of the whole night. That I think is the secret, to let the smallest things become the most important.

I have female friends who have kiss lists, lists of those they have snogged. I find this interesting. For me touching lips with another person is something I do for many purpose. Foremost to express how I feel about that person. Secondarily, how I want them to feel. And yet I have also been shoved into the corner, closed my eyes and wished the body held another’s mind. I have never snogged someone to tell others about it, or to add their name, number to a list. I wonder. Yes, it does makes me wonder how different I am.

The same friends play a computerized version of snap with pictures of women’s breasts. If it were photos ranging in ages from 0 to 80 I might find some interest, but these are models breasts, and one photo is much like the next. I have stood next to them, with a heterosexual friend of mine and agreed that if these girls were men I would tell them how I feel. But these are girls, excused not because of their sex, but by their age. Yet they have more experience than I do. I have yet to understand what makes children into stuffy adults. Perhaps we are born a certain age, never to change.

Months ago I could say that I had slept with a woman, and never kissed a man. Now I say I have slept with a woman, and never had the notion of kissing a man. My sexual feelings were conserved to my one relationship. Three bottles of wine meant I did not choose that night to lose my virginity. At the time it was all the woman could give me, and I was happy to take it, for in losing my virginity I gained a world of sex which I enjoyed. But I do wish that it had been possible for more to have been given that night. I think this is the case for many girls, they wish for more, but are satisfied with what the partners are able to give.

I wonder how many relationships in the ‘west’ would survive if sex was not a part of them. I know of the fights which occur because someone says No. I know of the disagreements of what type of sex and it’s frequency verifies a healthy sex life.
I think that in my next relationship I might chose to not have sex. This will amaze my friends. They think I am a very sexual person, who is passionate, who is good at sex, and I do take pride in sex.

What they don’t see is the problems I ice over. I never let myself go, there is a person I leave chained in the dungeon, because if I free her from that dark place, she will never be put back. I will need at least eight years before I trust another person and the relationship, before I let her out to meet them.

It’s not that I fear she will kill them, I fear they will hurt her. She is so delicate, so unready for this world. The chains which bind her to the stone wall lend her strength. When I hear painful comments, her head may bow, but she is never allowed to fall. Once she came close to owning her key, but it proved the wrong time for freedom, and that key has since turned to water.

In the middle of the night I walk down the steps to talk to her. She opens her eyes when she hears the door open, straightens her legs when I sit down on the last step. On such nights we heal the world. We come near to being home again. Once upon a time the women who owned the water key came down here with me and on bad nights the seat beside me warms when my hand traces where she would sit. I curl up on her seat, wishing I was laying with my head once again in her lap. Then the chains will rattle and I move to lye at my feet. The virgin Mary and Mary Jezebel both with tears running down our faces for the way the world must be.