annanotbob's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sometimes I don't come home at all I've been thinking aout this all night and instead of packing the car I find myself writing here, direct to diaryland so it may all get lost anyway. Marital rape. No such thing in the 1970s. The legal definition of rape specifically excluded husbands and wives, no matter what the circumstances. A woman had no right to refuse her husband sex and there was no crime, no matter how much force he used. Doesn't get you off to a good start, sexually. Once I'd got shot of that charming man I embarked on a shagathon, which I then considered to be 'having a good time'. I don't see it in such simple terms now. With the kids' dad, I never dared to reject his advances after we were married, as I couldn't bear to discover whether or not it would be the same. I told Sam about all this, with the result that he never ever again initiated sex, in case I did the same to him, complied unwillingly, though I don't think I would have done and the law had been changed by then anyway. And we weren't married. We were OK for a while, but I began to feel less and less desirable, dirtier and dirtier. The main feature of my previous breakdown was the emergence of an overwhelming sexual desire for a scarily inappropriate person, which just about put the last nail in the coffin of Sam and I. Now I'm back to some kind of pre-adolescent sexuality, where I only fancy unattainable people - like gay men or Johnny Depp. I've written about this before, on paper, but there's still some kind of need to be heard about it (sorry, darlings), which I think derives from those initial rapes, which even I didn't define as such at the time. So tired. |10:22 a.m. - 23/07/2008 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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