Sexual Nuclear War

Copyright; Elizabeth Loring, August 12, 2006. All Rights Reserved. (No part of this story may be reproduced for any reason without explicit written permission from the author. Do not remove this copyright statement.)

THE BACKGROUND

Every woman needs to know her husband's body better than her own. If she doesn't, she won't keep him. It's part of the second law of nature but it isn't published in any scientific book. First comes self-survival, next comes reproduction. In my brain is where the "map" to my husband's body is filed; right behind "mental;" because sex is 90% mental; and because my plan was to drive my husband nuts. Getting to know a man's body, I call "mapping."

For some unknown reason, the male animal wants a virgin for a mate. Yet before he decides to "settle down" he eliminates as many women as possible from this category. Not that he turns non-virgins down; quite the contrary, he pursues this sub-species of female extremely aggressively. But the deflowering of a virgin is his special calling; and most males keep accurate counts of this type of conquest.

My husband was different than the rest of the male animals when it came to choosing a mate. Virginity wasn't a required necessity; thankfully, for me. For if it was, I'd been low on his list of choices.

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My sexual activity began when I was almost 16. Like all others, it started with a single kiss; that "gateway act" to all kinds of carnal endeavors. During the next year and a quarter my appetite cautiously grew until one night, in the backseat of a car, when I was a bit past 17, I was completely taken; added as a notch on some man's belt and immortalized in his list of remembered conquests. A few months later, I was conquered by another, after that another, then another. Seven different men invaded me by the time I turned 18. But it was the eighth man that really got to me. With him, I learned how much I loved to fuck.

Maybe it was that we were alone, finally able to lie naked together in a place, his apartment, where we were sure to be undisturbed. Sex was different than when engaged in on secluded lovers' lanes or in alleyways in the backseat of a car, always on the alert for passing vehicles or pedestrians, always anxious that someone might see us. Maybe it was my strict Jewish upbringing that I rebelled against. Maybe it was the fact I hated school and loved to paint. At close to 25-years ago, the reasons blend into lies and excuses and can't be separated. For whatever the cause, I left Los Angeles with this man, months more than four years my senior, and moved with him to Seattle.

As with all naive young women, I assumed love would conquer all. Within a month it became painfully obvious that you can eat each other but you can't eat love. We bought weed, hashish, LSD, and 'rooms instead of food. We drank whiskey and wine instead of water. I counted on the sale of my art to support our lifestyle. But my paintings didn't sell well on the street corners despite my lack of strategic marketing planning – the customer base I chose to focus upon consisted solely of other "hippies." I took it that my art skills were not good, threw away my paints and brushes, and began to hunt for a job.

In interview after interview I failed to get hired. I couldn't understand why showing up barefoot with hair uncombed and clothes unwashed without a driver's license or social security card disqualifies one for work. Fortunately, my boyfriend found one; delivering small packages for a man he'd been introduced to by a street friend of street friend. We no longer needed to panhandle. We still did, but didn't have to.

From the very beginning, the man employing him always stared at me. He'd talk to my boyfriend, hand him a lunch bag to deliver, but he'd look at me at me as he spoke. One day he sent my boyfriend on an errand and requested that I stay behind. My boyfriend agreed and told me not to worry; that he'd be back soon. The man told him to come back after an hour. I remember those words as if it were yesterday; the words told to me before my boyfriend turned to leave.

"Be extra nice to him, baby, we really need the money."

I resisted the, almost immediate, unwanted advances; screaming, as the first love of my life closed the flop house apartment door. My opposition was short. It lasted only seconds. It lasted until the older, more highly experienced man forced his lips upon that spot on my neck known only by the current man in my life; the man who'd given my pursuer the map to my treasure. My body stopped fighting. My breathing grew ragged. A hand reached under my T-shirt and kneaded a braless breast. Another hand slipped down the front of my pants and pushed one, then two fingers, into my sex. With three distinct erogenous zones stimulated simultaneously, it took little time for me to become putty in his hands. Willingly, I gave him my riches.

