The Agony and The Ecstasy
Posted August 26, 2010on:
Four years ago, following a particularly stressful few weeks, I had a meltdown. In a fit of rage, in the ultimate-‘I’ll-show-YOU!’ bout of masochism The Viv could muster,
I took a lover.
Though completely out of character for me, I found myself trolling the usual pick-up haunts. After three or four passes, I screwed my courage to the sticking point and approached the vendors of pleasure. It was easy pickins; there was quite the selection — all seemingly teasing and enticing me.
For a brief moment, a little voice screamed in my head,
Another little voice whispered,
Yet, here was I, eager — nay! — determined to partake in utter debauchery, in breaking the bonds of that sacred vow.
It didn’t take me long to size up the many vying for my affections; I knew I would take home the tallest, the longest, the sexiest — the one who could fire my pleasure all night long…and every ecstasy-filled day thereafter.
Vows be damned!
Though I found the pimp’s wardrobe to be contrary to stereotype (pimps now wear nametags?), I paid for my lover without guilt; without conscience; with nary a thought for my husband and children.
My lover and I engaged in a hot, torrid tête–à-tête, we two — a night of pure unadulterated passion I’ve never before known was possible.
Our first coupling left me breathless, and as I gave my body to him over and over again, I knew there was no turning back.
From then on, my every breath would be for my lover; my every waking moment would be spent pining, yearning, for him to fill me up in such a way that no other man could sate.
I couldn’t help myself. At long last, I’d found the ecstasy to my agony — the yin to my yang — and I fell truly, madly, deeply, in love with the seductively smoldering Irishman Nick…O’Tine.