particular lovefest from going down in history as the best sex of my life was the fact that it 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.
I guess that’s how you know you’re a grown-up, Journal. 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.
Dating a rocker (even one who lived in the bonus room above his parents’ garage), was kind of like having your cake and eating it, too. Actually, it was more like having a gay best friend and being able to sit on his face. While both are into fashion and makeup and gossip and feelings and experimental anal play, the rock star wouldn’t insist that you wear a strap-on and douse yourself in Drakkar Noir first. He’d merely appreciate it.
Sounds fantastic, right?
It is.
Until it’s not.
Do yourself a favor, Journal. If you happen to fall in love with a rock star, good for you. Congratulations. Don’t marry him. Trust me on this. You’ll want to have his freakishly tall, dark, inattentive babies. Don’t do it. You’ll want to sign a six-month lease on an apartment and get a betta fish with him. Don’t fucking do it.
Because when that shit goes south—and it will, in spectacular fashion—who do you think is going to lose all her deposits and have to fashion a tiny Viking-style funeral pyre for sweet little Betta Bob Thornton all by herself? Who do you think is going to find her bestie in bed with him the next day? Who do you think is going to get a phone call at five a.m. a week later to come get him from the hospital because he was sad and wanted to be put on suicide watch, but the attending psychologist sized him up in ten minutes and knew he wasn’t going to hurt himself or anyone else (other than you, emotionally, some more) and told his uninsured ass to take a hike?
I’ll give you one hint. Her name rhymes with pee-pee, and she’s been royally shit on.
So, here’s what you do in the event that you find yourself in love with a rock star. You have passionate, consummate, paradigm shifting sex with him while keeping separate residences, bank accounts, credit cards, cell phone plans, and even fucking Netflix accounts. If you can get away with giving him a fake name, all the better. Especially if he happens to be a bass player. Bass players and drummers all have ADHD. Every last one. It’s a scientific fact. And for that reason, they cannot be expected to keep a stable job, show up anywhere on time, remember to pay fucking bills or put gas in the tank, not overdraw their accounts, or resist free drugs or pussy. But damn can they keep a beat. The bumper stickers are true, Journal. Bass players do do it with rhythm.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’d had some incendiary, life-affirming (and at times, life-threatening) sex well before Bless His Heart ever came along. Knight had bent me into shapes that only the cartilage of a prepubescent (which I was) would allow, and Harley had a vibrating tongue ring. (Yes, they make those, and they are glorious.)
But Hans is the only man I’ve ever been with who I can say, beyond a whisper of doubt, truly made love to me. He took sex and wove into it something transcendent, arresting, and…well, deep. 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.
Bonerversary
December 21
Dear Journal,
I think my husband might have just made love to me. Hang on, let me mark my calendar. I don’t want to forget this shit. Every year from now on, December 20 is officially going to be BB and Ken’s Bonerversary. I’ll drop the kids at my parents’ house, prepare (pick up) a lovely meal, and then Ken and I will sit with our heads bowed in quiet remembrance of the one time he didn’t behave like a cold limp fish during sex. Our annual Bonerversary will keep me going. It will sustain me.
Ken was watching football in bed, per his usual, when I decided to