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This was a real convenience, as he demanded I join his, and only his, after-school clubs. He signed me up for his drama club too and encouraged me to sing in the school talent contest.

On the night of the show, various kids performed their acts, and the winner was chosen based on audience response.

Gary was among the judges who awarded me first prize. After that, I was given the lead in all the school plays that he directed.

To the other parents, I suppose it seemed that Gary was harmlessly lauding his new daughter. In a certain way, he was.

Not because he actually thought I was gifted or talented. Gary was a narcissist, and narcissists view their families as extensions of themselves, as trophies.

Gary believed he was superior, so it was imperative that the world see his daughter as superior too. Behind closed doors it was a different story.

Gary treated me with a dizzying blend of over-involvement, neglect, overindulgence and cruelty. With Svengali-like skill, he quickly took over every aspect of my life, dictating what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.

Gary dictated what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used. He also strove to monopolize my time — an easy accomplishment since my mother left for work before I awoke and didn't return until evening.

During the school year, this meant Gary had me all to himself for an hour each morning and at least three hours every afternoon.

Once summer came, he had me all day, every day, all to himself. This meant being subjected to daily "training sessions" — intense periods when I was explicitly instructed on how to behave and think like a slave.

Much like a dog must be trained to sit, to stay, to heel, practitioners of sadomasochism believe a sex slave must be trained in how to speak, sit, serve.

In short, like a dog, she must be taught total obedience. Gary's dungeon was in the basement. Instead, he left a series of nails and hooks attached to the ceiling beams, which could quickly and easily hold a harness, a rope or some other type of bondage device.

While much of Gary's paraphernalia had to be kept hidden, I could tell he also had some fun in displaying a few tools of his trade. The dog cage, for instance, was left in plain sight — folded up in a cluttered corner where it appeared to be waiting for the next garage sale.

He also kept a wooden paddle hanging on the wall of his home office, which he jokingly told guests was for "errant children. Nor did most people realize that he kept a set of metal handcuffs in his desk drawer, right next to a stun gun and his handgun.

I can't remember being threatened with the gun — although it may have happened. Due to amnesia, as well as the normal forgetfulness of memory, there are many details about my abuse I can't recall.

I know this because, over the years, eyewitnesses have told stories about my abuse that I cannot personally remember. I do, however, remember Gary threatening me with the stun gun repeatedly.

He even used it on me once. Once was all it took. For after experiencing the excruciating, utterly indescribable pain it inflicted, I never, ever wanted to experience it again.

When he wasn't hurting me, he lavished me with parental attention. On the long drives to and from school, he would initiate conversations about history, politics and art.

We ate nearly every meal together while he instructed me on things like table manners and ethnic cuisine. He gave me my first typewriter and influenced my decisions to become both a writer and psychologist.

He took the time to open up the world for me. He was my first and most significant mentor. Under my mother's care, I'd been neglected and deprived.

She was constantly at work, leaving me alone and lonely. Gary preyed on that loneliness. Like any skilled pedophile, he identified what I needed, and he gave it to me.

He made me feel special, talented, smart. Even sexually, staying on Gary's good side had its advantages. For once he felt I had become sufficiently trained and submissive, most of the torture tapered off.

Afternoons in the basement were replaced by the bedroom. And his fervor to cause me pain was replaced with a passion to bring me pleasure.

I suspect it made him feel powerful — like more of a man. Nearly every day at 4 p. The weird part, of course, was that his "lover" was just under four feet tall and weighed less than 60 pounds.

There was also the inconvenient fact that his official lover, my mother, refused to vanish. Unable to ditch her physically, he did it emotionally instead.

Every evening, he locked himself in his home office. Every weekend, he went to his store. As I was expected to work for him, I followed wherever he went.

Very early on, my mother began to notice this pattern, and she didn't like it. Not one bit. Being immature, she didn't handle the situation with grace.

She felt excluded, which she was. So she began to yell a lot, mostly at me. One particular Saturday morning we had probably been living with Gary for about six weeks , I was in the bathroom getting dressed for the flea market, just as I did every weekend.

But my mother wasn't happy, so she stood in the doorway, whining. You oughta be staying home with me. Just then, Gary came into the hall. My mother cornered him.

Gary, as always, remained calm during my mother's onslaught. Nonchalantly, he remarked, "Why don't you let Mooch decide what she wants to do today?

She's perfectly capable of choosing. With one quick remark, he had abdicated all responsibility for the situation. Instead, all blame was now placed squarely on me.

At 8 years old, I was being asked to choose between my mother and Gary. It was not a real decision, of course. Gary knew this.

Could he draw a nude picture of me that didn't also have a giant duvet over my body or a Spanx seam running vertically down my stomach?

I came up with the idea to have sex for a year after speaking with a friend who'd done just that, every night of her marriage. As routine as daylight, she and her husband had had sex every day since they'd gotten married, and they were one of the most loving, hilarious and strong couples I'd known.

Having sex every day for a year seemed obnoxious, but also an intriguing way to force myself into facing my body each day.

I mean eventually, the covers would have to come off and the lights would have to stay on, right? Andy, as expected, was on board. And for a whole year, save for being parted by travel or the stomach flu, we had sex with each other.

It started off rough. I'd be standing at the sink taking out my contacts when it'd hit me I still had to have sex before falling asleep.

As a work from home mom of three, the thought exhausted me. It wasn't that sex was a chore that I dreaded, but allotting time out of my day to do it felt impossible and selfish and draining.

I just wanted to lay in bed and watch The Tonight Show and eat cereal and not have anyone touch me. But as the months passed, I started looking forward to it.

Sex begat more sex, and those connected, loved up feelings began to creep outside of the bedroom — or in our case, the laundry room, the closet and our garage — and into our everyday lives.

We were more romantic with each other, touching arms as we passed, kissing longer before work and not just the cold familiar peck. Our relationship was stronger and better when our intimacy was flourishing.

I was no longer hyper-aware of the sounds my curvy body was making. On a personal level, the changes in the way I saw my body were staggering.

Three months in, I found myself enjoying sex again, making a playlist of songs that turned me on and was no longer hyper-aware of the sounds my curvy body was making.

Like the way my thighs clapped together or my tummy smacked his. Six months in, I took off the cami I'd hidden my body inside of, not caring that my boobs plopped off into my armpits.

For the first time, I was more concerned with every part of sex that felt good than finding a flattering angle to hide my stomach or back fat.

My body was being enjoyed by the both of us, equally. A year in, I stopped wearing clothes entirely. At least, I assume that is what my kids would say.

I stopped that primal run from the shower, and now lazily walked to the closet naked. I made school lunches in my underwear, and didn't reflexively pull away when Andy came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.

My relationship with my husband, and my body, had changed in amazing ways. Now, three years later, we're still having sex every single night.

I totally don't have sex with my husband every day, not anymore. Not because we're sick of each other — although I'll admit, my pelvis and thighs welcomed the rest — but because we're humans, not robots.

However, the effects and lessons from the experience are still apparent in our marriage even now. First, we learned that it's hard and that's normal.

The majority of people around you are not having sex every single day. They're busy being stressed at work, coordinating their kids' soccer schedules and paying bills.

Fitting sex into all of that is difficult, but for us, it's necessary. Sex is what reminds us that we're intimate partners and not just roommates in charge of keeping kids alive.

Second, we learned the exact amount of sex life we need to keep us happy in our marriage, and we're able to adjust our lives around that.

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3 Comments

  1. Akikazahn Akilabar

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  2. Kiganris Nilmaran

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  3. Vilrajas Yolkree

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