One day there was a terrible, no good, very bad day. Very bad day. Let me repeat: very bad day.
Near the end of this no-good day, I drove more than usual, sat in fucking traffic more than usual, got home late, banged my knee hard. Had to clean the back seat of the car to hopefully remove the overpowering scent of apricot dragonfruit sweet Lifewater spilled during aforementioned traffic. I was perhaps a bit too dramatic with a small one who rarely gets in trouble and made a smelly, thoughtless mistake, and I felt guilty because I never want her to be in trouble – not even when she honestly should be.
You know what? It all sucked.
And then Chris pulled out the hamburger to make us dinner on the grill and it was rotten.
I mean, it's not a big deal, right? Make something else. Except (to be honest) I need to go to the grocery. We didn't have any other fresh meat. Frustrated, he asked me to not buy hamburger in the way the makes it affordable to have fresh meat in the house. It was too damn much.
It wasn't a big deal. It was a pound and a half of hamburger.
I walked away to cry by myself. To be alone. To cry.
Chris, bless his heart, followed me into the bedroom, shut the door, and told me to calm down.
Calm down. Honestly, I was being calm. I was fighting to stay calm. I was crying while I folded laundry, by myself, my lips compressed tightly together. And he walked in and told me I needed to calm down.
How calm did he want me to be? I nearly lost it and said everything horrible thing about myself and him that might possibly every be true but isn't. I stood there and held it inside. And he grabbed my wrist and pulled me over his lap.
I asked him what he thought he was doing, even as I cried. We both knew the princess was awake and aware. And already upset because I scolded and lectured and fussed and metaphorically stomped my feet. He pulled down my yoga pants and smacked my behind.
Not hard. Not loud. Just enough to make me want him to do it like he wanted to touch me, instead of smack me. He lectured. He offered his opinion. I cried some more, mostly because he was telling me I was overreacting. I tried not to get angry, tried not to say more than I absolutely had to say. I just cried and stayed where he put me and wished he was comforting instead of smacking and wishing that something good would happen.
Something good was happening, only we were both too hungry to see it. I was too upset to see it, and he was too tired of my horrible no-good very bad day to see it.
So I said something I shouldn't have. He went out to get dinner to feed us. I cried some more.
Last night, Chris forced innumerable orgasms on me (all right, not innumerable… but ten. I felt like I was dying.) and then fucked me. I loved every second he touched me and wanted more – without the orgasms – of the contact. But the rich pleasure wasn't the same as those few minutes I laid across his thigh and cried into the duvet.
I want the something good to come back.