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Kenneth Easton is a lawn-mowing, bill-paying, law-abiding, defensive-driving, trash-toting husbot—
road. Because my nerves were fucking shot by the time I met Ken, my heart was riding in on fumes, and the stability and security and sanity he offered was a soothing balm to my spent scorched soul.
I was also slowly becoming Knight’s precious. His
sweet and candid and chivalrous. Knight would carry my backpack and open my beers and light all my cigarettes, like a gentleman. He would tickle
particularly aggressive tickle fight with Knight. Well, it’d started as a tickle fight, but every time I wriggled away, that fucking ghost ninja would chase and recapture me. I made
I had zero experience with peni, but I was great with visual-spatial reasoning, and there was no way that D was going to fit in my V (or my M or A or between my nonexistent Ts).
grace of a jungle cat. Without his shirt, I could now see the head of his angry massive erection protruding at least two inches above the top of his boxers, the elastic waistband straining to keep the heavy weapon holstered against his abdomen. My brief, uneventful life flashed
he was also drizzling my throat, breasts, abdomen, and clitoris with honey and feasting upon me, as if I were his last meal. Violent schmiolent. This motherfucker was a lover.
It was time to acknowledge the elephant-sized penis in the room.
The only problem was, despite the fact that I was experiencing what reverse childbirth must feel like, I was already in my happy place. I was being worshipped by the devil himself, and I never wanted it to end.
I felt powerful and shiny and new, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of my decimated hymen.
wanted to try anything new. NEW! (As in, new to him, obviously. For a sex act to be new to me it would require a stolen college mascot uniform, twelve yards of rappelling cable, a handful of gerbils, and thirty CCs of vampire blood.)
Listen, Journal, I’m a psychologist, not a mind reader. If Ken doesn’t tell me I’m pretty or that I’m a good mom or that I cook a mean bowl of cereal, how can I assume that he’s thinking it? I can’t.
not because he had the IQ and processing speed of a three-toed sloth on barbiturates.
Harley had tattoos until the first time he parked his wienermobile in my garage. And by wienermobile, I mean, this thing was pretty much exactly the same size and shape as the
Postscript: I just Googled the going rate for a petri dish of rhinovirus—and did a Craig’s List search—to no avail. Evidently, I’m the only asshole in America interested in stashing the common cold in my freezer to infect my husband with year-round. I can’t decide if that makes me a monster or a genius. I’m leaning toward…menius?
pregnant and then made him watch helplessly as I pushed a fucking person out of my vag at 5:30 in the morning while writhing and screaming and bleeding and tearing and making guttural caveman noises, so I’m sure he was probably afraid to touch my twat with a ten foot pole for a while, but whatever.
with…nothing. I felt like a reluctant necrophiliac.
And that’s when Ken huffed out the five words that would change my life forever, “I’m trying not to come.”
That’s it! Holy shit, Journal! This motherfucker has been acting like a beached porpoise in the sack since the Clinton administration because he was trying to avoid that exact scenario!
Finally, I saw my in. I watched in suspended strike mode as Valtrex handed Hans a Sharpie, then hooked an index finger into the top of her tank top, as if she were about to expose her left tit for him to sign. Just as I reared back to launch myself at her, Hans caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye.
cockhead is smacking them square in the uvula, and even then, you wonder if they just slipped and fell into your crotch.
even looking for complete sentences. He can fucking tap, You are beautiful, into my ass in Morse code if it’s really that excruciating for him to express himself out loud—that
In fact, the only time I’d get out of bed would be to go fill another prescription for ciprofloxacin due to all the sex-induced UTIs I’d be getting.
I want to take him with me everywhere. I want us to live a hundred years and die at the same time. I want them to mix our cremated remains together, dump us into a river, and watch our mingled ashes swirl like coffee creamer all the way to the ocean. I want our souls (okay, my soul and his, whatever he has, operating system?) to find each other on the other side as soon as possible just so that we can fall in love and make more babies and do it all over again.
That motherfucker would tell me I was beautiful every day—with sincerity, and eye contact, and a gentle caress of my cheek with his giant callous man hands. He would buy me big, ostentatious bouquets of flowers—for no reason. He would hold my hand—in public. He’d paint my toenails while we watched Sex and the City. And whenever Mr. and Mrs. Oppenheimer were out of town, Hans would drag a TV into their
took place in a car. I damn near required skin grafts on my knees after all the grinding they did against the door and center console that night.
If you’re old enough to complain about the upholstery burn, you’re too damn old to be getting plowed in a sedan on the side of the road.
