Her Secret Self...

I see guys hurt girls all the time. Without even knowing they're doing it! A put down remark, an intimate secret told to his mates, setting himself as head of the house and she the "little woman" who never says no even though he reeks of beer, has food down his front and he never waits for her, just a quickie and he falls asleep leaving her feeling used, uncared for, lonely... and in hiding.



Most men have no idea they do this, they think all is well until it's way too late! They never seem to look into their partners eyes. It's there I see the sadness, the pain, the loneliness. Dead eyes sometimes, all the sparkle gone, no fight left. Or smouldering, angry eyes... the kind of eyes that watch him sleep & imagine a million ways to kill him. Then there's the eyes full of bewildered, gentle love... head over heels for the guy, would do anything for him, yet so unhappy and just plain puzzled why he's never even got to know her, her likes, dislikes, how she likes to be touched, held, never talked through the night about anything and everything like she did before with her girlfriends. How he seems happy with such simple, empty, meaningless things, yet he attaches vast importance to them. His dinner, his beer, his mates...



So she hides herself away. Hides away the passion, the fire, hides her vulnerabilities, her soft secret places that she longed to share with him, and learn of his. Hide away her orgasmic self, he gets a construct, a little panting, a little bit of breathing, a quick "I'm coming..." when he comes. Foreplay doesn't happen, he thinks he's bloody brilliant at it though! Thinking pounding away for a half hour is a good thing!



Instead she waits 'till he's at work, when she's safe, to make herself come... slowly, with fingers and a mini vibrator that she keeps in the lining of her handbag. Then a looong bubble bath, making herself beautiful, for her and no one else. If he could see her in the bath with four fingers deep inside her, **** under the running tap, her other hand squeezing her breasts and teasing her nipples, deep, animal, guttural noises as she arches her back & comes again...  

She lays back in the water, slowly letting her fingers slide out of her, she wafts warm water gently at her sensitive, puffy lips. Feeling little aftershocks inside her, she lays the flat of her right hand over her *****, her **** too sensitive to touch but the weight of her hand feels good, comforting. She tastes herself on the four fingers that were buried deep inside her when she came. Sweet, a hint of musk... and then she closes her eyes and just drifts in the peace of the house all to herself, reveling in the silence, feeling safe.



She opens her eyes, climbs out of the now cooling bath and wraps herself in huge white fluffy towels.  Clean white linen sheets await her, she'll spend the day pampering herslf, new undies, simple white silk, cool and supple against her, not those foul, scratchy red and black nylon things he brought her for Valentines day! She'll have thoughts she hasn't allowed herself for the past month or so since the last day like this, she'll be herself, warm, soft, horny, hard, brave, angry, sharp, happy to be her and damn near suicidal that she is where she is. Letting out parts of her she has hidden for months, bits of her womanhood he would misconstrue, misunderstand, miss altogether or use against her.



He thinks he knows her, that simple, mousy, quiet little woman who laughs at his misogynist, homophobic or racist jokes and that thinks it funny when he farts in bed and forces her head under the covers. He tells his mates this loudly in the pub one Sunday afternoon, she could have died in shame & embarrasment, bellitled in front of his mates once again, he sticks his chest out like a rooster and just about struts around the pool table, his status ensured in front of his friends who wonder how he gets away with it, because their wives / girlfriends wouldn't stand for the way he treats her.



Old school marriage, old school values, old school geezer. They look up to him & think he has it cushy. He reminds them of their Dads, work, dinner on the table at six, telly till bed, breakfast cooked for him, and back to work 'till the weekend when it's Friday night beer, Saturday football, saturday night beer, drunken, grunting sex that makes her dread Saturday night when she hears his taxi pull up and his key fumbling around the lock. Sunday all day beer and a roast dinner she has to get on the table for three when he comes back from the pub, often with a couple of equally drunk monosyllabic men who eat and belch their way through her dinner without a word or even an acknowlegement that she's there except when he says "'Ere, you deaf? Get us some beers out of the fridge, there's a love. Play your cards right and you can have me tonight!" She slinks away before he gets into his stride.



He never looks into her eyes, perhaps luckily because it's the only part of her that she can't control, the only part that isn't buttoned down tight. They're dead and far away during sex, cold and hard whilst making dinner, washing up, doing the washing, hoovering. And they are eyes full of hatred & disgust at his crass pronouncements, his pride in farting, his ever growing beer belly, the smell of sick after a night out with the lads along with the erectile dysfunction & clumsy maulings he thinks equate to intimacy. Dry grubby fingers with long nails push and prod at her dry, closed *****. She has to spit on her hand and make herself slippery before he tears her. He falls asleep, drunk, snoring and still semi clothed.



She gets up, showers his stink off of her skin and sits downstairs in the dark wondering where the years go, wondering if anyone will take the time or the trouble to discover her, someone that will love all of her, someone that she can trust with her secret places, secret thoughts, someone that will look at her with eyes full of love and see her, see into her.



She has thought about this a lot. This mythical man, all tender touch and thoughtful brow, this imaginary lover with whom she could relax, trust. What would it be like to love and be loved, to trust, to share. How would I show him me? How could I show him my secret self, get him to know that what he saw in front of him was the real me, not hiding, not scared. Her arms slowly wrap around her sides as she hugs herself, rocking gently as if to a lullaby. Her eyelids flicker and slowly close...



Beside her, in her bed, is a man, all tender touch and thoughtful brow. He lies gently to her side. She, naked & relaxed beneath his warm gaze. She holds his eyes with hers as her hand moves from her mouth, over her breasts and down to her *****, then slowly, for the first time ever, she shows another human how she learned to stroke herself, silently, under the covers, not making a sound lest she be discovered, ignoring the taboo of touching herself "down there" instilled by strict parents. From girl to woman, she had this secret, slippery fingers in folds of warm, soft, velvet. Fingers later replaced by her deodorant bottle, slowly stretching herself over the end 'till it slides in, making her gasp until she relaxes her muscles, savouring the feeling of it inside her, reaching down under her left leg she pushes the bottle in with two fingers, letting her muscles push it out again, slowly she slides three fingers of her other hand into her mouth making them slick with spit. Then she slides her hand down under the covers to feel her lips stretched around that bottle, she slides her fingers circle gently around her ****, those familiar feelings, that same rhythm she's used since before she can remember, her eyes half close and forgets all about her partner watching, his face soft but his eyes afire, he's listening to every little gasp she makes, listening to wet fingers on her slick,pouting lips, he catches the scent of her, changing now she's aroused, musk, dark, warm womanly musk, he looks at her flushed cheeks, her eyes half open but unseeing, and in his minds eye he sees a teenage girls bedroom in the dark of the night, those same eyes, those same tiny little sounds, that rhythmic rustle of the bedclothes... coming silently lest she be discovered. Her secret, her beautiful secret.



After she comes, she takes his hand and shows him how to cup her ***** gently, the way she does herself, making her feel cuddled, warm and safe. She showed him her secret self, and she can tell by his eyes, full of a wonder, love and a sparkle she can't name, that he knows that it was a special gift, he is the first to be let in to her, the first to see what for so long she had hidden away.



He kisses her lips, warm, soft and dry...  He rolls over onto his back...  lays her head on his shoulder and reaches down over his stomach, "Watch," he says softly, "I've never shown anyone this before."

Lazarus42 Lazarus42
46-50, M
2 Responses Mar 6, 2010

Not bad. Very sad and sweet.

Well, a try at writing from the female perspective. How'd I do girls?