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I don't like emailing so i want someone who can text, meet up. I have four kids and am married to the love of my life. And unbeknownst to me, I have been taking on a trauma of my own, the type that develops when you're closed to a traumatized loved one.

What's the difference between wrong and right? Who makes the distinction, and who gives them the authority? Most people would consider what we did to be wrong. A few would say it was okay, but mostly out of prurient interest. A few others, those who have been through the experience themselves and understand the emotional impact, would claim that it's both. My son and I are certainly in that last category.

This story rightfully starts in , when I was thirty-seven and Paul thirteen. I knew even before Paul did, that he had a problem. One morning I came downstairs dressed in only my bathrobe to make Paul breakfast. After a minute or two of wandering back and forth between refrigerator and cupboard, cabinet and sink, chatting with him aimlessly as mothers do with their children, I realized that Paul's eyes were following me everywhere I went.

I was bent over at the time with the front of my robe hanging open loosely, and although the angle was wrong, I could feel the intensity of his desire to see my bare breasts. It shocked me, to say the least. I reacted as any mother would: I jerked upright and covered myself quickly, blushing madly as I did so. It was the last time I let myself be around Paul in nothing but my bathrobe. Paul's preoccupation with me increased.

He was very popular at school and something of a jock; the girl's of course, simply loved him. But no sooner would he start a relationship with a girl than things would turn sour.

Two or three weeks would pass, a month, maybe two months, during which I'd feel his interest as strongly as I would any suitor.

It was embarrassing, and sometimes a bit on the frightening side. Because, no matter how much I told myself it was just teenage infatuation--Puppy Love, in other words--another, more deeply-rooted part of my psyche insisted that I was ignoring, possibly even engendering, a dangerous situation. I know this because, I had dangerous feelings for Paul in return. Actually, this was his favorite greeting to me. I routinely shuttled his teammates to soccer and basketball games, to football and baseball games, also to his tennis matches depending upon the season.

Normally I hated that big ugly vehicle. But a dinosaur was what it took to transport half-a-dozen testosterone-pumped year-old's around. Although it was big, they certainly wouldn't all fit into Melvin's Buick LeSabre, and of course, not into Paul's broken down old Chevy pickup truck.

Ever had half-a-dozen or more testosterone-pumped year-old's checking out your breasts? Just one of the tribulations and joys of being a Soccer Mom. Dropping his backpack just inside the door, and his parka on the back of his father's chair, Paul crossed to where I sat and planted a kiss on my forehead.

He grinned at me, and I looked back at him over the rims of my reading glasses, suppressing a grin. That day I had worn a brown angora sweater over a white turtleneck and black leggings to work; I still had them on. Glancing down, I noticed the swell of my breasts were perfectly delineated by the clingy sweater.

I shifted uncomfortably and he looked away. His expression soured immediately. He looked in the direction of the kitchen, where Joan, from the sound of her furious soft cursing, was industriously ruining dinner. Though filled with a trepidation not much different than that of her brother, I had graciously accepted. In counterpoint, there came the clatter of a dropping pan and Joan's outraged exclamation of anger. I smoothed the sweater over my tummy, glad to have it no longer delineating my large breasts.

He looked toward the kitchen, wincing at the sound of a dropped lid. He winked at me and headed upstairs while I headed for the kitchen to see what catastrophe awaited. Three days later, we held what I came to remember as the Birthday Party from Hell. Not only did the crowd of invited friends swell all out of proportion to the square-footage of our house, but alcohol and some very potent-smelling marijuana found its way into the basement.

I can't tell you how many times I yelled at Paul to turn down the music, nor how many inappropriately locked-together couples I separated in my wanderings. Although no proof ever surfaced, I'm told that two youngsters copulated with their gentlemen in the downstairs bathroom. When finally I herded the last of them out the front door after midnight, I was a complete wreck.

He locked the front door and glanced at me in surprise. I really was fuming. We did not clean up in the morning, but spent the next hour and a half picking up the mess, working both individually and together.

We spoke very little, but with the passing minutes my mood lightened so that finally, when we turned off the downstairs lights and I accompanied him upstairs, I had my arm around his waist. I didn't want to awaken either Melvin or Joan, so I eased Paul into his bedroom and closed the door softly behind me.

Even so, I gave my response in a whisper. I sighed, giving up on being upset. Carefully, he pulled the Sony Color Watchman out of his back pocket and sat it on the top of his dresser.

