Slow Changes
After a number of years, and it happened so slowly I did not even notice the changes (or I was so blind as to miss some critical turning point), she decided that she needed to "grow up." In retrospect, I still have difficulty understanding how this could occur since I have always considered growing old to be inevitable, but growing up optional. I just have never exercised that option, although my wife clearly has. I've been told that women feel the onward press of time toward old age more forcibly than men. Perhaps this is the reason for her change. She now deemed what I found attractive to be repugnant and began a long and increasingly unpleasant campaign to change her wardrobe, even at one point throwing out some of the clothing I had made for her. My rage was without bounds. I felt betrayed, but I could not understand why. The very woman I loved was doing something I did not understand and it hurt deeply. Sex, which had previously been always available and, frankly, very good to excellent for me, became scarce, used as a tool to manipulate me. I began to question whether my wife and I should remain married. After all, she had ceased to be attractive to me, gaining weight, redoing her wardrobe in more "adult" styles, and was withholding sexual favors.
Earlier, while I was still in graduate school, a sentinel event occurred. This event clarified or jelled a distinction I was not aware had been built into me. During the summer, a very cute eleven-year-old girl was visiting her "other" divorced parent for the summer and, for some reason which eludes me to this day, she had the hots for me. She wore too-small, juvenile-style, skin-tight, very pretty swimsuits to the pool each day and did her best to attempt to seduce me. Constantly asking for swimming or diving lessons (I was a fair diver) and then rubbing her crotch against my leg or trying to grab "me" every chance she got, she really tried. She asked what clothes I liked and then proceeded to show up whenever I went swimming modeling exactly those styles: bloomer skorts, tennis dresses, rompers, skirted swimsuits, and once even a white party dress with bouffant slip, lace-trimmed anklets and patent Mary Janes. She would then ask me if I wanted to accompany her back to her apartment and, when I refused, she would race home and back, arriving in one of her oh-so-attractive swimsuits for a "swimming lesson." One evening she even came out to the pool wearing a pair of baby doll pajamas with puffed sleeves and bloomer-style bottoms (pure 1950's) under her robe, claiming that she had a cold and had to go to bed instead of swimming. She wanted me to rub Vicks on her chest. Hah! I declined, sensing the ruse immediately. What I learned from this experience was, that although I found the look of young girls attractive, I apparently made a very clear distinction between the "look" and actual age. Motive, means and opportunity were present, but principle prevailed. I was not aware at the time that this principle was so strongly a part of my personality. I simply had no clue as to what prevented me from jumping her at the first opportunity. She certainly was attractive enough, and the packaging met my criteria exactly.
Sometime later, before the realization of this distinction had sunk in, I wondered if I was a pedophile, that is someone who finds young girls attractive, or perhaps even a "closet" child molester (i.e., one who would prefer having sex with young girls as opposed to females of their own generation). Looking over the kiddie porn available at the time, and it was widely available and openly being sold back then, I was strongly put off by what appeared to be subtle indications that the kids who were posing were not doing it altogether willingly. While some of them did not appear to mind posing nude, those appearing in the more explicit stuff seemed coerced. Nothing overt, just a vague sensation which struck a sour note that resonated throughout my entire body. Wham, a sensation coursed through me as though I had been dumped into ice water. The coercion these kids were acting under was the same type of control I had suffered under way back in military school. Talk about aversion therapy! I had my own aversion therapy already built in and it was directly related to what had been inflicted on me. Clearly then, becoming a child molester was not in the cards for me. I couldn't tolerate their victims' pain.
Last Update: 12/28/2003
Web Author: Taffy@Cheerful.Com
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