44 Chapters About 4 Men (27 page)

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 while a sign on the front door implores potential customers to
Cum
Come back in 10 minutes
? Sex in a tree house? (Not
my
tree house, obviously. Hippies don’t build their kids tree houses. They squat barefooted in the driveway drawing mandalas with sidewalk chalk while eating undercooked pot brownies out of the pan. Which, in their defense, totally feels like quality time to a five-year-old.)

Jesus, I think I might have overestimated the value of teenage rites of passage. I mean, there are worse things in life than never having to pick someone’s pubes out of your braces.

In fact, I think Ken owes
me
a thank-you card for saving him from all that bullshit—full of coupons redeemable for childfree brunch and cunnilingus—but not at the same time. Or maybe at the same time? Mmm…most
definitely
at the same time.

It’s been eleven years since I first sank my claws into Ken’s taut muscular flesh, and after all this time, that move still never fails to please—either of us. I’ve got to say, I do not mind hurting that man. Before I met Ken, I had no idea how gratifying it could be to chomp down on a grown man’s clavicle and feel his back arch in ecstasy under me. To twist his nipple and feel his appreciative moan reverberate through my mouth. To yank his hair and feel his grip tighten around my waist in excitement.

The fact that he’s into pain also makes him seem like a little bit more of a badass. Ken might be a quiet cubicle dweller with hands as soft as the supple pink underbelly of a newborn cockapoo, but under that buttoned-down intellectual exterior is a man who can take a beating. And if a little pain is what it takes to get his rocks off, well then, I am more than happy to oblige.

Only, I’m realizing that a little pain might just be the tip of the iceberg.

Last night, I had one of my classic over-poured pinot Gs before hitting the sack with Ken, and thus, might have underestimated the amount of pressure I employed when executing my signature nails-down-the-back move. It did the trick though. The second I brandished those little daggers, Ken thrust himself as deeply into me as he could get and came for the entire ten-second journey it took me to make it from his shoulder blades down to his ass. Although I suspected I’d been a little rougher than usual, Ken collapsed on top of me and almost purred in appreciation when it was over, so I figured it couldn’t have been too bad.

Then, while Ken and I were washing up in the bathroom under the harsh compact fluorescent glow of reality, I caught a glimpse of what I had actually done.

Holy fuck.

I felt like I was in some kind of horror movie where you wake up and realize that you mutilated your own lover while under alien mind control or some shit. Ken’s back looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. Pink and red welts ran the length of his torso, so angry and raised that they looked like eight spare spinal cords.

As soon as I saw the damage I’d done, I began kissing and coddling and examining every inch of him from shoulder to sitz bone while he simply continued to wash his hands, watching me in the mirror with a quizzically raised eyebrow, as if he had no idea what I was being so dramatic about.

If only he could see what I saw! He’d be disgusted! He’d be horrified! He’d be…

I grabbed Ken’s biceps and turned his body to face mine, urging him to look over his shoulder in the mirror, so he could at least acknowledge the carnage that was once his back.

“Look at what I did! I’m so sorry, Ken! I had no idea I was scratching you that hard!”

Upon glancing at himself in the mirror, rather than taking the kids to his mother’s house and obtaining a restraining order, Ken dismissively muttered, “Pssh. You
can’t
do it too hard.” and turned back around to brush his teeth.

Excuse me?

Now, I know deep down in my soul that Ken meant that statement to be a commentary about himself, about the depths of his masochism and his freakishly high-pain tolerance, but the only sound my self-absorbed only-child ears could register was the smack of his words slapping me right across the face.

Oh, really? I can’t do it hard enough, huh? Well, challenge accepted motherfucker! You’d better find yourself a safe word because I’m…gonna…carve…you… up.

Postscript: Ken found himself a safe word. It’s
scrumpets
.

Me:
“Why is your safe word
scrumpets
, Ken?”

Ken:
“I dunno. I just like that word.”

Me:
“It’s not a word.”

Ken:
“Yes it is. It’s what British people eat with their tea.”

Me:
“Those are crumpets.”

Ken:
“Bullshit. A crumpet is like a Bugle.”

Me:
“No, that’s a trumpet.”

Ken:
“The other kind of Bugle.”

Me:
“You mean, those crunchy, salty cornucopia-shaped things people pretended to like in the ’90s?”

Ken:
“Who was pretending?”

I don’t even know why I felt the need to have that conversation. Anytime you’re doing something to a man and he responds by uttering the nonsensical word
scrumpets
, your next move should be to immediately stop what you’re doing and check the other three signs of a stroke because he just met one
1
.

1
Because I’m in the business of saving lives here, the acronym you need to remember when identifying a potential stroke is FAST. The F stands for
Face drooping
. The A stands for
Arm weakness or numbness
. The S stands for
Speech difficulty
. (Ahem,
scrumpets
.) And the T stands for
Time to call 911 if you see any of these signs
.

Of course, if Ken is safe-wording on me, I should probably call 911 anyway because I might have just accidentally clawed out his pancreas.

So, either way,
scrumpets
is shaping up to be a pretty expensive word.

I must be drunk. I just flipped off my husband. I don’t feel that dru—

Shit.

I do totally, actually feel that drunk. But I only had one glass of cheap pinot G!

(FYI: When I say one glass, I mean, one teeny, tiny little glass filled all the fuck up. I have to compensate, Journal! These wine glasses are miniature! They’re basically aperitif flutes. I swear!)

Whatever. It doesn’t matter how I got here. What matters is that I am presently at that magical, elusive just-right amount of drunkenness where I could either instigate a fistfight OR anal sex (Two things that would never, ever happen, EVER, unless I’ve had the perfect amount of white wine on a slightly empty stomach and Mercury is in retrograde) and still be conscious enough to actually show the fuck up and perform.

So, we’ve established that Ken refuses to compliment me. But it’s almost like a phobia, Journal. In fact I just Googled
fear of giving compliments
, thinking surely there’s a term for this sick pathology. And guess what? I got nothing. There is a fear of receiving compliments, which, of course, Ken could do while standing on his head, but not of giving them. You know why? Because no one has ever been pathologically averse to complimenting his or her spouse
ever
. Because it’s not a thing.

There’s no term you can hide behind, Ken. No support group. You’re not mentally ill. You’re just an asshole.

Here, Little Guy. Let me give you some background so that you can weigh in on this bullshit…

I’m into photography. I’ve taken classes. I have a fancy camera with fancy lenses. It’s my hobby. I used to paint, but with a baby and a toddler demanding my attention now there is no scenario in the foreseeable future where I will be gifted with ten blissful hours of solitude to smear paint around on a canvas and sing along to Death Cab for Cutie, so if I’m going to make any art at all, it has to occur at the push of a button and with a baby on my hip.

I really like photography. I also really like to think that I’m pretty good at it, but I can’t be sure because the only people who’ve ever validated that hypothesis are my closest friends and family. And let’s be honest, their opinions are pretty fucking worthless. Not that they necessarily have shitty taste, they’re just a little too supportive and awesome to sit me down and say,
Honey, maybe don’t spend so much money on camera equipment, okay? Or any. Ever again.

Okay. Now that you’re up to speed, let’s get back to me flipping off my husband.

(Or is it
flicking
off? I think I use the terms interchangeably, but I don’t know because who does that in the first place? I might as well have mooned him! I mean,
seriously
, what am I? Some dirty, rascally little orphan in a Paul Rudd movie?)

Anyhoo, I was sitting on my designated side of the couch, using the cherished half hour of free time I get after my kids go to bed to finally edit some photos that had been festering on my hard drive for months, when Ken glances over from his designated side of the couch and sees this: