Disclaimer: Although nothing in this post is sexual, it contains details of my life, banter and conversations that happen within a self-described 24/7 D/s dynamic and is aimed at normalising and providing acceptance of those of us who choose to live this way. For further reading on my decision not to provide an adult content disclaimer on my non-sexual posts, please see my post “LGBTQ+K: A Case For “Kinky” As A Sexuality“. Thank you.
Details in today’s post have been discussed and agreed ahead of time in the name of both transparency and privacy. Some details have been omitted for the sakes of our marriage.
We spent the first morning of the hour not talking. There wasn’t any loathing, we were both hurting and I think, neither knew what to say, what to do – anything.
“So, are we going to talk?” Matt whispered into the space between us.
I folded my arms across my chest and held myself close, the anxiety still running through me. How is he feeling today? Angry? Sad? Is he going to up and leave me? Is football going?
Remorseful, we’ll go with remorseful.
“I guess, we have to” I whispered in response.
“First of all, thank you for not killing me in my sleep” I added sardonically.
“It didn’t even cross my mind” Matt laughed.
“Well, that’s good” I said, gulping air, “because I was genuinely afraid of it last night.”
I sighed deeply and, for the first time, I finally found the strength to look at him.
“So what do we do?”
For one, the confession that he’d had more to drink than he’d let on was a concession in itself. On the night, Matt told me that he hadn’t had that much to drink and I found it odd that he’d acted the way he had, so when he admitted that he was more intoxicated than he let on, things started to make sense: Frustration, sadness, passion and lowered inhibitions. It all adds up.
Throughout the day, we had to put much of our discussion on hold, because of Matt’s work. Owing to a bad night’s sleep, I needed to get my head down for another hour so that I could think more clearly on resolving our problems as well. I love sleep deprivation sometimes and for the most nefarious reasons, except for when I don’t and it’s genuinely impacting my ability to solve problems.
“Thank you for not killing me in my sleep, again” I joked upon waking.
“Again, didn’t even think of it” Matt shot back with a smirk. One of the many reasons that I love him. That man, he gets me.
Once Matt finished work, we led on the bed for a while to talk. Matt invited me to snuggle, and for the moment, I held back. I still felt reserved, I still felt unsure and to be honest, the last thing we needed was for snuggles to become… other things.
“If it wasn’t for who I know you had as a TV-watching rolemodel when you were growing up, well, this would be an entirely different conversation” I warned, “I needed to see that maybe, on this, you really don’t know any better.”
It hurts me sometimes to think of Matt in any way flawed or imperfect, and yet, he tragically is. Matt is a great man, a kind man, but he suffers in other ways. Some of the things that he’s learned, he’s only learned because others have taught him. For one, he didn’t know never to write a letter in red ink until he met me. Even if I found the card endearingly cute, it was a sign of a man who perhaps hadn’t had the upbringing that I’d been afforded.
They say a woman chooses a man like her father. My father too had a rough start in life, and my mother had also helped him. My mother refused to marry my father until he could swim, and so my father learned. I’d never applied such incentives to Matt – be kind, be faithful, be honest. That’s about it for me.
For Matt though, his father hadn’t been a rolemodel, and for me, some of the things that his father had said when the football was on were beyond reprehensible.
“Oh get up and walk, you cripple!”
I was somewhere between vomiting a little into my mouth, breaking out laughing, and storming out of the room. Having disabilities myself and knowing that Matt’s mother had some of the same conditions that I have, I couldn’t forgive it. For his part, Matt wasn’t happy about it, either.
“When you were young,” I began, by now quite contentedly laying across Matt’s chest and tracing my fingers up and down his shirt, lost in wonder, “aside from at home, where did you used to watch football?”
Matt thought for a moment, and bless him, even at twice the age he was when I first met him, he still hasn’t lost his boyish charm.
“Down the pub” he finally said, “it was only really being around other people that I realised. I’d watch football at home with Dad and I’d just think ‘that ain’t right'”. I nodded emphatically. I’d suspected as much. Not a bad guy, just a… a bit of a lost boy? My lost boy.
“So yes, you sort of know ‘pub football’, rather than ‘home football'” I said. There we go, problem identified.
Before now, our neighbour had spoken to me about Matt’s love of the game, and to be honest, I’d sort of brushed the comment off. Our neighbour himself is by no means perfect, and so when he complained, I just thought he was being unreasonable. Now that things had gone too far though, I realised that maybe there is a problem. I had no issue with Matt watching the football, I just had a problem with some of the behaviour that goes with. I have nowhere else to go and I’d spent periods of time confined to the bathroom for some peace and quiet from the game. I can tolerate football (heck, by now, I think I even know the offside rule!) I just can’t tolerate the shouting and screaming that make it impossible for me to do what I want to do. Okay, and the way my husband develops a case of Club Manager’s Tongue, seemingly overnight.
To be honest, I’d always known that Matt had a bit of a temper on him, but looking back, I should know that he’d never intentionally hurt me, too. His father was a biker, and biker pride dictates that you protect women as though your life depends on it. On our wedding day, our father-in-law acted as our personal security, even if we didn’t ask him to. I was his new daughter-in-law in his eyes, I was with his son, and so we needed protecting. If anything ever happened to me at Matt’s hands, there would be a long line of people waiting to deal with it, and his father would be at the front. In my marital family, I know that I am loved and protected.
My fear of Matt’s temper than, perhaps, isn’t a fear of Matt, but a deep-seated fear that is left over from my childhood, from having angry, violent neighbours. From brawls in the streets to throwing one another into walls, for me, angry meant violence, and I hated loud voices of all kinds. Even when my family were laughing and joking, I would think that they were fighting. Even if Matt tried to assure me that he’d never hit me in anger, in my mind, I still knew that he could. Maybe I trusted Matt mostly, and the rest is my own problem to work on. We both have things to work on, going forward. Matt’s is his temper and passion, particularly during the games. For me, it’s trust, it’s learning to trust Matt more, or perhaps as inexplicably as I thought I did. Both of those will come with time.
Upon his invitation, I snuggled Matt as hard as I possibly could, almost bowling him over in the process. I did trust Matt, I decided as tears prickled my eyes. I trusted sober Matt, calm Matt. Sober, calm Matt shall forever and always be my home.