Husband Material

Aka femgore writing, kinky queen, seeks geeky, sensual, sexy king….

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I want a husband.

Or at least I think I do.

I’m 52 and three quarters, and I want my husband.

Are you there?

Look. Something must be in the city centre waters, because recently I’ve been feeling a small voice inside saying: Push it. Push it further. See how far you can go sweet cheeks!

What this is referring to (and get your mind out of the gutter right now my dear), is in what I’m desiring to explore in my writing.

Is it because of my age, post-menopausal, out of the glare of society’s consumerist gaze? Is it because the world is insane and more and more creatives are unspooling the threads of their tightly sewn pencilled purse? Is it because I’ve stepped even deeper into really taking being a wordsmith and teller of tales, seriously, in service to creative freedom and unshaming the messy madness of being human?

I don’t know.

What I do know is that, as I’m deepening into my path, there’s a fire lit under my ass to see where I can take my words.

My imagination is an asylum of sorts. Rumi spoke about this being human is a guesthouse. Ha. Good for him. My human being is an orphanage of oddities. Go figure.

When I was a teenager, I swallowed down my words, blushed from here to kingdom come, and felt the red-hot poker iron of shame fuck me sideways into believing that my mind was a torrent of filth and too shocking to be let out and given air. Which, to be honest with you, is ridiculous, as I was an awkwardly sweet and shy self-conscious little thing, so I don’t even know where it all came from. I don’t know my loves; I’ve always had a crazy imagination. Lusty, dirty, vivid, profane and profound. For so much of my life I’ve sucked it up, buttercup, but now? Now I don’t care.

My mission is to see how far I can stretch the impossible imagination of my creative mind.

And so, I want to write about those things you shouldn’t write about.

For instance, the desire to have a husband.

I mentioned this fact to a friend last week at another friend’s 50^thbirthday party, and she sagely suggested that I acquire a temporary one, you know, ask around and see who would be willing to trial a marriage with me. A hire a husband sort of situation, fully under warranty, with a ‘money back no questions asked’ policy attached.

Hmmmmm. I quite like that idea. Maybe you can trade models. I wonder if they come with upgrades, accessories, special skills? I’m very aware that there’s a possibility of objectifying him at this point. A choose your own Barbie. Or in this case, Ken.

This last summer I read out a spoken word piece I’d written all about my recent lover’s body, which I had become astoundingly obsessed with, to the point of having to describe it on paper, late at night, one mild summer evening, all lust and scribbles, all daring and senses. I read it out at my friend’s book launch whilst he was sat in the front row. He cried afterwards. Sensitive thing he is. I have to say that there is a certain frisson to objectifying a man’s body. It’s not the ‘done thing’, is it?

Well. You know what they say.

Don’t fuck with writers.

Just ask Lily Allen.

I like the idea of calling someone my husband. Of being called a wife. Or even better, MY wife. It has a certain comfort about it. A thank fuck I don’t have to do that dating thing again relief and safety about it. Though, it has to be said, the anticipation before that first kiss of someone new, the first time you see them naked, the first time you get intimate together, watch them order their favourite type of coffee, how they cook, what they read, etc, is pretty gorgeous, it has to be said.

Or maybe that’s simply the dopamine talking.

For all that I playfully poke presumptuously about and raise my sardonic eyebrows at, I’m still just a girl (well woman) standing in front of the world, going, where are you, my King? Note the shift from Prince Charming to King though. That’s right. This Queen knows her worth and only Kings will do.

There have been several times where I thought it was about to happen. This husband thing.

I once thought I was going to be proposed to whilst staying in a castle. Another time, well last year actually, I thought I would be heading to Asia to join my then partner and I’d return with a ring on my finger. As it happens, that wasn’t the case. Instead, I returned home with an existential crisis and a deeply saddened break up.

Sigh.

