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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.
Although I hadn’t even seen it yet, I was scared shitless of the one-eyed monster living inside Knight’s jeans. Every time we made out, that thing would swell so much that it would manage to escape the waistband of his impossibly tight 501s, extend up into his fitted T-shirt, and crawl halfway up his washboard abs before all was said and done. 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.
My brief, uneventful life flashed before my eyes. So, this is how it all ends, I thought. Bludgeoned to death by a skinhead’s penis in my ex-boyfriend’s childhood bedroom. And I never even got to meet Billy Idol.
“I’m so sorry, Punk. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I mean, I knew parts of it were going to hurt, but I tried so hard to make it good for you. Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay. It would fucking kill me if I broke the only thing I ever loved.”
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. Ergo, I walk around every day under the assumption that my husband thinks I’m a homely asshole.
After we’d started making out, Ken touched me so cautiously that it was as if I were the meanest goat at the petting zoo, and he was one wrong move away from losing a finger.
