But I never got any better at it. “You resist too much, you cry too hard, and you aren’t any good,” he would tell me every time we had sex. “I can’t even come because you are crying so effing hard, I can’t even stand to look at you,” he would hiss in my face as the weight of his body crushed the air right out of my chest. “You’ll need to try harder next time.”
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I was his wife. Sex is supposed to happen in marriage. Why couldn’t I be like all the other wives? Why was I failing him so miserably? Why did the thought of him make my stomach churn and the feeling of his skin upon mine make me wish I were a million miles away?
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