**I mean it might be really bad for your relationship, but it’s actually a pretty great part of mine.
Let me be completely honest.
I’m not the jealous type. I say that and somewhere, Sir is laughing. But it’s true. I don’t mind when people flirt with my significant others. I don’t mind when they look. I don’t think that’s cheating. I walk a pretty wide line when it comes to cheating–and I, of course, give my partner the same leeway.
That’s not to say I don’t get jealous. If you give me a reason… if I catch you in a lie, for instance, my first instinct is not to let you know I caught you in a lie, my first instinct is to go from 0 to psychotic bitch in 3 seconds flat. My singular mission from then on is to figure you out, and I will figure you out. I become of a single mind and I am manipulative, persuasive and stubborn enough that I guarantee, whatever secret you’re keeping, won’t be a secret for long. And I can always spot a liar. Always. Probably because I myself am an effective liar.
But that kind of jealousy… that’s reserved for when/if you give me a reason. Don’t give me a reason? I’m chill as hell.
Except for when it comes to Sir.
The other morning he mentioned in passing (on his way to the market) that he was so turned on he might jump the first willing woman to come along.
“WHY do you insist on making me want to commit crimes of passion ALL the time?!”
The idea of another woman so much as batting her eyelashes at him drives me bat shit insane. And he thinks it’s adorable… among other things:
“Because you’re sexy when you’ve got that murderous rage in your eyes and you’re riding my dick like you’re trying to prove it’s yours.”
I melt a little.
But I’m not the only one who gets irrationally jealous. Nor am I the one only one who contemplates murder.
For instance, the presence of cutie from the mail room (who, after nearly a month of flirtation, finally has a name [I may not have bothered to ask, though he knew mine]), drives Sir bonkers. Whenever I bring him up in passing, he gets all tense and grumpy and makes fun of his
perfectly normal name and starts making threats under his breath.
Or when he finds me in the early morning, perched in front of the computer, watching porn.
“What kind of porn are you watching?”
“Oh, nothing you’d be interested in… I assure you.”
“So… men jerking it then?”
He’s got the slightest hint of annoyance in his tone. He’s said before: you should just come to me if you want to watch men get off. It’s not entirely irrational on his part. It’s not like I’m watching James Deen fuck Stoya (he doesn’t get jealous of my adoration of porn stars, by the way). I’m watching real men, exhibitionists, camming live on the internet, one-handed typing/chatting to me/at me, while I watch them stroke their cocks.
Jealousy is a game for us.
It makes my blood pump faster, my heart race, my fists clench, my teeth grind. It makes me want to jump on him and mark him as mine. Jealousy reminds me of my deep attraction to him/for him. Jealousy brings out the animal in me. The dark, twitchy lizard brain comes to life, and suddenly I want to sink my teeth into his neck and leave my imprint clear on his skin. I want him to move against me, covered in sweat and pheromones, and mark me in that visceral, raw, and arcane way. Jealousy makes me want to belong to him in all the ways that a woman can belong to a man. Jealousy makes me want to fuck him in a room full of women, so they know he’s mine.
We don’t “work past” or “live with” jealousy. We play with it. We stroke and stoke it. We tease and torment. We use it. As a tool, not as a weapon. It is a game. Not a battle.