44 Chapters About 4 Men (15 page)

I dropped my forehead to my hands, still planted firmly on the wall in front of me, in defeat. As Ken gently withdrew his already softening cock, I braced myself for some half-assed finger-banging.

If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s that Ken is—
How do I say this?
—remarkably unenthusiastic after he comes. He can usually barely muster the strength to stay awake, let alone continue to pleasure his kinky wife.

And because of his cold we couldn’t even kiss.

Goddamn it.

Just as I began to seriously consider snatching the vibrator out of his hand and locking myself in the closet with it, I felt Ken’s breath on the back of my neck as the vibrating bullet probed my swollen apex again.

Hmm…nice.

I tilted my ass up and rolled my hips in slow circular motions, savoring the hum between my thighs. I was going to need more than that though. I felt so empty.

Grabbing his free hand, I brought Ken’s fingers to my mouth and began to lick and suck the thickest two, hoping he would take the hint and fill me with them. As soon as I released his palm, Ken brought his hand down to my ass, spanking the smooth skin once, before sliding his wet middle finger inside a different entrance. My breath caught as I let out a surprised gasp. Between the screaming intensity of the vibrator massaging my clit, the semen languidly seeping from my body, and the pumping of Ken’s thick finger in my tight little ass, I was suspended in a state of pre-orgasmic bliss.

As good as it felt, my self-consciousness wouldn’t let me surrender to the pleasure. With no covers and no cover of darkness to hide behind, I felt so exposed.

Pushing past my embarrassment, driven by an all-consuming need to come, I took one hand off the wall and pinched my left nipple
hard
. A jolt of electricity, almost matching the one from the vibrator below, raced straight down to my clit. As I rolled the tender flesh between my fingers, I was reminded how large and supple my new tits are. I ran my free hand across both swollen breasts, kneading them appreciatively, before capturing my right nipple and giving it a twist.

The sensation was like a lightning storm of ecstasy, and without realizing it I had begun rocking back onto Ken’s probing finger, moaning, “Mmm…fuck my ass,” into to the cold night air.

My surroundings were gone. It was just me and my nerve endings and the building rumble of thunder that would crash over me at any second. Sensing how close I was and emboldened by my moans, Ken suddenly mashed the vibrating bullet directly into my clit and thrust a second wet finger into my primed and ready back entrance.

Boom.

The combination of pleasure and pain and dirty and bad immediately caused my core to constrict in a violent, pulsating torrent. Where my senses had been alight with fire just moments before, I found myself plummeting into orgasmic darkness, only remotely aware that I was also convulsing and moaning and cursing as my knees buckled and I dug my fingertips into the wall for support.

When I came to, Ken was leisurely washing his hands in the sink, watching me out of the corner of his eye and looking all too pleased with himself. I half-walked half-hobbled over to him and rested my cheek on his bicep, gazing drunkenly at his reflection in the mirror.

My wild, wavy auburn hair stuck out in all directions, my face and lips were flushed pink, and my forehead had a bright red patch on one side from being pressed against the wall. Ken’s hair had that freshly fucked look, too, but it was from being tucked up under his hoodie just a few moments ago. I glanced down at the cozy black sweatshirt, still in a pile on the floor, and failed to hide the shy smile spreading across my face.

When I glanced back up, Ken’s expression matched my own.

Yeah, I definitely have a thing for sick Ken.

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?

FROM: BB EASTON

TO: SARA SNOW

DATE: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 10:27 A.M.

SUBJECT: MEDITATION --> CUNNILINGUS

So, you know how I’ve been doing those Deepak Chopra–guided meditations every day? Well, them bitches are paying off! You have got to start meditating, boo!

As an experiment, I wrote this über-raunchy X-rated journal entry about fucking Ken in the bathroom the other day and put it in the Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever file so that he would read it. I might have embellished a few parts for his ego… best wife in America.

So, the next day, clearly encouraged and emboldened by my pornographic journal entry, Ken slinked into the shower with me and blew…my…fucking…mind…for all of 2 minutes before he came. Poor guy got so flustered that he hopped out of the shower and started rummaging through our vibrator/Q-tip/mousetrap drawer in an attempt to salvage the situation. And guess what? ALL the fucking batteries were dead! All of them! He had no choice but to go down on me. Mwa-ha-ha-ha!

It was divine intervention, Snow. Deepak did that for me.

That asshole (Ken, not Deepak) hadn’t given me head in at least 18 months. Granted, during those 18 months, I’d gotten enormously 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.

I manifested that shit—me and Deepak.

I know it was the universe because when we were done, Ken started messing with the vibrators again, and they all worked! AHHHHHHHH! They worked, Sara! This shit is magical!

But, of course, yesterday, it was right back to mediocre me-on-top muted TV in the background sex, so there you go. It took 3 years of meditation, divine intervention, and a 2000+ word pornographic journal entry to get 2 minutes of kinky fuckery out of Ken. This shit is going to be exhausting.

I guess, technically, I got 2 minutes of wild sex plus a journal entry’s worth of qualitative data for your study, so there’s that.

FROM: SARA SNOW

TO: BB EASTON

DATE: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 10:29 A.M.

