Fifty Shades Of Sparkling Vampires With Dragon Tattoos That Play Starvation Games (7 page)

Wait a minute, was obsessive fury not a
sane response to your girlfriend acknowledging that another man
existed? Was wanting to slap someone's ass silly really that
twisted of a desire? Was I the biggest dumbass in the world for
putting up with such blatant abuse for so long? Suddenly it
occurred to me that a well adjusted woman would have fled the scene
long ago. But I thought, why not give him a fiftieth shot to muster
a half human emotion?

"You have to admit, you're kind of
twisted, right?" I replied.

"Well duh. But I'm also a hunky
billionaire debonair dingaling swinging between my legs," Slap
responded.

"You had me at dingaling."

"So, you want to get married even
though I have no concept of what love, honoring, or cherishing
is?"

"Depends. Can we have butt plug sex on
the honeymoon?"

"I wouldn't have it any other
way."

I swooned. "This may just be the
happiest degrading marriage in history. Hooray for low
esteem."

The End.

My Butt Hurts (And Other Problems With
Marrying A Sadistic Billionaire)

If you didn't know it, your honeymoon
was simply the best time to throw a balls to the wall tantrum. At
least that's what Slap told me. Then again, Slap also insisted that
unicorns went extinct after the great joust-a-thon of 1372, so
maybe he wasn't the best source for intellectual
nibbles.

To be fair though, the line dancing
elephants at the wedding reception would be enough to throw anyone
into a cataclysmic hissy fit (could you believe it cost $25,000 to
train a pachyderm to square dance?). Back in reality, or at least
the deranged corner of the universe I called home, all hell broke
loose.

Slap had taken me to the South of
France for our honeymoon (really, that was the best you could do
billionaire? I routinely took vacations to Mars in my head, so I
expected nothing short of Uranus from you). It took all of five
minutes for Mr. Well Adjusted to blow his gasket. Now generally if
you got into a knock down drag out throw the ironing board across
the room fight on the honeymoon, you knew your marriage was built
on a foundation of lumpy pudding.

But since I flipped the bird to my
sanity long ago, I figured our marriage could coast on genital
gymnastics just fine for the next forty or five years (give or take
a few mental breakdowns). In Slap's defense, I did decide to tan
topless, so naturally the man of my dreams (or was it nightmares?)
felt the need to mark up my knockers in a whirlwind of fury. I
guess the logic was "if you're going to show your boobies off to
the world, I'm going to scar them so no one but a sadist would want
to see them bouncing again."

With that kind of level headed
thinking, I was so glad I vowed to spend the rest of my life with
the douche bag of my dreams. But despite the kind of abuse that
would send most women running for social services, I decided to
reluctantly allow Slap back inside my carnal cupboard (after all,
it was our honeymoon). After playing a little peek a boo with
Slap's profound pecker, all was right with the world
again.

***

Back in the rainy confines of the
Pacific Northwest though, my marriage became a minefield of
manipulation and childish mind games (was the second week of
marriage too early to start couple's counseling?). Slap would
torment me to the brink of hurling myself into the Pacific, then
woo me back with his wang. Then I would try to exert my
independence only to find myself gobbling his knob at the slightest
dance of Slap's dick.

You'd think two people with the brain
power of lobotomized beavers playing mind games would be akin to
beauty pageant contestants performing brain surgery, but somehow
Slap and I took manipulation to a new and completely unnecessary
level.

It was a vicious cycle--fight,
fornicate, repeat (and don't forget to add a dollop of self
loathing for extra kick). With that level of dysfunction at play,
it was no surprise when Slap suggested a butt plug could be the
solution to all our problems. The conversation did not go quite as
he expected:

"You want to put what in my butt?" I
asked.