I wonder how much of wanting a husband is simply a strange Aquarian thing whereby I like the idea of it. You know, the concept of. It’s a bit like the fact that I always wanted to be pregnant. Not for the kid, but for the curious, body-horroresque thrill of experiencing my body changing, creating life and then going through the birthing process. The bit after? Didn’t enthral me much.

Don’t judge sweetness. We’ve all got our weirdness’s.

I don’t need a husband.

Just to be clear.

I don’t NEED a husband, but I WANT one. Though as I write that I feel like Verruca Salt from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, stomping my feet, waving my fists, my Heidi plaits swinging from side to side, my bottom lip all pouty and tantrummy. Yep. I know her, my inner Latina with her sulking and petulance.

Though I do wonder where he is right now. What he’s doing. Whether he’s happy, fulfilled, has those beautiful crow’s feet lines around his eyes that crinkle when he smiles. Is he thinking about me too? Can you imagine how epically divine that would be, if you and your future beloved were thinking about each other at the same time? Listen. I’m a romantic at heart, ok? I might be cynical, tired of all the love and light bullshittery, be a clever mouth etc, but I’m a hopeless romantic at the end of the day. I believe in love and ever after. Even if the fairytales I write usually end up with some kind of twisted fated horror. I can hold both at once: love and gore.

Get me.

Look. I’m here my darling. If you’re reading this in some kind of cosmic synchronicity. Just let me know when you’re coming and I’ll shave my legs. Give me a heads up. Right?

Dear Santa, I’ve been a very, very, good girl.

Oooh.

Oh yes, he has to be kinky too. Just saying.

It occurs to me at this point that rather than share my astonishing news with you this week (drum roll please, my book has been announced!!! It’s so exciting. And you can read all about it here in this uber kind article written by my amazing publisher. I will be writing a post on here about it all too, but just for some reason this was what wanted to be written this week. I know, right? I don’t make the rules, babes), what my fingers are choosing to type instead, is this musing on husbandry. Not, husbandry per se of course, for this word actually means ‘the care, cultivation, and breeding of crops and animals’, good God no. Just to be clear. I may be open-minded, but even my freak flag has its moral limitations.

No. Husband. As in, the Old English husbonda (male head of a household, manager, steward), from Old Norse húsbóndi ‘master of a house’, from hús ‘house’ + bóndi ‘occupier and tiller of the soil’

Aha! Master of the house. Well, I am the Mistress of the House of Erotic Aliveness, so, at least we’ll match!

Would I have to call him master? Oh, I do hope so. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I’m an obedient lady. (That might be a lie though. It depends on my mood that day and which way the mythical winds be blowing).

My friend says that maybe my husband is simply waiting to find a body-horror loving, newly published author! Let me tell you, I like that theory a lot! And maybe that’s true. I do know that life happens to us as we’re getting on with it. Not just waiting around, dreaming, hoping, lusting, masturbating. Well, not just these. But in actually living. Being you. Being me.

And maybe it’s not so ‘cool’ to admit this wanting. Just last week there was an article that went viral about whether having a boyfriend is embarrassing these days. I suspect it wasn’t written by a Gen X’er though. I don’t care. I’ve said what I said and I suspect that I’m not alone.

Sure, I have a very rich and full life. I’m blessed with family and friends that are akin to family. I seem to have this weird ability to call in lovers whenever I want to. Which is great and odd simultaneously.

But a husband? Someone who knows that I am the one that he wants to commit too, just as I know that too towards him? Like in those romcoms?

Yeah baby. Bring it on.

I’d like that a lot.

Aho X

P.S. I’m very aware that if you’ve read this and have been thinking about making a romantic advance towards me, that either a) you’re totally on board with all I’m saying and know that I’m talking about YOU and you’ve got your 80s Cronenberg DVD collection in one hand and a riding crop in the other, or b) you’ve been stealthily taking little steps back and away, with a confused look on your face as I’ve totally put you off. Well, what a shame. For you that is :-D

P.P.S. Am I alone in this desire? As a competent, intelligent, handsome, powerful, woman? Come on, don’t leave me here all by myself my loves! Comment below and let me know X