That was my first experience with "mapping," the knowledge of how to make a body react the way one wishes. And not being a virgin made me very familiar with so many of its techniques; for "mapping" is a two-way street, what works on a woman can be applied to the man. Little did my husband know that by the time he married me, I'd pretty much had the "lay of his ground." To the experienced woman, "mapping" is second nature, done every time affection is shown. Bits of information are constantly being gathered and filed in the brain for future reference. My husband had only an inkling of how well I knew him. Marrying a multi-times-removed virgin can be a treacherous thing.

THE PLAN

From my street-selling days hawking art, I'd learned a few things too; wants and needs are not the same things, always demand a higher price and leave room for negotiation, quality is in the eye of the beholder, don't waste time with those that won't buy, and a prospective customer has to have what you want, usually money, but not always the case. Art can be traded for tangible things, like drugs. But, most of all, I learned to have a goal and a plan. And to make sure you meet your goal, divide it into sub-goals.

The first question I needed to consider was whether or not my customer had what I wanted? If not, any plan would be irrelevant. Why plan for success without any payoff? It was as easy question for me to answer, although what I wanted from my customer was unusual. My husband had control of my daughter's discipline and I wanted to be the person administering it. He definitely had what I wanted; and only he had it. Thus, I eliminated from my repertoire anything that would involve another or something else. Group sex, toys, X-rated movies...anything else involving something or someone other than him and me was out. All those things, I'd come to experience in the past. But they wouldn't accomplish my present objective. And quite possibly, they could become a distraction. It was paramount that I be the focus of attention, not someone else or some toy.

Did my husband want or need me? Men always want. I had to convert that "want" into a fiery need. Once I did that, I'd demand my inflated price. And what would that price be? Why, of course, the maximum possible; our daughter's complete freedom and reinstatement of all trust. We could bargain from there.

Would my customer buy what I was offering? Absolutely. We'd been having sex for twenty years. But this was going to be a different kind of sex from any kind that either of us had ever known. The winner at the end of this campaign would be in control of the other; and that control would most likely last for the rest of our lives; or, if I lost, I might have to file for divorce. I'm not one to be dominated for any period of time...anymore; although I was dominated quite a bit when I was single. If I lost, divorce would depend on whether my ruler was lenient or iron-fisted. The stakes in this were going to be high.

My mind began to ponder the risks and the rewards. If I won, I'd be in control. I resolved not to be stupid like other women and let my husband, or the world, know that fact. His victory would be glorious and outwardly he'd show that he exercised control. My victory would be silent. Regardless of the outcome of my war, all would think my husband was dominant. I'd be seen walking behind him in his footsteps. What wouldn't be seen is my nudging him in the direction I wanted him to go.

To accomplish my goal would take time. I set my sights for two weeks. I couldn't imagine anything being accomplished much quicker. My husband's anger would need to subside. I'd be wasting time doing battle before that emotion calmed down. My reward for winning early would be a calmer home sooner. The reward I desired was my daughter's freedom. Earlier victories didn't match my intended goal. Not that they weren't important. But the majority of my resources should be spent accomplishing the aspiration, not winning a battle.

That fact didn't mean I couldn't soothe him though, to help my husband regain his composure. It just meant not starting to work on my objectives from the very beginning. Softness, tenderness, consoling, and understanding could be the prelude, setting the stage for initial confrontations.

It set my objective. My spouse was going to show signs of "needing" me by Day 10. On Day 13 I projected my mission would culminate. On Day 14, our daughter would be set free so I could unleash everything in my arsenal in complete privacy. It would be Day 15 before I left our bed or wore any clothing.

That was my plan, tempered with the knowledge that the best laid plans of mice and women often go astray. I recognized that I'd need to be prepared, to make adjustments as the problems and complications arose.

What concerned me most, initially, was my spouse's emotional state. I'd never seen him so angry.

Chapter 2 to follow...