Page 28 of This Life of Mine

Cole made it clear that letting anyone else look—really look—was a betrayal. Praise from someone else was not flattering, but rather disgraceful.

I carried that belief for years, folding myself smaller, convincing myself that invisibility was the same thing as protection.

EJ doesn’t know any of that history. He doesn’t need to. None of the men I’ve dated since do. Not evenhe who shall not be named.

But through my complicated sexual desire post-divorce, something came undone inside me. I stopped apologizing for my shape and I stopped bracing for disapproval.

Little by little, I started to realize my body was never the problem. It was Cole’s sad pathetic ego.

Cole wanted to possess me in every way imaginable. My body, my gaze, my attention, including my thoughts. He spoke about devotion and exclusivity as virtues, as if his desire to keep me contained was proof of love.

Meanwhile, Cole shared his body freely. Flirting was harmless. Fun and absolutely natural. Something men did. He ogled openly, commented liberally, and laughed when women leaned in too close or touched his arm. And if I reacted—if I stiffened or flinched—he accused me of being insecure and unreasonable.

But God forbid my eyes lingered. If I laid eyes on another man by accident, his anger flared fast and sudden. He would accuse me of inviting attention, of disrespecting him. Of embarrassing myself or cheating.

It didn’t matter that I gave him no reason to believe it. I didn’t flirt or stray. I barely existed outside the narrow space he allowed me. Still, he’d spiral—voice rising, accusations stacking on top of each other until I was defending crimes I hadn’t committed.

Words likewhoreandslutfell easily from his mouth, thrown with the confidence of someone who knew where to aim.

Each accusation chipped away at me until I believed I was dirty for existing in a body that drew notice—like my God-givencurves were crimes, like my desirability was something to be punished. The hypocrisy was so fucking suffocating.

He demanded loyalty he never practiced.

My body was meant to be his temple—while his was a public fucking offering.

Dating after divorce removed all of those groomed thoughts without trying.

Men regard me like my desirability is mine to wield—not something to apologize for. And in that contrast, the truth became impossible to ignore.

I was never asking for too much. I was asking the wrong man-child.

Men flirting doesn’t only boost my ego—it recalibrates it. I walk taller. Linger in mirrors. Stop shrinking myself. When someone looks at me now, I don’t askwhy. I assume they are—and I sway my hips a little more as I walk.

Fuck being tamed. I was controlled for far too long and I won’t allow myself to go there again.

The beginning was quieter though. Slower. Years of therapy spent untangling what it meant to be groomed from sixteen to thirty-one. My sense of self shaped before it could form on its own.

It took years of patience. Sitting with truths that hurt before they healed.

Dating helped. Awkward first dates. Gentle ones. Forgettable ones. A few that surprised me. Each experience chipped away at the lies I’d been fed.

Men didn’t recoil when they learned I’d been married before. They didn’t see me as damaged or less desirable. They didn’t flinch when I spoke about why I have a C-section scar.

I had been told—over and over—that no one would want me. That I was used. Ruined.

None of it was true.

This new version of me appreciates my body and someone like EJ benefits from the work.

Luckily for EJ, my new found confidence carries straight into desire and heat. Wanting without hesitation. Being wanted back and letting that be enough.

I don’t second-guess. I take up space. And I plan to do just that tonight, take up space with EJ.

It feels like forever since I’ve had sex. EJ was out of town for a couple of months on a job site. I’ve been on several dates hoping for a good one-night stand but the chemistry was lacking.

Tonight with EJ is much needed.

I really need to get laid.