"I know a butt plug isn't in your top
five fornicating favorites, but to be fair there are far worse
things I could put back there," Slap insisted. "Kumquats,
rutabaga’s, a litter of newborn gerbils--"

"Only you could find a way to make
extreme spanking seem like a good alternative--"

"Hey, just say the word and I'll grab
my paddle. I just put a new coat of polish on it and can't wait to
take it out for a spin."

"Here's an idea. Let's not stick any
foreign objects into my tush."

"Wow. You really are a party pooper. I
think me and my ginormous woody are going to go pout in the
corner."

"If you're going to get all maudlin
about it, then fine. Just spread me ass cheeks with
care."

"Yay, emotional immaturity wins out
again. Now, let's ram that rod into your rectum."

***

After the tush push, things went back
to sadism as usual. That was, until my uterus started crying out. A
couple of dribbles of pee on a dipstick later and the stage was set
for the biggest shit storm this side of a manure lot.

"I'm pregnant," I said.

There were a lot of ways to react to
finding out your wife was with child. Storming out in a huff of
emotional napalm did not top the list (although it did score
partially better than throwing priceless artifacts across the room
then blaming your pet ferret).

"That seems like a rational response,"
I said to myself, realizing what a great father figure Slap made by
walking out on his own fetus. But the ample time I had with just me
and my zygote meant I had to buck up and come up with a name for
the future kid myself. I was thinking about Dumbass Jr...or maybe
Petunia.

By the time Slap came back hours later,
I had a whole list of bone headed names to run by him. But he was
drunker than a leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day. Not to mention he
had the unmistakable stench of whory ex girlfriend on his
clothes.

"Alcohol is awesome," Slap
slurred.

"I can't believe you walked out on me
and fetus."

"What, you aren't going to apologize
for getting pregnant on me? Do I look like the kind of emotional
infant that can handle a pooping, crying baby? I want to be the
only one throwing temper tantrums around here."

"Oh, get over yourself. Rich people
don't raise babies. That's what nannies are for."

"I thought nannies were for hand
washing my dirty butt plugs. Anyway, don't worry. I'm not nearly as
mad as I could be. Having sex with my psychotic ex girlfriend took
the edge off."

"Of all the women to cheat on me with,
you had to pick the craziest. Why couldn't you just bone some buxom
brain-dead bimbo on the side like a normal guy?"

I was piping mad at that point. Not to
mention fed up. Did I kick my two timing turd of a husband to the
curb like even the dumbest of broads would though? Nah. I did toss
his favorite whip in the pool though. Plus I threw his favorite
panini grill across the room. It turned out I was really good at
breaking crap. Maybe I had a promising future as a professional
mover ahead of me. But first there was more fighting to
do.

"Look, why don't I just bone your
brains out and we forget all about today?" Slap asked.

"You really think I'm that numb
skulled?" I replied.

"Hey, you were dumb enough to marry
me."

"True."

"Besides, sex solves all the problems
in a relationship."

Even though Slap was a nincompoop and
had the most twisted sense of logic of any idiot I knew, I was a
sucker for his sex stick. Not to mention my clit was itching for a
good dick dejavu.

***

Amazingly enough, it seemed when Slap
and I weren't in horny horizontal heaven, that we did nothing but
fight. But our latest unresolved disaster about Slap's uber virile
sperm taking the scenic tour of my ovaries had to be shelved. In a
wild plot twist too ridiculous to take seriously, Slap's sister had
been kidnapped by...dum dum dum...Mr. Schizo himself.

If you were having trouble connecting
the dots, don't bother. The logic of my life made little sense. And
go figure, everyone around me was completely bonkers. I mean
really, when I was the sanest person in any room, a straight jacket
shouldn't be out of arms reach.

Any who, in the sake of getting back to
tawdry titillating sex, I diffused the situation by trading an old
pin up photo of my self in a sexy French maid costume for Slap's
sisters release. Voila! Take that, improbable plot. I had an
equally impossible solution. Naturally, Slap gave my labia a
victory lap for my heroic efforts. Damn was his dong
sweet.

