Okay, what my husband liked to look at and my experiece with P are to different things, do I have to confess. Maybe I shouldn't. But here it goes, I checked the mail. I got the keys, my parents gave them to me, when I was a kid, and I walked to the mail box, and it was sitting there, catalogs. Full of stuff and images I didn't understand. I was a girl, and I looked. And I looked every time, those catalogs with toys and women and men.
My own grandmother gave me my first romance novel at 14. And even my husband laughs, because I skip over the bad parts. But the images of it stay in my head of what I saw.
My husband asked me to be what he wanted, I said no. I thought he wanted what I saw, and I couldn't be that. I didn't want those toys. P affected my perspective on every person and how I talked. I thought everybody had secret lives, and I was okay with it. My parents had one. And my husband had P.
People might read this thinking she's f'ed up. She should have never opened those catalogs, curiousity was my issue, and I looked. I was never the same again.
































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