Amandas Awakening - Tara Tainton

Amanda’s Awakening

Written by Tara Tainton

Monday, 27 April 2009 17:52

No wonder Stan left me. I couldn’t erase the self-deprecating thoughts from my surrendered mind. I continued to stare at myself in the full-length mirror. It was as tired as I was. The glass was exhausted by my unimpressive image, my own eyes sick of the sight of my sagging self. What’s left after thirty-five?

I couldn’t look anymore. Not at the belly with stretch marks still bemoaning hours of child-bearing labor. Not at the behind that gave away my age. Not at the breasts that he called perfect. Who was ever going to find this attractive? Who was going to make me be someone again?

Divorced. That’s what I was. I could feel the stares as I walked down the street. I sat in church every Sunday, the single mom with no husband. I was the outcast. It was practically branded on my forehead. No one wanted me. Someone used to, but I wasn’t good enough to keep him around. Not woman enough to even complete my feminine destiny in the world. Without my husband, I was only half a woman. Only a mother and probably one my kids were ashamed of. If I hung my head in shame, maybe everyone would stop staring and just leave me alone.

"Masturbation" by artist Nir Hod

I’ll start practicing now. I had to chuckle at myself. If nothing else, I had my own sense of humor, usually at my own expense, to get me through the day. I turned to ignore the unabashedly honest mirror and focus on the task at hand.

What does one wear to these things? I stared at the walk-in closet as if it would speak up and provide the answer. Dressing properly was important to me. I might feel like less of a woman, but I wouldn’t let that affect my appearance. After all these years, I still never leave the house without full makeup, curled hair, perfectly matched shoes, and carefully selected earrings. A woman is naked without earrings. And stockings—a woman isn’t a woman without stockings.

My dear mother had once graced our home as a modern-day version of the Southern belle. Every day of my childhood was a lesson in being female, properly female, and trained for that defining moment: catching a man. Momma never mentioned anything about being single again, and middle-aged. I was on my own.

Since Stan left, I’d been trying to remember my previous singlehood so long ago. I’d started showing a little cleavage again—just a couple of buttons, released to remain tasteful and respectable. Otherwise it’s the same fitted skirt of appropriate length, high-heeled shoes, stockings, and starched blouse.

I chose my blue ensemble for the occasion—a good color for introductions. Unfortunately, I didn’t expect any men to be at this thing. I tried to explain to Connie that there was no use in going if there was no chance of meeting a man there, but she was dragging me anyway. I’d been alone for two years: one year of depression and one year lost in this “between” state. I now felt here, present in this land of the living, but I wasn’t really part of it, not until I became whole again. And it didn’t look like that was going to happen any time soon.

Connie was my sister—my younger one at that, by five years. I couldn’t help thinking of her as the older sister I never had and always wanted. She was so confident. She seemed so happy. I didn’t know how she did it, going through life without a steady man at her side. She was one of those career women. She thought she could do anything a man could do, provide all the same for a family one day. I guess you could call her one of those feminists, but she didn’t have her hair all chopped off or wear nothing but T-shirts and baggy pants. She looked like a businesswoman most of the time, walked around like the world was a playground built just for her. I was in awe of her.

“Mom!” A heart-wrenching scream rang through the house, penetrating to the second floor and reaching my ears. Teenagers. Why did they have to scream everything? I refused to reply in the same way. Charlie could wait until I finished dressing and went downstairs as long as I didn’t hear any cries from his younger sister.

I certainly wasn’t going to mention to either of them where Mom was going tonight with Aunt Connie. Charlie would tease me for the next six weeks. Little Trisha would probably store away the fact to pull out again years later and question her mother’s sanity with.

Goddess classes. That was how my simple mind translated what was advertised as “Goddess Empowerment: Getting in Touch with Your Female Power Within” on the flyer Connie had slid across the kitchen counter to me. She insisted the course was just what I needed right now, and I never could refuse her when she was hell-bent on some notion. There was the fact that she usually ended up right about everything. At least she agreed to go with me, and not leave me in that strange environment all alone. Those feminists would probably eat me alive.

