There are some people who will say what happened was wrong, but in all honesty no matter how often I tell myself it was, I just can't bring myself to see it that way. I can't really say why or how it happened, only that it did happen. And I know it will almost certainly happen again.
Actually that's not quite true. I do know why it happened. It happened because life was so damned ordered and predictable.
Paul and I grew up a couple of houses from each other in a typical middle class suburb. Neither he nor I were very confident around strangers in our younger days, so it was natural that we be drawn together. Despite Mum and Dad sometimes privately sniggering about the excessively prudish way Paul's mother dressed, and her close lipped attitude to what she referred to as 'personal matters', our parents were best friends, and it was generally assumed that one day Paul and Kate would become Mr. and Mrs. After all, that seemed to be the natural order of things. To be honest I don't even remember any proposal or acceptance, only that shortly after our eighteenth birthdays we were standing at the altar exchanging vows.
Even our wedding night was ordered and orderly. As the reception wound down, the guests formed a circle and we moved round accepting congratulations and thanking each of them for sharing the occasion, before finally escaping to the apartment our parents had arranged for us. In all the years we had been an item, even after it was officially decided we would marry, Paul had never once made any improper advances beyond an acceptably chaste kiss, and now that the time had come my nervousness was tempered with anticipation. I turned my back for him to unfasten my wedding gown, and then I stepped out of it and tossed it on a chair.
Removing my underwear I turned to face him expectantly, but instead of coming to me he picked up a hanger and handed it to me with a pointed glance at my gown. He stood waiting with his eyes averted until I sighed with exasperation and hung the gown in the wardrobe, and then he went into the bathroom, returning wearing pyjamas and carrying a large towel on top of his meticulously folded clothes. Pulling back the bedcovers he spread the towel on the sheet, before opening the drawer of my dresser and handing me a nightgown.
Biting my lip in disappointment at being denied my first much anticipated look at my naked husband, and, of course, at my first ever look at a penis, I pulled on the nightdress and lay on the spread towel. Carefully he folded the hem of my nightie to my hips, then parted my legs and looked briefly at my vagina. I held my breath, waiting for the touch of his fingers, but he merely moved over me and freed his penis from his pyjamas before thrusting it into me. I had expected some pain with the loss of my virginity, so I was relieved to experience only a slight twinge, and then he was moving in and out rapidly. The discomfort faded, and I was in the transitional moment between finding the act pleasant and finding it pleasing, when his gasp told me he had ejaculated. He withdrew immediately, then kissed me lightly.
"Thank you dear. Get some sleep now, goodnight."
Pulling the covers over us both he rolled off me and promptly went to sleep. I lay for several minutes, sure that there must be more to it than that, and then climbed out of bed to wipe between my legs, dropping the soiled towel in the wash basket before cleaning myself properly and returning to bed. It took me a little while to get to sleep, because I was baffled as to why he hadn't fondled my breasts or touched my vagina other than to enter me, and he had rejected my one attempt to hold his penis. Eventually I began to wonder if perhaps the only reason he had done anything at all was that, like our getting married, it was more or less expected. There had certainly been no fireworks, or even a spark, although in all fairness, since we had both been virgins I wasn't entirely sure that either of us was aware that there could be.
I had always known he was, to put it mildly, conservative, but in the ensuing months I was to discover how sexually repressed he was also. He was clearly uncomfortable discussing the subject, declaring that the act itself, although admittedly nature driven and therefore at times unavoidable, was disrespectful to a woman. The thought of caressing a female body intimately appeared to make him uncomfortable, and the concept that a woman might gain pleasure from fondling a penis was unthinkable. On the few occasions I appeared outside the bedroom in my underwear, he was quick to rebuke me for flaunting myself.
Over the next five years we dropped into a routine. Although it was far from being a loveless marriage, because I was sure we loved each other in our own ways, it was certainly a marriage devoid of lust. It may seem harsh, but to describe Paul as 'imaginative' or 'adventurous' in bed would be a gross over exaggeration. The best that could be said for him is that he was 'steady' and 'reliable' not to mention totally predictable. That is not to say that he wasn't a good husband in every other way. He was kind and attentive and generous to a fault, but nothing could convince him that I might consider any physical approach not only acceptable, but welcome.
The truth was Paul only had two passions. His work and his music. He was an extraordinarily skilled guitarist, and would spent at least an hour each evening practicing behind the closed door of the spare room. Despite his talent he rejected any suggestions that he join a band, arguing that to do so would necessitate many late nights, which was out of the question since he was accustomed to going to bed at ten thirty each night.
After our first time alone together he showed little further interest in looking at my vagina, almost as though having seen it once there was no further need. Of course there was no way that he could avoid seeing my breasts when I undressed for bed, and perhaps once a month he would ask me to fetch a towel to avoid soiling the sheets, then switch out the lights and pull himself over me to do his duty, and then go to sleep, leaving me to use my fingers to furtively finish what he had started. I can't honestly say I resented the way things were, because it was all I knew, and as the saying goes, you can't miss what you never had.
