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This is a story about me falling in love with myself. Yup, being a twenty-nine-year-old divorcée will do that to you. The only person I want to be in love with right now is me and me alone.
Yes, you read that right…penis after chino-encased penis. To tell it to you straight, I work surrounded by a real sausage fest. And not just any sausage fest but the worst kind. It’s what the youth are calling…the finance bros. *Shudders*
“That my friend needs a fake husband for a therapy session tomorrow at nine in the morning, can you fill in? He said, ‘Sounds like fun, send me the deets.’”
“Binoculars, binoculars, where art thou, binoc—aha, there you are. You motherfucker, diagonal and backward, should have known.” I highlight the word binoculars in my word search with a green Sharpie highlighter.
I know the difference between Coke, Diet Coke, Coke Zero, and the pure shit that is Pepsi.”
That is talent
“Something we tend to forget when married, that we’re tied together in all aspects. What one partner might do affects the other. Whether good or bad. One move tugs on the other and vice versa. That’s why when we’re making our way through life, we need to be aware that our every move is tied to our loved one. We need to be conscious of that.”
I follow her line of sight, straight to the steam shower, where a large dildo is stuck to the wall. “Dear God,” I whisper. “Whatever you do, don’t drop the soap, Scottie. For the love of God, don’t drop the soap.”
“Is it heavy? Does it rattle? Does it feel like a sex swing?” I lift it up and bring it close to my face, where I give it a quick sniff. “You know what…it does have the faint scent of a sex swing.” She grips my arm. “Really?” “No.”
