A life of curves presents the slow reveal, that often pays grand dividends at the end! This much I've learned. Patience can be a virtue sometimes.

"Shackled", "caged", "suppressed liberation", "aching for release"; all some of my favorite expressions of late, to describe my "sensual" reality up to date… but I'm "married". Yes "married", if that's what you want to call it, living this damn cloistered life, which in my mind does not constitute a REAL marriage. Hey… I didn't sign on for this, trust me! But then... patience dear reader, I promise to reveal all, but hang on tight, there are blind curves ahead.

On closer inspection, looking back in time -- you know that ol' saying: " hindsight is 20/20", I can see where her inability to celebrate her god-given gifts (and she was a stunner, let me tell you), and her reluctance to "gift" me with her charms, all stemmed from a repressive guilt-ridden upbringing.

Now that I look back -- yea ok, so I "look back" a lot! Suck mine! It comes with a life of riding a Harley and a life filled with regrets. I can remember what a cold house-hold it was to visit, during the dating phase, the "I'm going to get into that virutous virgin Catholic girls panties if it's the last thing I do tonight" phase. Yea, I was THAT guy... well... EVERY guy really. At the time I really didn't give all that much attention to the lack of physical contact between her parents, nor the strict adherence to Catholic doctrine and dogma that permeated and echoed from the family walls like some joy-crushing funeral durge.

I failed to focus on the demanding mother and the overt constant competition with little brother. Hell, it's hard to concentrate on much of anything other than pussy when your young, hung, and horny... and ohh, did I mention the drugs? Ok, so yea, suck me again, I was THAT guy too. Whether it was pot or acid, or magic shrumes, I still maintained my alterior and primary target while in that house, that being SHE, my "one true love". Ok... ok... sheesh, I'll admit it, any "true love" of mine at the time was between the neck and knees, oh and between my legs. But... she was a total "angel", honest... you just had to be there!

Then there were the "dates", oh brother... it must have been love! Me behind the wheel, her as far away as possible on the passenger side, while all I kept thinking was how much I was investing in return for... well... the "return". Oh yes, for those of you who never had that blissful experience, a right of passage really, I'm talking here about "drive-in" movies, where you bring a girl you're pretty damn certain will fulfill her obligation for the privilege of sitting in your primed and polished alter of love, fuck the movie... "what movie?" But this little Bo Peep, this little virgin sheep, she seemed to be determined that virginity she would keep!

Come to think of it, even at parties, while other guy's girlfriends where sitting in their laps or running their hands and fingers through their hair, or inside their shirts, or allowing a stray hand to creep up his thigh, finding and covering up the evidence of his desire to excape the scene and complete his quest for her moistening cunt, well... yup... sure enough, there was my "date" sitting across the room. Did I say "it must have been love" yet? Yea, I did didn't I. Suck me!

Get this... I fucking married her. Skip ahead some years, you know... the ones after the first 10 years of pure frigid ice that I chisled away at. Of course that's when all the hot babes were dropping their phone numbers and addresses onto my desk at my office, or into my truck window. All the offers I ignored because I just wanted one thing... HER!

How many times did she ignore anything sensual I had bought home as hints, as gifts? The endless calm conversations about wants and desires, even confessing to the others who were tempting me away. Ice Queen, that was her alright. How many times did I express my needs to her? You don't know, but I sure the hell do. Instead of availing herself to any number of classy expensive evening wear acutrements I acquired for her, she would choose to wear that prison-garb "thing" (I called it). She insisted on wearing it and similar around the house or to bed. Hell, I'll bet assigned clothing in some Russian Gulag had more style than most everything she chose to "lure" me with.

"Lure", now there's a funny choice of word. "Lure or even allure" never found a way into her vocabulary or her imagination, and even when I eventually told her flat out (what you already know now), that there was more than a few women who were doing their best to "LURE" me, and that I was only human, and that she better wake up if she was serious about keeping me… well, no result there either, unless you call silently staring at a blank wall a "result". No conversations, no discussions what-so-ever. No anger, no rebukes, no show of any emotion period. Silence… always that deafening silence. I went slowly mad.

I developed this inner acid, this hole, this resentment, this love-hate relationship over the years, but being always the noble committed guy, coming from a committed household myself, I stuck it out. Not wanting to let the rest of the family down, or most of all the kids, I suffered for my eventual silence -- yes damn it all, I adopted her tool for my own sanity. I turned to my writing, to reading, to my dream worlds, focused all my pent up desires and fantasies on my own created inner world, my escape. Ohh the exploits I created! The livid opulant, lush and sensual worlds, poetry, lyrics... they poured through me, out of me, just as my warm wet elixir was so often self extracted as I became an expert at self pleasuring, self manipulation, exercises to prolong and emphasize the explosive conclusion to such errotic episodes. I poured my energy into my fitness, to working out, hiking. I was determined that she would not deflate me, castrate me.

It was through writing actually that I met another writer, one who not only shared my love of the word, but one who shared my thirst, my hunger, my desire for something more sensual in my life. One who shared my regret at not having lived more fully, more passionately when it came to matters of our libidos, or eros spirit. She was open, honest, expressive, engaged in her own quest to seek out something less orthodox, more explosive, less restrictive. She took pride in her God given gifts, and yes, she was indeed worthy of such pride.

