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Diary of Ellen Rimbauer-
Missing Excerpts #1

THE FOLLOWING EXCERPTS I considered either too personal, or private, or repetitious for inclusion into the published diary. These, along with hundreds of other daily entries were either edited or omitted prior to publication by Hyperion Books. A very few such entries contained language or reference to acts I deemed inappropriate for publication in book form. Nontheless these entries do contain historic value, either to the period or the people themselves. Again, I have edited accordingly (_ _ _ _) where necessary for taste and sensibility, and beg the reader's foregiveness for, and the family's understanding of, my decision to publish these excerpts here on the World Wide Web. --
Joyce Reardon

10 March, 1915

I am living a contradiction beneath the roof of this grand Victorian house. To my (few) friends and John's (many) business associates, I am the demure wife with the pleasing smile, soft voice, and quiet demeanor. But as the quiet footfalls of the servants pass by my bedroom door--legions of them, it seems at times--I can't help but wonder how many have heard the screams emenating from this boudoir at night, the result both of a woman's pleasure, and a wife's misery. What must they say about my husband and me? What must they imagine goes on behind this door, when the last gas lamp is extinguished and my husband wends his way down the hall to my rooms with only one possible purpose in mind, given the hour? What then, when they hear my cries of passion, of primitive ecstasy, the result of sensations no other like-minded woman can possibly mistake? We are not in chambers playing whist! And how can I but hate myself for taking some grim satisfaction in my husband's years of bachelorhood, a time about which I would never choose to ask (in order to avoid myself the pain of a jealous heart), and yet a period of his life in which he clearly learned the secrets to a woman's pleasure? I think of my John as seasoned, not spoiled, practiced, not perverse. The patient touch of his fingers sends sheets of tremors up my body as if I'd been subjected to a form of electricity. He teases me with his timing, is greedy of my need, clearly savoring those moments near my summit (for I nearly always imagine myself, at that moment of pulse quickened pulse and skin clammy, high upon a mountain top) when I can scarcely take another feather's weight of pressure where he applies it, his warm breath upon my skin, his tremorous whispering of guilty secrets in my ear. I am nearly wild with it, and he, so collected and controlled, so proud to see me wither beneath his command. And, oh, Dear Diary, I do but wither! I beg for him to finish it, to be done with me, sounding no doubt like some tramp on the wharf succumbing to nothing more than the demand of a dollar, but from this wife's mouth it is pure, angelic enlightenment to feel one's body cry for delivery all of its own--to leave my dignity and education, my refinement, behind, and to seek the base necessities that put our race upon the face of God's earth in the first place.
    But oh, what the servants must think.

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