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Authors: Juliana Ross
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proposal and look forward to discussing it with you in detail on my next visit to London.
I am about to begin work on the next Chapter of our guide and will send the pages to you with all haste.
Yours faithfully ,
Caroline Boothroyd
Chapter Eight
I could not have picked a worse subject for my Chapter that month. I had planned for it to be a description of what precisely occurred when a man and a woman made love. What it felt like for the man, as far as any woman might discern, and what it felt like for the woman. I did my best to adopt a rational and objective tone of voice, one that advised but did not presume to judge. I didn’t want to rhapsodize about the act of love, for I feared creating unrealistic expectations for women whose husbands were uninterested or inept. But I also didn’t want to make it seem fearsome, disgusting or embarrassing.
At times it is tempting to romanticize the act of love by wrapping it up in roses and lilies and garlands borne by Cupid and his attendants. It is certainly easy to do so , particularly if you have developed a true bond of affection with your husband. Yet I would caution you to never forget the deeper urges that govern us , and which , at times , may appear to overpower our better judgment. We are driven to procreate , not merely by the laws of God that bind us , but also by our very physiology. We want—we desire— because we are made that way. There is no shame in admitting it.
With that in mind , it is advisable that every wife understands the physical nature of the act of love as well as its more cerebral aspects. If you are reading this guide , it is very likely you have but passing knowledge of how human beings reproduce , and therefore possess no real understanding of what occurs , physiologically , when a man and woman make love.
At the same time, I didn’t want the chapter to be written in too dispassionate a vein, for Tom would be the first to read it, and he would read it only hours, possibly minutes, before he and I turned to one another and began our affair in earnest. I wanted to show him what it would be like with me. I wanted him to know that I would be a worthy lover.
The problem was that I continually found myself swept away by imaginings of how it would be when I finally made love with Tom. I daydreamed what it would be like between us. The moment when I first saw him unclothed. The look in his eyes when he saw me unclothed.
The result, predictably enough, was passages of prose that, when I paused to read over them, were so provoking I had to walk away from my desk and busy myself with the garden or find some tiresome chore to occupy me until I was calm again. Even after I had edited and rewritten and re-thought every word I had written, stark, unabashed desire resonated from every page.
Picture the form of your husband , entirely without garments , and hold it in your mind’s eye. Do not flinch , do not banish it from your thoughts. Is he not beautifully made? Think of his eyes , and how they gaze upon you. His lips , and how they kiss you. His hands , and how they caress you.
Even those parts of his body that are most private , and might not typically enter into your thoughts , are beautiful—do not shy away from their contemplation; do not tell yourself how ugly or fearsome they appear. Simply think of the pleasure they can furnish and the joy they can bring.
While I never allowed myself to think of John while I was at work on the guide, at other times he was never far from my thoughts. The anniversary of his death arrived as I was working on my pages, and for once it was no trouble to put my work aside and dwell on other things. Such as how much I missed him, and how quickly the days had passed since he had been taken from me.
It was a fine day, so I cut the last of my Michaelmas daisies, John’s favorite flower, and took them to his grave in the churchyard at St. Michael’s. Then, restless and melancholy, I walked alone for many
I am about to begin work on the next Chapter of our guide and will send the pages to you with all haste.
Yours faithfully ,
Caroline Boothroyd
Chapter Eight
I could not have picked a worse subject for my Chapter that month. I had planned for it to be a description of what precisely occurred when a man and a woman made love. What it felt like for the man, as far as any woman might discern, and what it felt like for the woman. I did my best to adopt a rational and objective tone of voice, one that advised but did not presume to judge. I didn’t want to rhapsodize about the act of love, for I feared creating unrealistic expectations for women whose husbands were uninterested or inept. But I also didn’t want to make it seem fearsome, disgusting or embarrassing.
At times it is tempting to romanticize the act of love by wrapping it up in roses and lilies and garlands borne by Cupid and his attendants. It is certainly easy to do so , particularly if you have developed a true bond of affection with your husband. Yet I would caution you to never forget the deeper urges that govern us , and which , at times , may appear to overpower our better judgment. We are driven to procreate , not merely by the laws of God that bind us , but also by our very physiology. We want—we desire— because we are made that way. There is no shame in admitting it.
With that in mind , it is advisable that every wife understands the physical nature of the act of love as well as its more cerebral aspects. If you are reading this guide , it is very likely you have but passing knowledge of how human beings reproduce , and therefore possess no real understanding of what occurs , physiologically , when a man and woman make love.
At the same time, I didn’t want the chapter to be written in too dispassionate a vein, for Tom would be the first to read it, and he would read it only hours, possibly minutes, before he and I turned to one another and began our affair in earnest. I wanted to show him what it would be like with me. I wanted him to know that I would be a worthy lover.
The problem was that I continually found myself swept away by imaginings of how it would be when I finally made love with Tom. I daydreamed what it would be like between us. The moment when I first saw him unclothed. The look in his eyes when he saw me unclothed.
The result, predictably enough, was passages of prose that, when I paused to read over them, were so provoking I had to walk away from my desk and busy myself with the garden or find some tiresome chore to occupy me until I was calm again. Even after I had edited and rewritten and re-thought every word I had written, stark, unabashed desire resonated from every page.
Picture the form of your husband , entirely without garments , and hold it in your mind’s eye. Do not flinch , do not banish it from your thoughts. Is he not beautifully made? Think of his eyes , and how they gaze upon you. His lips , and how they kiss you. His hands , and how they caress you.
Even those parts of his body that are most private , and might not typically enter into your thoughts , are beautiful—do not shy away from their contemplation; do not tell yourself how ugly or fearsome they appear. Simply think of the pleasure they can furnish and the joy they can bring.
While I never allowed myself to think of John while I was at work on the guide, at other times he was never far from my thoughts. The anniversary of his death arrived as I was working on my pages, and for once it was no trouble to put my work aside and dwell on other things. Such as how much I missed him, and how quickly the days had passed since he had been taken from me.
It was a fine day, so I cut the last of my Michaelmas daisies, John’s favorite flower, and took them to his grave in the churchyard at St. Michael’s. Then, restless and melancholy, I walked alone for many
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