In just six weeks, I was supposed to feel better about my life, being single, and even myself. It sounded like a lot of mumbo-jumbo to me, something silly made up to make those women feel better about themselves or give them reason to start arguments with their husbands. I knew my place, and what I was missing. There was no use fighting our God-given station in life or talking ourselves into believing we could actually make it through life without a man’s help.

“Wow, Amanda. She even looks like you!” Connie made me feel less foolish about the image I’d picked for our class assignment. I still didn’t understand the reasoning behind it, but it was kind of fun like most of our assignments. We had to search out an image to represent our “goddess within.” Just something, like an animal or even a flower, to stand for the strength we had inside, the inner self that didn’t have any fears or weaknesses.

I had to pick a picture of a woman, of course. How am I supposed to associate with an animal or a plant? So, I found myself looking through my son’s comic books for the first time. Needless to say, I was startled—I never realized that the images in those things are so graphic, so… sexy. But the women in them were all fully clothed. Well, at least their bosoms and maiden-flowers weren’t shown. I decided against talking to Charlie about his collection, and just let him have it. After all, the female form is a work of art, and there was something nice about knowing my son could appreciate the beauty of it. He was a boy who would be a man someday, and it was in his nature to be drawn to nudity. Heaven forbid I ever find my darling Trisha eyeing pictures of half-clothed men. Women are designed to look appealing, not to do the looking.

“She’s so… Well, Amanda, I’m amazed. I think I’m very proud of you!” Connie was definitely overreacting. All I did was make a copy of a page from one of my son’s comic books. I looked at the picture of the woman again. I didn’t think she looked like me, but she was definitely very attractive. Just like I felt I was on the inside, or even how I must’ve been when Stan first noticed me.

This assignment was a stretch for me, but I did find the class much more interesting than I thought it would be. There were others here just like me, feeling a little lost and sometimes, just needing to get through the day. They even looked normal. Some dressed very stylishly. There were a couple of other divorcées and a few younger women that hadn’t managed to catch a man yet, poor things. They were pretty too. I didn’t understand it.

Everyone was very nice, though, and I started to look forward to going twice a week to see the other women and hear about their struggles or how they were applying the lessons we were taught in class. I even found myself listening closely to the new ideas. It felt really nice to be part of a group of women that had some of the same thoughts that I did and to experience it with my little sister at my side.

My favorite part was the time set aside at the end of each class to just talk. I heard the most interesting stories. Some of the women even shared some very personal subjects, like their sex-lives. I wasn’t the only one blushing in my bed in the circle.

At first, I couldn’t understand why they’d admit to even having such thoughts. I wouldn’t even let myself have such thoughts, let alone admit to them in front of others. Maybe not even to Connie. A Christian woman didn’t think about such things. Sex was a man’s preoccupation. Some of the women in the class actually talked about their own sex-drive. I just couldn’t relate, but I kept listening and nodding, as though I understood what the other women were feeling. I didn’t want them to feel ashamed next to me, knowing I could control those unladylike urges.

Connie and I were having dinner out before class one evening when she gave me the fright of my life. She always managed to startle me at the most unexpected moments. She’d be sitting there in her proper suit, casually leaning back with her cigarette propped in one hand, and then hurl some horrible topic into the conversation. I think she did it on purpose to get a rise out of me. I think she enjoyed seeing her older sister turn purple in the face with embarrassment. I couldn’t hold it against her though—I loved her to death.

I was just telling her how my week went, all the usual stuff, when she actually asked, “Amanda, I know you’re going to be upset with me, but I have to ask. When was the last time you masturbated?” The word dropped onto my chest like an anvil in one of those old cartoons. I couldn’t breathe. I was completely speechless. Still, that wasn’t enough to deter Connie from whatever her mission was.

