The Break-Up Aftermath - Just One of Those Crazy Things

It was just one of those things...

Someone said to me in passing, "At least you can cross off I dated a porn star from your bucket list."

To recap for my new readers (you really should read some of my blog posts!): at the end of a romantic vacation, the so-called love of my life confessed in a very perfunctory and matter-of-fact way he performed in porn movies without doing any sex. In particular, bondage, sadism, domination and masochism, neglecting to mention he's the guy they do everything to! Incidentally, he ENJOYED it! LOVED it so much so he did ten films. From the movies I saw, he lied in that yes, he did do traditional intercourse with a woman. We tend to call that sex in the real world.

The past month, I grappled with his disclosure. I've gone the gamut from denial, dismissal and indifference to a complete volte face in light of how he changed towards me. You know how they say, "Curiosity killed the cat?" In my case, it killed my love. My loyal readers and fans sent me links and videos in which he had a principal role in porn and bondage.

I watched several and got sick to my stomach. There's a difference between intellectually knowing that someone did something and then witnessing what they did. That chasm was crossed and my heart broke for things became clear.

First off, I advise anyone who saw the links in my prior blog post (CLICK HERE) to NOT purchase these videos. Insofar as porn, they're boring, puerile, amateur, klutzy and not even sexy in the least. I provide you with the KINDEST comments received the past week:

"My fav scene is when she [the purported Dominatrix] tripped and fell. Another is where a guy pushed her to suck his cock and she fell over."

"Just a bunch of skanky deviants playacting as if they were fully fleshed human beings. Trust me, I've seen MUCH better BDSM."

"When he was fucking her, the only sound was the chair creaking over her fake shrill orgasmic screams."

"Real porn stars have good teeth, in good shape and good-looking unlike these escapees from Dr. Moreau's island."

You know what's worse than being a victim in male BDSM films? Being a victim in POORLY made, stupid and amateurish BDSM films. Now, that's shame! For shame! And those films where he did have vanilla intercourse with his wife were simply lame and kinda disgusting watching the cellulite ripple and flop on the backs of the woman's thighs and buttocks. I heaved. For, at my age, nearly 60, my body's in far better shape than that woman at 30.

How could I compete?
But, I digress.

"This is the man I chose to spend my life with?" I shrieked to my friend who responded in peels of laughter.

That has been the response to this very sad conclusion to what I thought was a new chapter in my life: laughter. This is the event that annihilated me - not the deaths of my best friend and colleagues in 911, the subsequent deaths of my family members, the loss of my 30-year successful career on Wall Street, the stroke that took away my hearing and gave me painful symptoms which made me a recluse.

I must've lost touch with reality. Really, now, who else can say they chose a bondage victim as a partner in life? WHAT DOES THIS SAY ABOUT ME?!?!?

Boy, can I pick 'em. I'm more rattled by my choice of men than what I viewed.

Of course, I couldn't refrain from contacting him after spending the afternoon watching his ex-wife getting fucked by some strange looking Neanderthal when she wasn't having a few lesbian trysts, enjoying anal beads and a venture into quotidian lackluster BDSM. I got the full visual treatment, all right. She ain't no Jenna Jameson, that's for sure!

They should take lessons from Edith Massey!
Not to pass judgement, but honestly, that he was in love with her and that lifestyle for over 18 years roils my stomach. After a week of silence, I shot off vitriolic text messages.

"This explains your lukewarm reception to me," I wrote after I saw a close-up on video where he smiles and tells the cameraman how much he enjoyed his ex-wife burning the underside of his cock with a cigarette, pouring hot wax down his back, tying his cock and testicles up and beating and stabbing them, shoving something up his rectum. "And now I understand your aloofness, general indifference and half-hearted warmth. Shit - all this time I thought you were LAID BACK! If I knew this is what you liked, I would've gotten rope, lit a cigarette and burnt your cock. Then, I'd beat you over the head with an oar."

He quickly responded. "Nice to hear from you, too."

I railed on. "If I only knew that it took clothespins clamped on your testicles to make you fall in love with me, mousetraps on your nipples to say words of love, hell, yes!"

"Are you a five-year-old?" he wrote back.

Then he phoned. I yelled at him for forty minutes about what a fuck he was to me. I took it to heart that he didn't let me know up front that he's a fucking deviant. I guess to him our relationship was a revelation that love can be expressed without burning his testicles. Or perhaps his feelings were buried so deep, he couldn't express them. After all, he was immersed in a lifestyle for 18 years that produced issues which won't dissipate simply because he walked away.

