As a child of the 1960s, living in the US, I grew up watching Bewitched on TV. In my formative years I saw this woman, Samantha, who was at once a complete ditz and thoroughly enchanting.
She could not solve even the simplest problem—despite having incredible magical powers—unless someone else told her what to do. She was desperately in love with a man who was even more idiotic than she (although the second of the two actors who played Darren Stevens reduced the moronic factor quite a bit).
Yet, I wasn't sure why, but I knew that I wanted one of those. The long, not-quite-blonde hair, the womanly curves, the face, the loving smile, the absolute loyalty and devotion to her husband against all criticism (and all common sense), that was the woman I wanted to marry someday.
I was too young to understand sexual attraction or to have any idea of the pleasure of loving a woman. But somewhere in my developing male brain, I knew that there was something really good about having a wife like her hang on your every word and throw herself into your arms at the end of a day.
If only she had a really brainy twin sister.
As a child, I liked girls, especially the smart ones who challenged my mind. They were great friends, much better than boys who were more into physical sports.
As I matured, I grew to understand what that mysterious quality about women—both the girls I knew who were becoming women, and the image of Samantha Stevens, etched in my mind as the definitive wife. I discovered why those soft, round parts of a woman were so desirable.
There were things that men could do with women like Samantha that went beyond fun and games. They had a magical power that far exceeded the mere ability to turn someone into a frog. They could give pure pleasure with a touch. They were designed for pleasure and longed to have pleasure taken from them, voluntarily or otherwise.
In addition to the Samantha women, there were the other ones—the ones I respected. The ones I liked. The ones I could play chess with and actually stand a chance of losing to. They knew things that I didn't. They had different interests that I could learn to enjoy with them.
In college, I met the one perfect woman. She was shaped like Samantha, with the womanly figure and the shoulder-length golden hair. She was warm and loving like Samantha, and she had a mind, and self-assurance greater than any girl or woman I had ever known.
She was a soul-mate.
It was a strange existence. I respected her, trusted her, admired her as a true equal and life partner, and yet, she had that starry-eyed. devoted, “bewitched” look and manner about her.
If I touched her face with my fingertips or ran my hand down her back, she would melt into my arms. She would look up at me and almost worship me.
She would lie back and beg me take her. She would do my bidding, fall to her knees and pleasure me, cook for me, darn my socks, embroider pillows for my family for Christmas. When we married, she insisted on taking my name.
This was very, very wrong.
I couldn't do that to a friend. I couldn't take advantage of someone that smart, that witty, that powerful, that capable of having her own career. It was like guzzling cheap wine from a rare golden goblet.
To bend a woman like that to my will, to put her on her back and take my pleasure from her, to have her fall to her knees before me because she was under my spell—that was a profane use of a pearl of great price.
Of course, I made love to her. Of course we shared the pleasures that married couples share. But I didn't take the privileges that are reserved to men. I didn't use the magic that would let me command her, dominate her, compel her obedience, even though it was so easy to do.
In fact, she gave some of my male privilege, despite my attempts to share the fruits with her. She wouldn't get on top of me when we made love. She pursued a career as a teacher—one that would allow her to work anywhere that my career would take me. She put my needs before hers, in ways that I didn't always see.
Then, one day, we were watching an episode of M*A*S*H. She looked at me, looked at Loretta Switt, and asked, “Is that why you always want me to wear my hair long and full?”
“Do I remind you of “Hot-Lips”?”
It wasn't an accusation, more of a search for insight.
I said no, but she saw something in my expression that said there was more to the story. In short order, I confessed that she reminded me of Samantha.
Rather than being insulted by a comparison to a subservient airhead, she was flattered. Samantha fit perfectly with her notion of a loving, devoted, beautiful wife, although I did warn her about the brainier twin sister variation.
Still, I wouldn't treat her the way I was tempted to. I didn't take advantage of her willingness to surrender to me or take direction from me. I could no more do that to her than I could enslave a good friend because he happened to be black.
But part of me really wanted to. It was a decedent fantasy to put Elle in her place, to take her whenever I wanted, regardless of her mood. I longed to put her over my knee and use my hand on her womanly form, make he beg for forgiveness for the pettiest offense.
There were a few things, a few temptations to which I succumbed. Sometimes she even made it necessary, teasing and resisting so that I would hold her down and claim her in a moment of frenzied excitement.
Now, having realized that she wants, desires and needs to be a “taken” wife, to be the genius twin-sister of my childhood crush, I have relented.
I sometimes adopt that chiding tone that Dick Sergeant used when she got carried away. I encourage her to throw herself at me as she loves to do. I bend her over, lie her back, compel her, melt her with a touch, overrule her for erotic effect, and even correct her with an occasional swat as she passes me.
If I had any doubts as to her willingness to fill this role, they would be dispelled by the fact that she learned to wiggle her nose at me, and mastered that way of saying “Well??” that is one of my earliest memories of something oddly-erotic in a wife.
She also promises to fetch me a riding-crop if she ever cuts her hair too short.
I still feel guilty when “using” my best and most respected friend to satisfy my most base desires. But this degreed and lettered friend—this certified genius who has more than earned my admiration—is still a woman.
She is designed and built to my specific requirements, avowed to my life-long obedience, and takes great pleasure in arching herself to my pleasure.
She even serves me peanut-butter sandwiches on her great-aunt's best china.