While we rested, facing the ceiling and watching the rotation of the fan. I had asked him why, and he had replied, “I don’t make love, I fuck.”
Just like that, we had started something. We spent reasonable amounts of time together. I always visited him and had a lot of sleepovers. I was twenty, he was twenty-four.
We introduced each other to our families and did other things normal couples did. We got jealous seeing each other close with the opposite sex. It began to feel like we were dating.
When I told him I was pregnant, he didn’t fret. We knew it could happen. Besides, we had been doing a lot of those that caused babies to happen. He suggested we get married.
I thought about it. I was never going to have an abortion. He was there, willing to shoulder his responsibilities. He was sweet and loving. I could always go back to school after one year. Most of all, we were very compatible. We rarely had arguments and easily made up whenever we did.
Voila! We tied the knot. Our parents were open-minded people. They blessed our marriage. Mum was willing to take care of my baby after her birth.
Sam was hyper-sexual. His libido was maddening. The way he’d turn me around and drag out my waist, the heights to which he’d raise my legs, the way he’d demand I tilt my back whenever I lay on my side – all these left me with body pains. I always had to take pain relievers.
I know I had come to him for sex, but with the pass of each day, it got greater than I had expected. He would proudly call himself a horndog and a satyromaniac.
That night, I had asked he be gentler with me. He said he’d try. As he hit my walls, I had felt a sharp pain and signaled him to stop, he continued, panting like a dog. He only did after he saw blood. He kept pushing and had bumped into my uterus. I had lost the baby.
We had talked about it. He promised we’d make another baby. I forgave him. As time went on, I stopped enjoying intimacy with him. It felt more like an indirect fight. I felt treated like a prostitute, not a pampered wife. My feelings overturned. I went from loving him to not liking him at all.
The day I talked to him about divorce, he had agreed without argument. My withdrawal and coldness towards him had been very obvious. I wanted the divorce more to have the opportunity to focus on me and my own dreams.
I wouldn’t have to worry about a child or a man. For the past nine months, I had gotten more than enough pleasure to last me a lifetime.
We had a happy separation. We had printed invitation cards for our divorce party, the cards bearing different locations. One of the lines in the card read, “to let you know we are getting a new life apart.”
Till today, those lines are still fresh – getting a new life apart, because I did get a better life apart.
Episode 1: 9ine Months
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