“Listen, sis…” She leaned over the table to make her point, and I was so afraid she’d draw the attention of those at the tables around us. “I normally try to spare you, and not mention sex at all.” She added, “You’re so uptight.” Uptight! She could be so crass sometimes, making me wonder how we could even be sisters, raised by the same mother. “I just can’t stand to see you like this. You’re a grown woman, for God’s sake. You need to learn to help yourself.”

I couldn’t even follow her train of thought. What was she getting at? “Connie, I… I just can’t believe you’d even say such a word.” My eyes darted around the large room to detect any ears perked in our direction. “I don’t know what to say. I’m ashamed of you.”

Connie just laughed, and leaned back in her chair again. She always seemed to loosen up whenever I grew more frustrated. “Amanda, dear, you know I love you. I’m just trying to help. It’s been two years, and you should realize that Stan never gave you anything you couldn’t provide for yourself.”

The idea was abominable. Men and women were placed on this earth for a reason. They fitted together, they made homes together, and they created lives together. Nothing in the world made sense of being alone. But it was no use laying out my usual arguments for Connie. She knew them all. And she always had some argument in return.

She seemed to collect her thoughts behind that forehead of hers and then tried again. “All right. Let me say it another way. You need to loosen up. You’ve been tense for two years straight. I can only imagine how tough going through a divorce is, especially with Charlie and little Trish to take care of, but they’re getting through this all right. They’re healthy, happy. Their mother isn’t.”

“I know what you’re trying to say, but I’m all right. Really, I am. I haven’t found someone else yet, but I guess I haven’t been trying very hard either. I’m just so afraid. How do I know if the next one is going to leave me again or not?”

Connie grew visibly frustrated, and I was pouring my heart out to her. “Don’t you see? That’s what’s wrong with you! You don’t need a man. I’m trying to tell you that you should masturbate more, and all you can think about is getting married!”

The very thought of it, touching myself, rocked through my body like the very wrath of God. “Connie, I…”

“You need to, sis! You’re tense, rigid, and walking around all gloomy all the time. Let yourself have a little bit of pleasure again. You’d be amazed what it’ll do for you, man present or not. Just doing it when you have a man around? That’s just silly. It’s designed specifically for times like these.”

Somewhere, my sister had gotten the completely wrong impression of me. “But, Connie, I’m not doing anything differently now. I never…”

“Wait a minute.” Connie paused to drink from her glass of ice water, and I was so relieved to hear her lower her voice to a whisper. “You mean you never have?” I nodded. “Amanda!” Connie’s voice rose to an embarrassing pitch again, and she began to shake her head as she looked down at the checkered tablecloth.

She seemed to stifle another giggle, covering her mouth with her spare hand and looking up at me again. She put her cigarette out in the ashtray, and reached across the table to grasp my hand in both of hers.

“Dear, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” She looked away and back again. “Now I understand you a lot more. My poor sister. Listen, honey, you need to try giving yourself pleasure. It’s all right. It’s not hard at all. It’s what God intended.”

I couldn’t believe she was bringing God into this. She mentioned Him so rarely, and I’d given up on getting her to go to church with me long ago. And she was mentioning Him in regards to self-pleasure. I hardly recognized my sister anymore.

Still, we kept talking about it. Well, mostly Connie talking at me from her side of the table. And right there over pasta and salad. She wouldn’t give up. She honestly believed that touching myself was the answer to all my problems. Or, at least, most of them.

“Amanda, every woman does it. How do you think all of us get along without husbands or even boyfriends? Why we look so happy all the time?” She laughed contentedly with herself again. It was true; she seemed eternally happy, high on life. And I rarely heard her mention coming across a man she was actually fond of.

That little conversation, horrible as it had been, was enough to plant the nasty thought in my mind. I just couldn’t shake it. Everywhere I went, I’d look at the women and wonder if they did it too. Could it really be that normal?

