44 Chapters About 4 Men - BB Easton Page 0,38
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??
The Worst
November 16
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,