44 Chapters About 4 Men - BB Easton Page 0,72

razor blades! He should have reared back and cold-cocked me in the mouth, not slumped into a puddle of ecstasy, as if I’d just shot him full of heroin!

Okay, so clearly my suspicions were accurate. Ken liked pain.

Now, it was time to find out how much.

Without lessening the pressure even a smidge, I proceeded to drag my claws at a torturously unhurried pace down the entire length of Ken’s back. It must have felt like a slow motion Klondike bear attack.

It was practically medieval, Journal, and Ken…fucking…loved it.

Before my charcoal gray talons had even made it past his waist, Ken was clutching my body to his and quietly shuddering his release.

Holy shit.

Okay, so I had a bona fide masochist on my hands. (Literally, his DNA was under my fingernails.)

There were worse things to discover about your boyfriend, right?

It was just a little kink. And if my track record proved anything, it was that I could handle kinky, especially if it meant that I would get to see Ken in all his relaxed postcoital glory.

With his ego sufficiently fluffed and the welts on his back sufficiently raised, Ken was a new man. We spent the next few hours cuddling and talking and laughing, and when we went for round two (I made sure to be on top.) it was a thousand percent better (for me, at least).

Before I knew it, the morning sun was peeking into the charming little eyebrow window above Ken’s bed. As I admired the pink and orange streaks of light splashing across his white sheets and settling into the topography of our entwined bodies, I realized that, not only was it possible to be attracted to someone stable and responsible and passive, it was actually easy.

Within a couple of weeks, the subject of our numbers inevitably came up. I sort of lied and told Ken eight. It was only sort of a lie because I had slept with eight people—before him.

I don’t know why I didn’t just say nine. I think because, once you hit nine, you’re just a hop, skip, and a hump away from those dreaded double digits. Plus, I wanted to seem fractionally chaster than I really was.

Says the girl with her nipples and clit pierced.

Ken’s number, you ask? Three—as in, me and two other people.

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.

And here, Little Guy, is where my big, fat false assumption occurred. You see, I should have taken Ken’s performance anxiety and low number of sexual partners for exactly what it was—proof that he was an inexperienced lover who could use some gentle grooming. Both figuratively and literally. When we’d first started dating, if I rested my head on Ken’s bare chest while we were watching TV, I couldn’t make out what was happening on the screen through the thick carpet of pube-like hair invading my eyes, nose, and mouth.

But you know what I told myself instead, just to keep from feeling like such a used up, dirty old cock-socket? I told myself that Ken had probably had sex thousands of times. After all, by the time I had slept with three people, I had already been with both Skeletor and Ding-Dong. Not only had I long matriculated from car sex, but I was also mastering graduate-level coital techniques such as tantra and manual prostate gland stimulation.

So, Ken’s dainty little number didn’t really mean anything. It certainly didn’t mean that I was a whore. No, definitely not. Ken could very well have been just as experienced as me, maybe even more so!

Numbers schmumbers!

In reality, gorgeous, introverted (and definitely masochistic) Ken could have counted his pre-BB sexual experiences without taking off both socks, and I was already throwing Reverse Wheelbarrows and Two-Headed Crabs at him. I’m sure those first few months with me felt like finding out he’d been hired to pilot the first manned expedition to Uranus (Pun intended!) with nothing but a GED and a snazzy jumpsuit.

Poor guy. No wonder he’d insisted I take the lead.

Besides car sex, I wonder what other prerequisite teenage sexual experiences Ken missed out on. Slow sex under a blanket in the same room as at least three of your friends while pretending like you’re just watching a movie? Sex in a neighborhood pool in broad daylight? Sex in the restroom at your minimum-wage job