An Open Letter to My Future (hopefully not ex) Husband

 

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Dear Future (hopefully no ex) Husband,

This letter is for you.

It’s not about the toilet seat debate or the inferior bin bag you bought that regularly causes havoc in this household.

It’s about the F word.

Ironic I know, because almost every single time someone mentions this word, I feel exhausted. Overwhelmed by a surge of fatigue. Brain-fagged, painful and depleted like a 15-year-old boy who’s just had the time of his life on PornTV. But I am a nice girl. So I would listen, smile and if needed, play along. It’s like one of those Friday nights when Despacito came on the dance floor. UGH NOT AGAIN. But I’d still dance like Beyoncé on crack, make up words and sing along. Potato, burrito, mosquito… Just because. And that’s about as much Fs as I would give to Feminism on a good day.

HeforShe. Women’s March. Who Run the World?? GIRLS!!

No, honey. Come lie down. We don’t have time to make posters or launch petitions. We barely even have sex. Our money and our energy are reserved for morning spin classes, Whole Foods and long-haul flights to the end of Nicaragua. Not for issues like gender pay disparity, the lack of women in politics or Harvey Weinstein.

But as unfazed as I am, and as unwilling as you would be, this concerns our future as man and wife. So it is of supreme importance that we have this conversation.

This letter contains specific instructions and directions to your perfect state of bliss, my G-spot, and ultimately, our happiness as roommates for a lifetime.

So, listen carefully. Or in this case, read.

the G-spot, the G for Gender Equality

You see, when I say “equality”, it sounds a lot easier to understand, gentler and definitely less dumbed-down than feminism.

Being “equal”, mind you, doesn’t mean sharing wardrobe space or carrying the same amount of bags from our groceries shopping.

Being “equal” – in my language – means respecting what we each have and haven’t, then figure out how to work best as a team, for the long term.

In your language, this is not about my pussy vs. your dick. It’s about your dick = my pussy. Now are you following?

It means understand that my body bleeds for a bloody week every three weeks until I turn 55, houses an army of hormones I cannot control; and I’ll be an absolute angel every time your team loses a game.

Don’t come home moaning about how Sarah at work gets to go on another maternity leave while you get a bollocking for taking a “slightly” long lunch break. Remember the number of unproductive times you had because you injured your arm, your knee or your balls from the shoulder charge and choke tackle? What about that extended period of man flu that no amount of honey lemon and Narcos could cure? Oh and those hours you froze like a gargoyle in front of your computer because you had a boner from all our sexting or thinking about sexting. That’s about as much time you have taken off work as she has.

Don’t complain when you see a few strands of my hair on the floor and I’ll practise level 10 of Dalai-Lama zen whenever I find your socks beside the sofa, under the bed or next to the laundry basket (this one, in particular, I  don’t comprehend).

I may have cellulite on my thighs and occasional spots on my face, but your six-pack abs aren’t the most extrovert muscles either. In fact, they are shy and barely show themselves, like all the time.

When I say no to sex, don’t force me. Instead, give me cuddles. When you are upset, stressed, disappointed or hurt, take your time and shut me up politely as I rattle on about my day. Or if you prefer, let it out and cry a little. I’ll be quiet and hug you from behind because I know how much you hate it for me to see tears in your eyes.

Don’t call me a “bitch”; don’t call me “bossy”. Don’t insult your friends with “pussy”. Don’t use these words at all. You came out from a vagina and haven’t stopped thinking about one ever since. So don’t be ungrateful. Don’t be a hypocrite.

Be crystal clear that being vulnerable in front of you doesn’t mean that I am entirely helpless or cannot live without you. Instead, I am making a conscious decision to be helpless in front of you. To give you a role in my life and to make you feel needed. Because deep down, you know you need to feel needed as much as I need to feel that I can depend on you.

Tell me you would love me like how you would want your daughter, sister, mother to be loved and I’ll treat you like a king.

At the end of the day, it’s about how we each want to be treated. And how badly we want to be treated the way we want to be treated.

Once upon a time, we might have been as clueless and flippant as Tinderella and Penisocchio. Laugh about our past together. And together, let that past go.

Before I met you, I’ve spent years learning how to build my own castle, learning how to empower myself and I haven’t stopped doing that. You know I have the power to stay as much as the strength to walk away; like I know you are a rugged cheetah looking for a lioness, not Chihuahuas.

So, please.

Do as I say, find the G-spot and I’ll assure you; we will live happily ever, ever after.

With love,

Your Future (hopefully not ex) Wife

* * *

This post is brought to you by SmileMakersCollection,  a badass babe club whose mission is to empower and encourage women to love their body, one orgasm at a time. They are deeply (see the pun I did there) passionate about women’s sexual wellbeing; they sell really cute pocket-size vibrators, enticingly named the Tennis Coach, the Frenchman, the Millionaire, the Surfer, as well as paraben-free lubricants in pharmacies like Watsons, Guardian, Superdrug, instead of sex shops. 

Brought, because had it for them I wouldn’t have written this post. They are that good. And yes, if that isn’t clear enough, THIS IS AN AD. And I am a massive sell-out who also happens to be a really good writer and a self-loving lawyer. So sue me.

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