He'd showed it off all night, as though it were a bar of gold. Then he darted forward and grabbed me in a hug, and planted a kiss on my right cheek. Now, I've been hugged and kissed on the cheek any number of times by Paul. This time was no different, should have been no different anyway, but having his arms suddenly around me, having my breasts mashed up against his chest, smelling his strong aroma of aftershave, deodorant, sweat and testosterone, my breath caught in my throat and suddenly my blood pressure shot into the stratosphere.

Embarrassed, I looked numbly at the Watchman and mumbled something instantly forgettable. There was an embarrassed silence. Then Paul said in an oddly constrained voice: Can I kiss you? Suddenly his lips were on mine, and try as I might to stop it, there was no stopping the instinctual movement of my lips in response. My hand rose and I touched my lips with my trembling fingertips.

In truth, I was in a fever from being kissed. Kissing had sent blood rushing to my face and every other part of my dermis. I was suddenly itchy all over and scratched both my forearms, and my right underarm.

There was a totally unwelcome tingling between my legs that made me want to go screaming from the room. For two years, things remained status-quot. Paul watched me like a calculating, long-suffering suitor. I made sure he didn't get close enough to set off another critical chain-reaction. However, things will always reach a boil when the fire's on, no matter how closely you watch the pot. Eventually it did with us. It was Christmas Eve of I was extremely upset and justifiably rancorous.

Neither of us suspected yet that Chicago would get snowed in, and I'd not see Melvin again for three days. As is our tradition, the three of us had decorated the house two days before Joan had flown to Cincinnati the day before that, to spend Christmas at her boyfriend's parent's house , and Paul had hung a spray of real live mistletoe in the living room over the fireplace.

Ostensibly for his father and I, Mom had a sneaking suspicion that Paul intended to use the mistletoe himself, and not with any girlfriend. Melvin took me in his arms and rocked me gently back and forth. He was 6'1", weighed pounds and at 48, was still blessed with an impressively athletic build.

Granted, he was slowly going to fat in the middle, but what 48 year old man isn't? And despite his seriously eroding hairline, Melvin was still the sexiest man I knew. A real man's man, like Robert Mitchum. Kissing me on the nose, he said, "We made it 22 years without a break. That's a seriously impressive record, sweetie. He kissed me on the nose again. Then I accompanied him to the front door where he gathered his flight bag and his two pieces of luggage. I had a very bad feeling about tonight--a premonition--and I didn't want him leaving.

He did leave, however, just as he had to, and after watching him drive down the street and turn the corner, I slowly closed the front door and locked it. I knew, even without a crystal ball, that things would get out of hand that night with Paul. And of course, they did. It was eleven o'clock. The last of the company had left and Paul and I cleaned up the mess in silence. In the kitchen, he came up behind me and said: Forcing a smile and a cheery tone of voice, I replied: I was on the verge of saying something totally inane when he encircled my waist with his arms and pressed up against me.

For ages now I had been aware that Paul borrowed my underwear to fantasize over. Half a dozen times I'd found a pair of my panties or one of my bras--sometimes both--under his mattress or in a drawer. More than once I'd found them stiff with dried semen.

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I tried a post several weeks ago and received a ton of spam but did find one friendly soul who although we didn't connect, did make me realize this is possible. So take that chance a harmless hello can be the start of something grand. C'mon and chance it! They make butt plugs with suction cup bases so you can insert them yourself more easily. Establish a relationship with a woman, and engage in mutual fantasies. If you another option, please point it out.

The question becomes, which option do you choose, and how do you intend to implement that option? My production schedule was grossly ignored, so I have a lot to catch up on. Our weather is behaving more like.

Not hot, but no rain except for this weekend, of course. Coffee in my cup, thread on my machine, and ideas in my head. Friday here I come! He's got his flaws just like I do.

But no, we don't argue all the time, we have sex almost daily and I'd say that our relationship is very strong, we communicate well, we are on the same about just about everything. So no, I don't currently identify with the kinds of issues you and the OP are looking for. In my past, I've dated alcoholics, I've been physiy, I've been lied to, I've been cheated on, I've been treated badly in ways.

I didn't get married when I was 18 years old to a Charming and live happily ever after. I was well into my 30's and well into some serious therapy before I was able to create a relationship with the that is now my husband.

Yeah, at one time, I could have listed 50 other things as the greatest fear I had about relationships based on my history and knowing what could go wrong usually did. Now I am in a healthier place and I'm happy to say that the worst thing I can imagine happening now is that something bad happens to the I. I'm sorry that your mind is so fucking narrow that you can't imagine that a person like me could have a nice life where I don't live in constant fear of my relationship crumbling.

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