SUBJECT: RE: MEDITATION --> CUNNILINGUS

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

Sara Snow, PhD

Associate Professor, Department of Psychology, (name of university deleted)

FROM: BB EASTON

TO: SARA SNOW

DATE: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 10:37 A.M.

SUBJECT: RE: MEDITATION --> CUNNILINGUS

WTF?

Text messages starting at 10:39 a.m.

Sara:
I can’t believe you emailed that shit to my university account!

Me:
Ha! So THAT’S what your Chinese proverb was all about!

Sara:
Hell yes. What was I supposed to say?

Me:
“I don’t know you.”

Me:
“Never contact me again.”

Sara:
Are you trying to get me fired?

Me:
Seriously? You should see the shit you email me from that account. Why are you suddenly…oooooooh. Wait. I get it now.

Me:
You’re stoned

Sara:
Shut up

Me:
I knew it! You’re stoned and paranoid.

Sara:
Goddamn it

Me:
At work

Sara:
It’s not my fault! That hippie guy Sophie set me up with last week took me to lunch

Sara:
I couldn’t just let him smoke by himself

Sara:
I’m not an animal

Me:
Well, that makes perfect sense

Sara:
Good job with Ken, btw

Me:
Ugh. This shit is so much work

Me:
Is it even worth it?

Sara:
My Audi R8 says it is!

Sara:
Now get your ass back in there and get me some tenure

Me:
Meh

Me:
Do I have to write about this shower fiasco? I’m too depressed.

Sara:
Just hang on to that email you sent me, and I’ll add it to my field notes.

Me:
You’re a menius, Dr. Snow!

Sara:
Mean genius?

Me:
See??

Dear Journal,

How is it that you can have the worst sex of your life with someone you’ve been fucking for the last ten years? I’m kind of stunned. And angry, actually. I really thought that, after all the first times and one-night stands and sloppy drunk sex and cramped car sex and pokey-itchy outdoor sex and got-walked-in-on-by-somebody’s-mom sex and over-in-two-and-a-half-thrusts sex and questionable make-you-wish-you-had-a-time-machine-and-five-fewer-pomegranate-martinis sex and I-pulled-my-meniscus-trying-to-do-the-cunnilingus-cartwheel-experimental sex and the depressing you’re-finally-about-to-fuck-the-super-hot-guy-you’ve-been-lusting-after-for-months-and-you-just-discovered-he-has-a-miniscule-penis-and-now-you-have-to-go-through-with-it-so-you-don’t-hurt-his-feelings-but-you-know-this-relationship-is-going-to-end-in-about-ten-minutes-when-you-fake-an-orgasm-followed-by-a-stroke sex and the awkwardly violent you-just-realized–you-and-the-guy-you’re-with-are-both-doms-and-things-just-kind-of-devolve-into-a-fistfight sex, that I had had about all the bad sex I was ever going to have by the age of twenty.

Then, last night happened.

Just thinking about it makes me want to go punch my husband in the face—or at least grab him by the shoulders and never stop shaking him.

Last night, I wanted so badly to just squeeze his gorgeous chiseled face and scream,
For fuck’s sake! Get your head in the game! At least pretend like you don’t have Asperger’s!

But I didn’t because that would have been an insult to the whole autistic community, who I’m pretty sure could have done better.

So, instead, I let out a dramatic sigh and hissed through my teeth to prevent myself from screaming,
Jesus, Ken. Will you just go get the vibrator?

He complied, of course, and I used his absence to take some deep breaths.

Don’t be mean. Don’t be mean. If you attack him, it will just make it worse—if that’s possible. Actually, who are we kidding? It can’t get any worse.

So, upon his return, I might have given him an eat-shit-and-die look, and I
might
have said something to the extent of, “Wake up, Ken. At least pretend like you aren’t thinking in ones and zeroes. You’ve got to be rougher with me than
that.
”

It sounds harsh, but it was that bad, Journal. That sex was an insult to intercourse.

Let me set the stage for you. Per our usual, Ken and I began kissing in the bathroom after getting ready for bed because we’d just brushed our teeth, which makes it seem like a great time to make out, but in actuality, it’s quite the opposite because Ken is tired by then, making him even more lethargic and apathetic than usual, and my old-lady-smelling face cream always smears its way into our mouths, making it taste as though I’m kissing my grandmother.

So, there we were, kissing through the geriatric taste of night cream in the freezing cold bathroom. I was periodically wiping my mouth off on Ken’s shoulder, trying to void my lips of the slimy source of the mothball stench, while Ken was robotically touching parts of my body, like a terrified virgin or a sleepwalker.

Bored and cold, we awkwardly made our way into the bedroom where I basically masturbated on his lifeless body in the glow of the muted
Channel Two Action News
for all of three minutes before he unexpectedly and unceremoniously blew his load.

Goddamn it.

Ever the optimist, I pressed on, grinding my clit harder into his lean pelvis and squeezing my pussy tighter in a desperate attempt to hold on to his rapidly shrinking cock, passionately licking and sucking his neck, his lips, his tongue, only to be met with…nothing. I felt like a reluctant necrophiliac.