some middle ground

I don't like you with that whip
in your hand.
when we first got married
you wore your prairie nightgown
and it was pilgrim
sex. sex for procreation,
there was no joy
in it. god was watching,
as well as your dearly
departed grandparents.
it was missionary,
under the blankets with
the lights off, hardly a sound.
but you've changed.
those thigh high leather
boots, those fish net stockings
glimmering in the light
as you straddle me,
the black mascara and blood
red lips. I'm scared now.
what's with that stun gun?
please, I beg you,
we need to find
some middle ground.