***

Finally with dumb things like plot
finally out of the way, I was free to live happily ever after with
my sadistic husband and the unborn child he wished didn't exist.
Oh, I'm sorry. Were you expecting Slap's semen to signal some form
of character development or emotional growth? Were you seriously
expecting the story of my life to have any redeeming qualities at
all?

Let's be honest, you only suffered
through this dreck to hear the butt plug and other boner related
sexcapades. It was a check your brain at the door affair. Feel free
to pick it up on the way out. And Slap did not disappoint. Yup, he
remained the manipulative bastard I'd come to love/hate, free from
annoying things like pathos and redemption. I meanwhile stayed sex
addicted, dumb as a brick, and blissfully shallow. And that was
just the way I wanted to keep it.

The Sadistic End.

I'm So Going To Make You Cry At The
End

Cindy Sue really needed to find a first
love before her rare incurable illness spoiled her afternoon yoga.
The problem with icky diseases was they went and had pesky side
effects on her--which meant no downward dogging (or dogging of any
kind really). Didn't the universe realize Cindy had to save a blind
three legged dog and end world hunger over the weekend? But noooo,
instead Cindy was stuck staring out at the regal North Carolina
countryside, wondering if the rolling hills realized just how
majestic they truly were. Finally when she was done ogling the
scenery and dreaming of unicorns, she went into town to get an
artisan latte. Little did Cindy Sue's heart know that a six packed
surprise would be waiting for her when she got there.

Landon McComeuppance was an impossibly
hunky jerk that needed to be taught life lessons from an
idealistic, yet terminally ill girl. Luckily, one would soon be
pulling up in her planet saving hybrid. In the meantime, Landon
told the world how rich he was and flipped karma the bird, preppy
style.

When Cindy Sue entered the quaint
little coffeehouse, it was like a really emo, love ballad came in
playing on speakers behind her. She was a revelation in a sun
dress. And it almost seemed inevitable that fate would have her
order the same drink as Landon so they'd have an excuse to make
casual chitchat that would lead into an intense and robust romance
that would shake the very core of the universe. Until she croaked,
that was.

So when the artisan latte arrived at
the counter, Cindy Sue and Landon knew love was brewing (oh, the
metaphors are about to get way cheesier). For once in his life, the
smooth talking libido legend was at a loss for words around Cindy.
And seeing Landon, Cindy realized she would not let her heart go
belly up until she turned Landon into a hunk with a purpose, poised
to save the world with warm and fuzzy goodness.

"Well, aren't you the sexiest pack of
abs I've ever seen in my life? You should model underwear--in my
bedroom," Cindy said.

"You make me think there's more to life
than being a raging douche bag," Landon admitted.

It was a sappy, gooey, fondue kind of
wooing. Almost as if love at first sight had come to the sleepy
town of Happy Ending, NC as an early birthday present to
Cindy.

But before Cindy Sue got wrapped up in
all consuming, unrealistic, pull out the violins love, she had an
admission of her own. "I just want to warn you, I'm probably going
to drop dead on you pretty soon in a completely unbelievable
way.

"So wait, you're going to convert me
from a shallow conveyor belt of cash whoring to a gooey sappy
sentimentalist, then you're going to die some horrific death right
in front of me?"

"Actually, I'm probably just going to
dramatically walk into the sunset in a metaphoric whirlwind. But
yeah, you're newfound heart is going to be totally
crushed."

"Whoa, that's pretty intense. I'm so
in."

"Good, now let's fit a whole lifetime
of sunset walks on the beach and moony eyes into nine weeks before
I start coughing up my own lung."

***

The sunset was a perfect background for
making dough eyes and taking raging hormones for a spin around the
block. Cindy Sue and Landon could have sat on the beach and looked
at the lapping waves during an apocalypse and not care because they
had each other. Even when a seagull pooped on Landon's head, the
young lovers just brushed it off and went back to
cooing.