That Sunday, I sat in church, Charlie and Trisha on either side of me, and found my mind wandering off, not hearing a word of the sermon. Instead, I studied the faces of the church-going women around me and wondered how their faces contorted when they touched themselves down there. What was happening to me? I felt like I didn’t even know myself anymore.

It was the last day of the course, the last time I’d see these women that I’d begun to feel a certain bond with. As I heard their stories and understood them, I began to understand myself better. I just felt more whole, more confident and capable in some way. I wasn’t as alone in the world as I’d found myself after the divorce. If the other women could count their blessings and enjoy their families and the passing days without a man at their side, so could I. I never wanted to be the mother who was there with her kids, yet somehow absent and apart from them.

For a last, unexpected exercise in our goddess instruction, our instructor brought a friend to help her. A man.

He was tall and tanned and wore a fitted suit that must’ve been his office attire. I pictured him as a banker or even a lawyer. The idea of him being capable of providing for a family made him all the more attractive. He stood at the front of the room, remaining quiet with only a smile as a greeting, while our instructor introduced the final agenda for the class. She’d realized that many of us were divorced and feeling lost in our newfound single lives, while others of us had never been married and felt similarly lost in the world of dating. Our instructor believed that goddess empowerment included being comfortable dealing and interacting with the opposite sex.

Our last class was very casual. We just sat around talking and sharing how we thought our days would be different now that we’d learned new definitions for what it means to be female. I listened, agreed with a few of the sentiments, but couldn’t take my eyes off the man who’d invaded our female-only zone.

He actually listened to the group’s discussion and random comments with what seemed like real interest. He offered his own opinions about what it means to be a woman in today’s society, even on what he respected in women and admired in them. Respect? That wasn’t a term that I’d ever heard Stan mention in regards to the opposite sex. My eyes were opening up to the possibility of there being men in the world that actually liked women.

I only talked to Michael briefly—I was way too shy and uncomfortable to have an actual conversation. As Connie drove me back to my house after class, I kept wondering if I really had seen Michael glance at my cleavage just for a moment. The very idea made me shiver as goose bumps popped up all over my body. When I asked Connie if she’d entertain the kids for the evening, she didn’t even ask why. She was always offering to take them off my hands and give me time to myself.

The house felt so empty after Connie ushered Charlie and Trisha out the door, but I didn’t feel alone. I walked over to the fridge where the picture of my supposed inner woman was left hanging. The image did start to resemble a younger version of myself. Seeing her there served to remind me of how I saw myself in a stronger form, less afraid and having all the qualities I wanted my children to learn from me. She made me feel like I could be that woman, like maybe I was already starting to be.

I went upstairs to change and found myself standing before the mirror again. I saw rosy cheeks, a soft mouth, even eyes carved in a very alluring shape. There was still life in those eyes, a sort of sensuality. I was still a woman, even without Stan. And then, I did something I never had before. I smiled at my reflection.

I unbuttoned my blouse a bit to examine my cleavage, the symbol of womanhood. They rose from my delicate bra proudly, still firm despite having breastfed two babies.

I noticed my pose there beside the large bed. How strange it was to actually look so free. I stripped off my shirt and lay down in another spontaneous pose. I was examining myself, assessing the level of my own femininity and trying to see what others might.

As I lay there, I felt like I was posing for someone else’s eyes, but they weren’t Stan’s. It was Michael’s face that flashed in my mind. Because of his presence in class today, I associated him with all the positive feelings the group had helped me develop about myself. In that moment, Michael became my first fantasy.

It was a shower scene that popped into my head and caused a warming sensation all over my body. My imagination constructed a perfect masculine shape beneath that tailored suit and smoothed tie that I’d seen earlier that evening. He was standing before me, clad only in a thick bath-towel.

I blushed even at his imagined presence. For all I knew, the real Michael was back in his own home in a shower just like the one in my imagination.