Makes you wonder what's walking out there, driving, voting and seated next to you at work, in restaurants and the bus, right?

For each of my rants, I had to listen to his. I'm polite in that way.

"Your problem is, once you get your teeth in a topic, you never let go," he informed me. It's true: I kept addressing how he never met my emotional needs and how I was consistently hurt. I didn't understand why this was such an issue because I ASSUMED he was normal. Here we go with a definition:

ASSUME: Making an ASS out of U and Me.

Another way of looking at it: just cause you can put a dress on a pig doesn't make the pig a cross-dresser, it's still a pig.

What I wanted was love, something he could never give to me:

(1) I'm dealing with someone who's emotionally desensitized.

(2) When I treated him with love and respect, unaccustomed to this behavior, he reciprocated by pulling stunts, the emotional equivalent of kicking my teeth down my throat. There's no concept of partnership with him - only submission or domination.

(3) This is a guy who understands love through punishment. If I stabbed him in the right nut and shoved a broomstick up his ass, he would've followed me to the ends of the world and treated me right.

Thankfully, my month of mulling paid off. Imagine if I continued with this guy? Incrementally, the persona of a great guy peeled off, revealing the tortured monster within. He wasn't a good actor in those porn films, yet IRL he was spectacular. Perhaps he should try theatre.

"I'm very upset you wrote on your blog personal stuff which I confided to you," he whined. "It's not the first time." He didn't refer to my romantic posts; it was the post linked above where he was taken in by a catfish - no surprise there!!!

I sat, floored. The personal stuff I NEVER wrote about, just the PUBLIC stuff.  Here we go again with more of my definitions:

PERSONAL: something someone tells you that can't be found online accessible to the general public.

PUBLIC: something that can be found online and purchased for $39.99 and 2,000 tweets and quotes about the horrible job, anger management issues, problems with colleagues in gruesome detail. Not to mention his all-abiding love for a catfish tweeted over four months.

I kept the true personal stuff confidential. Again, a guy who exposed his genitalia in 10 movies (that I know of and fans keep unearthing more and more) up to ten years ago where he allowed a woman to torture him and LOVED it is upset when I blogged about it? A guy who has intercourse that anyone can watch for a $19.99 DVD where he ejaculated through overly stringent masturbation is upset I divulged that secret?

This is not a young misguided youth who did porn. This is a man in the latter chapter of his life. So, fuck his 'secrecy.'

"Well, I was hurt," he said. "I can't believe you wrote all this stuff about me."

At that moment, I wondered with whom he had a relationship. I responded, "I'm a strong woman with a strong sense of self, a leader, someone with purpose and integrity with decades-long success in the world in a real career using my mind to make a living. Not my cunt." Using a term to which he could relate, "I'm not a dominatrix who is a mental patient playacting with other weak-minded people in a fake environment. Didn't you realize you're messing with the real deal?"

"Will you destroy me?" he asked, worried, the true essence of this phone call.

"No," I said. I figured he's doing it very well on his own. Let's say that all those stereotypes about why people go into porn is the truth.

HOW ABOUT THIS MOTHERFUCKER: I'm more upset you didn't bother letting me know about your depravity until AFTER we got involved. Excuse me, I made a mistake: AFTER I got involved.

"Let's discuss our relationship," he said. He believed it could be SALVAGED. Yep. "Perhaps in a while in a few months or so I may perhaps feel love for you," he said to me.

At that stage, I wanted to beat him into oblivion. Perhaps that's what he wanted me to do all along. That a damaged goods like him couldn't elicit any love for me? FUCK HIM!

"It's over!" I shrieked. "I don't want you anywhere near me," I said. "This is dead, you're dead to me, I'm simply reacting because I'm hurt and angry at myself for getting involved with the likes of you."

Actually, I wanted to exfoliate my vagina as well as my internal organs. NEVER in my life have I felt this skanked out. Even during my bout with poison ivy.

It's admirable he wanted to talk to me for three successive evenings where I got to vent, rage and express my disgust towards him. Yet, it's over and done with. After all, it was Just One of Those Things.

I wonder if Rikki Lake's interested in THIS story?!

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Anonymous said...

The Dr. Moreau comment was funny.

Anonymous said...

I dont know about Rikki Lake but Jerry Springer would seem like the likely venue for your story...