My own "bride" had long ago forgone any such measures or interest, but then no surprise there.

A woman who has been raised to think of anything sexual as sinful, or any thought of provoking a man's libido through a sensual display of attire, (a damn sure ticket to hell), well she's not going to give much attention to a little matter like her appearance.

Not so this new interests. She was all about the accoutrements, the window dressings, the "curtaining". Let me tell you, she was a looker and in matters of firing up my mental stove… a cooker! She could get my pots boiling with just a certain come-hither look, trust me. Her constant referrals to her "chamber" just about caused me an aneurism every time. I'd get hard "wood" just hearing her sultry voice on the phone. I learned the language of sexting thoroughly, fast. Our phone sex became epic. Fuck, I couldn't even hike in the hills without silently "talking" to her or thinking about her, hiking with a damn fucking hardon in the woods.

Suck me!

Her continual evolution of attire, from "smart" to "tart" had my erotic inclinations and Irish blood worked up like a double boiler on high. She noticed what I noticed, my tastes and desires quickly emerged through my writing and she managed most adeptly to transcribe all to a reality born upon her carriage, plus her high degree of expertise in refining the art of seduction became apparent as the weeks and months unfolded.

We talked at great length of "unveiling" more about each other, or getting deeper into the "layers" with each other, in terms of slowing the hands of time in our moments of "now", or how important we thought it was to really "see" someone, focus on our nuances and explore how we might mutually discover a more intimate awe in a slowed dimension of our own making, our own explicit desire, where we might discover something we both had missed out on, both might have been denied, where we could start afresh and explore, create a new set of "realities".

She began to share a writing that was more transparent, more exposed, more lurid, more succulent and lush, as her own attire seemed to mesh in-kind. She was orchestrating some grand pageantry for my express enjoyment, and in return made it clear that she wanted the same from me.

My own expressions turned from less intimate, less direct, less personal, to targeted, zeroed in, honed for a trajectory that was sure to hit their mark, a direct hit to her heart, to her smoldering soul, a firing of my eros arrows guaranteed to make her wet, trembling, breathless, wanton and wild. Her effect on me was equal in measure and quickly reduced what little armor I had left to a puddle of molten meddle spreading at her feet.

We talked at length of such things as the importance of "ambiance" to a more exacting and exciting, vigorous creative exchange and enhancement, a creative "center" whereby we might find a renewed charging of energy, spirit, flow and joy. We shared what elements we believed would impose such relished elevations to our mutual quest for development, and just what kind of "development" were we both tumbling towards? Attention to lighting seemed upper most on our list, as access to a mutually desired background sound system, scented oils, incense, certain co-chosen works of alluring art, anything at all to simulate the senses, strictly for "creative purposes" mind you, always on the trail for our partnered evolution, always for the greater cause of a writers ego and thirst for development and growth. The "center" became a theme and acquired multiple meanings for us. I became a 24/7 hardon, I kid you not. Don't believe me? Suck me!

We desired to be "centered", and we developed our "working space" for mutual writing and art endeavors, but tools for actual "work" were scarcer and scarcer week by week, month by month. In the meantime her "chamber" which kept coming up in conversation, took on a life all of it's own as I discovered finally when I was introduced to that mysterious room behind the veiled curtain on a recent visit. To my amazement and delight I lay eyes on the most embellished tantalizing sirens lair an Irish lad might ever dream of.

It didn't hurt that she had on a very short silk robe, high heels, sumptuous jewelry, was made up in acute detail like a doll, and was staring at me with the most seductive come-hither look I have ever seen or imagined… those eyes said it all, no words were necessary… she had me at… well silence.

I wordlessly acquiesced to her silence, as I dared not break the spell with my own stumbling words. There was a quiver in my frame, I'll admit, born of so many years of pent up energy and so many months of planning with her. Perhaps to her this gave away my extreme urgency and desire, as I lost the mask of control I usually displayed, my game face of confidence and command, I normally dared not give away. This was going to be the most exclusive and effective creative "process" or "session" thus far, guaranteed! I couldn't wait to finally once and for all unleash the wild beast that had been trapped and pacing it's cage for all these long lonely years.

I was going to be matched by her own unrequited longings and deep desires for anything and everything our imaginations could inspire. What would transpire within? My heart was wild with anticipation and beating like a primitive drum, blood coursing through my hot Irish veins like nothing I had ever experienced, the flush surreal and potent.

She seemingly floated towards the bed chamber, as my own feet had disappeared entirely themselves, along with all semblance of reality or familiarity. I felt as if I was being transported, perhaps dreaming, but yet never so alert or focused, aroused or in need. God how I wanted this fantasy to be realized once and for all. She turned and her expression, once again, said it all. Not a word was uttered or needed, necessary, between us. We both knew long ago where all the double talk was leading us, where all the pent up years of imagining and the written expressions, those that became our new-found inner worlds of sanity over the years, would finally end, in each other's arms! She slowly descended to the bed, never breaking eye contact, a serene calm hunger capturing my rapt focus, my every cell vibrating now…

To be continued...