My own clothes fell off as my mind’s eye roamed Michael’s body. I pictured him as I always wanted Stan to look: strong, toned, like a football player instead of the computer technician I’d married. As I watched the steaming water cascade down Michael’s hard chest, almost too hot to bear, my own self-awareness grew.

For him, for that kind of man, I wanted to put my own femininity on display. I wanted to show him all this middle aged body had to offer. I posed for Michael and became even more feminine in the presence of his wet body.

I felt my own curves as I watched Michael’s supple muscles tense against the hot beads of water. My hands ran down the sides of my body, behind and over the hill of my bottom, and down to the tops of my tight stockings. I was more aware of what little I was wearing, and how nice the snug fit of my lingerie felt, like being hugged gently. I felt drops of warm water falling over me as Michael’s body did, tickling me all over and making me feel warm and safe.

The water showered both of us like a million tiny fingers, provoking little prods in all the right places. I sunk deeper into the bed and opened my mouth to taste the droplets on my tongue. I opened my eyes under the gentle waterfall to watch it fall over Michael’s hard stomach, streaming over his thighs to smooth the hair there, and rolling down to the symbol of his manhood.

A tingling warmth washed over me at the sight of Michael’s most intimate part rising to meet the water as it fell around him. I remembered how it felt when that insistent but tender mass poked at my thigh beneath the bed sheets, searching for the comfort of the warmth between my legs. Where it belonged. I longed for it now, the way it would fill me so completely and make me feel connected to my purpose in the world, even to God.

The growing wetness between my legs yearned for penetration. I writhed on the bed, feeling no release of the tension that was building against my will.

In agonizing frustration, I sat up on my knees, slightly dizzy. Subconsciously, my hand tugged on my panties while a finger from the other slid toward the patch of hair between my legs. I felt a thrilling impulse, made all the more electric with a tinge of shame.

The sensation was new, yet familiar. My own finger reaching down there. My sweaty hand slid lower as if it had a mind of its own. I knew what was happening, but it felt like it wasn’t in my control. I couldn’t remember when my panties had come off. Someone else was taking over.

The fantasy playing out in my mind revealed that Michael was feeling the same hunger that I was. He couldn’t help himself.

When his hand grasped that hardened manhood, my own hand delved deeper and found the warmest, softest, welcoming spot. My finger slid inside causing an instant shudder throughout my entire body. The finger slid in and out again, in and out, coaxing the wetness out of me, and dripping it down my thighs spread wide.

Another finger joined the first, the pair working me like a machine, in and out, in and out. My hips rocked in rhythm, as they did while I sang hymns in church, now meeting my fingers with each plunge to penetrate deeper, deeper inside.

I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. It wasn’t right, but it wasn’t me. My fingers were now three, stretching me wider than my husband ever had. In and out, in and out. I swallowed my own fingers, sucking them inside, not wanting to let go.

It felt so good, so painfully good. I needed it. It couldn’t be bad, not if I needed it. Not if every tendon in my body yearned for the touch, pulling the parts of my body together, joining them as two bodies becoming one.

I was out of control. My body rocked against my hand. My breasts swung and slapped against my chest. The bed creaked beneath my heavy bottom.

I clenched and released, sucked and swallowed, my fingers reaching as far as they could go. When my second hand pressed against my mound, I knew the end was near. I braced myself for the inevitable as the circular motion raised all sensation to a final, unbearable peak.

One last jab left my body convulsing with the force I was somehow the cause of. My weak form slumped down onto the bed again. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, Michael’s former presence completely forgotten. My mind was fuzzy and clouded, my breathing thick and heavy. I could feel new energy pulsing through my limbs, yet I felt more relaxed than I’d ever been in my life.

I felt peaceful. Small in the world, but integral. A calmness had fallen over me, dropping a curious smile on my face that I couldn’t shake. Somehow, I knew everything was going to be okay.