44 Chapters About 4 Men - BB Easton Page 0,84

because we’re not out there, humping like teenagers on the beach. I’ll be choosing not to have sex on the beach and cherishing the fact that none of my orifices have sand in them.

Maybe for our ten-year anniversary, Ken will finally give me that Mile High Club membership I’ve always had my eye on! I’m sure that fantasy will turn out to be even more nerve-racking, awkward, and disappointing than this one, especially considering that the only flight we have planned for next summer will be on an overbooked commercial airliner headed to—of all horrors—Disney World.

Can’t wait!

Adieu

June 12

Well, Journal…

It’s been a good run, but this might be good-bye. It’s been weeks since I’ve written a single word in here, and it doesn’t look like I’m going to have another opportunity anytime soon.

You see, every time I’ve reached for my laptop in the last fortnight, I’ve been immediately intercepted by a gorgeous square-jawed, cleft-chinned sexually aggressive man who looks and smells a lot like Ken. We’ll call this beautiful stranger the husboner. I know he cannot possibly be my Ken because this man does things the old husbot can’t even pronounce.

He has the stamina and control of a seasoned porn star. He pulls hair and spanks and bites and tops me, even from the bottom. Riding the husbot usually felt akin to humping a cadaver, but when I straddle the husboner, I have to white knuckle the headboard with both hands in order to take everything he’s giving me. Not that I’m on top much anymore. I’ve been pummeled into near oblivion in the shower, on the stairs, on the couch, on the closet floor, and bent over the kitchen island on my stomach with my legs wrapped around his waist and crossed at the ankles behind his back.

It never fails. I reach for the computer—I get pounded. I reach for the computer again—I get plowed in four different positions, in three different rooms.

I had to wait for the husboner to fall asleep just so that I could tiptoe away long enough to write this! The sex is incredible, Journal. Incendiary. Dare I say, passionate.

Passionate! I could cry!

For ten long years, I’ve waited and wished for Ken to grab my hipbones like handlebars and ram himself into me from behind so hard and so fast that the slapping of our two bodies together sounded like a standing ovation.

I went through all five stages of grief and back again as I grappled to accept the fact that my days of being taken like a Viking conquest on the cover of a Harlequin Romance novel were behind me. And now, here I am, my pussy being pulverized on the regular by the very same man who lay motionless beneath me lo these many years.

It doesn’t even make sense! I actually came so hard today that I fell into a fuzzy, warm post-orgasmic sleep for a few seconds before realizing, much to my chagrin, that Ken was patiently waiting for me to recover so that he could finish.

I was fucked unconscious, Journal!

Obviously, Ken has been doing some reading, and this motherfucker is proving a point. My guess is that he just discovered Hans’s best-sex-ever entry (and possibly some black market Viagra) and decided that enough was enough. In not so many words (just grunts and thrusts), Ken has been essentially putting his foot down (and putting his thang down. Haaay!)

I should be thrilled. I should delete you from existence and pretend none of this ever happened. I should spend every waking childfree moment with my ankles around my ears and the chain connecting my nipple clamps between Ken’s teeth.

But I can’t bring myself to stop. My mission is only half complete, and as you’ve probably gathered by now, I don’t half-ass anything. I whole-ass it.

And goddamn it, Journal, I still want Ken to get that tattoo!

Haiku of Shame

June 14

Dear Journal,

I wrote a poem today. I’m calling it “Haiku of Shame.”

Trigger alert: It’s kind of a tearjerker.

When Ken dies, after

A lifetime by my side, his

Arm…will bear…her name.

Goddamn Shakespearean tragedy, isn’t it?

I wrote it in the car while Ken and I were out running errands, and I decided to recite it for him, beatnik-style, while drumming on the dashboard, as if it were a pair of bongos. Ken just rolled his eyes and said nothing.

Nothing, Journal!

I’d poured my heart and soul out to him through the ancient mystical art of haiku, and he didn’t even have the decency to acknowledge my pain!

I should have titled it