I mean, he was the only guy I’d ever met who not only got a hard-on watching The Notebook, but also insisted that we reenact the peel-our-wet-clothes-off-on-our-way-to-the-bedroom-after-the-rainy-canoe-ride scene. No shit. This guy exists, Journal, and he will ruin your credit and gene pool if you let him.
Usually, I don’t worry about it because everything in my inbox looks like it will immediately inject you with a lethal dose of estrogen upon opening—daily affirmations from Oprah, OB/GYN and hair appointment reminders, half a dozen receipts for romance novels I purchased on Amazon—but I’m sure the subject line Meditation --> Cunnilingus piqued his interest.
Ken was one of the extras. We’d gone to the same giant suburban high school, but because he was a senior when I was a freshman our paths had never crossed before.
Ethan and Devon Alexander were a couple of good-looking cocky, charismatic man-whores who competed with each other over everything. Ethan had just turned eighteen and was giving his big brother a run for his money in the categories of Funniest Story Told at the
Party, Guy Who Fucked the Hottest Girl at the Party, and Tallest Brother, but never in the category of Who Sleep-Pissed in the Weirdest Location After Passing Out. That title will always be held by Devon, the shorter, angrier older Alexander who had once urinated on his own parents while they lay snoozing in their bed. Rumor had it, when they’d woken up and begun screaming at him to stop, Devon had reportedly held up his hand midstream and screamed back, “Shut the fuck up! I know what I’m doing!”
When I successfully spun him all the way back around to face me, I grabbed two fistfuls of his sable-brown leather jacket—and, instead of lifting him over my head to the musical stylings of Bill Medley—I attacked him with a bizarrely aggressive closed-mouth kiss. It
It also didn’t help that Ken was as emotionally available as a tomato. The man wouldn’t know a feeling if it dry-humped his leg. Skeletor, Ding-Dong, Bless His Heart—those boys could feel…about a thousand different emotions an hour.
(He should have been.)
By the age of twenty, the number of dicks that had been inside me could man a baseball team. Meanwhile, Ken was three years older and could fit all his conquests comfortably in the backseat of a Toyota Tercel.
toast, “If I had a ticket to heaven and you didn’t have one, too, I’d tear my ticket to pieces and go to hell with you.”
My first instinct should have been to protect my poor, leprous, postpartum rectum from being penetrated by pointing to a shadowy corner and screaming, Tarantula! before making a mad dash for the master bathroom. Then, while Ken dutifully looked for an imaginary spider to protect me from, I could have been loudly rummaging through all the drawers and cabinets while shouting through the door, Honey? Have you seen the Pepto? That spicy chili you made is tearing me up! But, before my wine-soaked brain
(For those of you who haven’t pushed a baby with a head in the ninety-eighth percentile out of your vagina, putting anything back in there for the next eight to ten months requires a fistful of Vicodin, a stick to bite down on, a transcendental happy place, and a shit-ton of lube. I learned that lesson after my firstborn had a head like Newt Gingrich. The miles of scar tissue he left in his wake caused my vag to feel and behave as if it had grown a thousand hymens overnight.
By casually pulling out that tube of K-Y, instead of setting off the burglar alarm and running into the middle of the cul-de-sac to blow my rape whistle, I had essentially given Ken my passive consent to sodomize me. This was happening.
I might be a lot of things, Journal, but a whore is one of them. I’d made this bed, and I was going to have to lie in it—on my side with one leg in the air like Elton John on his honeymoon.
From now on, when we go on vacation, I won’t be pouting because we’re not out there, humping like teenagers on the beach. I’ll be choosing not to have sex on the beach and cherishing the fact that none of my orifices have sand in them.
(just grunts and thrusts), Ken has been essentially putting his foot down (and putting his thang down. Haaay!)
While they were spreading their ass cheeks for strangers on a nude beach, I was busy scrubbing skid marks out of my son’s Batman underwear. I hope whoever wound up blowing them had thrush and beard crabs.
I knew from experience that the kind of love I was looking for from Ken—the roses-are-red-violets-are-blue kind—was a fickle bitch. It hurt, it betrayed, and it was ultimately unsustainable.
It certainly wasn’t emotionally fulfilling. But what we had was surprisingly steady and stable and strong.
You’re so beautiful, again or refer to me as anything other than Brooke, Mrs. Easton, or ma’am. No man was ever going to feel strongly enough about me to have my name (or preferably the adorable personalized pet name he’d assigned me the moment we first met) gouged into his skin with tiny needles. And it was also time to accept that the lingerie, handcuffs, and bondage
would be uneventfully married to the father of my children, the mower of my grass, the balancer of my checkbook, and the keeper of my heart even if he doesn’t have one himself.
