Millicent Hayward

Over the years, I have found that keeping the male beast deprived of sexual satisfaction... lets term it physical sexual satisfaction... can give rise to a form of satisfaction of its own... for me, that is.

My name is Millicent Hayward, my mother had a thing for old fashioned names, and my husband of some ten years is Harold Hayward. We dated vanilla... married vanilla... lived vanilla for the first few years of our marriage. And then came Harold’s big day... his last as... let’s call it fully functioning... yes, his last day as a fully functioning male... April 5, 2001.

He was in the mood... I wasn’t. Instead I was inthat mood. And the intervals of being inthat mood had been becoming longer and longer. At first when I was inthat mood, I would berate myself and feel a little sorry for Harold. But then I began to analyze... if we planned not to have children, and that was agreed to upon our betrothal, why should I continually have to lie in the prosaic missionary position and press my ankles to the ceiling?.. and do so at his whim? Why was it always about him? His needs?

When inthat mood, I would think up excuses but even Harold knew that the menstrual cycle does not come that often and last that long. So I would just enunciate a clear and firm ‘No’ and move elsewhere in the house... cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, feigning indifference.

But it was feigned, for as Harold pouted, my own circumspection led to ongoing analysis, giving the situation deep thought. You see, though I never admitted it, nor even discussed it with pimply teenaged girl friends in my youth, I did need... well, let’s call it attention... but never really liked being penetrated. Deep within, I guess that I knew I was different. But I never brought the thought to the front of my mind until I had ensnared Harold in marriage. Thereafter there developed years of understanding the male needs... his needs... but not fully understanding mine. And this formulated a sense of frustration on one hand but also empowerment... he needed my warm and wet tightness more than I needed to lie beneath his sweaty pudgy form obsequiously searching with my spread legs for the best angle to receive his manhood.

I could do without... he couldn’t.

I read where some leader in the women’s rights movement referred to most copulation as masturbating in the vagina. And that stuck in my mind during the infrequent times I consented... as I stared at the ceiling with disd