44 Chapters About 4 Men: A Memoir (26 page)

Clearly, Ken didn’t answer to anyone, yet when we were together, it was as if the man had been born without an opinion. Radio stations, restaurants, wherever we went, whatever we did, he deferred to me. Why?

Oh my God.

Ken wants me to hurt him.

It was the only explanation. Ken was some kind of masochist. He’d sized up my fiery, headstrong bad-girl vibe, heard about all the piercings, and thought maybe I’d be down to pour searing hot wax all over his balls.

Now, don’t get me wrong, Journal. I was no stranger to S and M, and
maaaaybe
I did have a closet full of pleather and bondage accessories, but wasn’t it I who was always being handcuffed to things? I mean, I was no
dominatrix.

Or was I?

From the moment, I’d laid eyes on Mark McKen that night at Jason’s “Big Game” party, I’d had the overwhelming urge to tie him up and whip him a little.

And I was really enjoying getting my way all the time. And whenever I’d started to manhandle him or physically push him around, he always responded with an amused little smirk and zero resistance.

Oh, Jesus. Ken did want me to hurt him.

And I kind of wanted to hurt him.

1
Let me spare you an IMDB search by explaining that
Meet the Feebles
is sick, sick shit. Way before
The Lord of the Rings
trilogy, Peter Jackson was evidently in a mixed-up dark place. It’s basically
The Muppets
, if the Muppets were drug-addicted, sexually deviant depraved pornographers.

2
Am I allowed to say
Super Bowl
, or do I have to say
The Big Game
or whatever they like do on the radio to keep from getting trademark sued? This whole damn book has been an exercise in not getting sued. I’d hate to fuck it up now.

Dear Journal,

I just wrote the story of when I first met Ken and left it in my
Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever file
.
It was all true, for once, and hopefully gave him a little ego massage.
That being said, Ken’s ego does
not
need to hear what I really thought about our first sexual experience, so I’m moving over here to the safety of your arms, dear sweet, secret Journal, to continue the story.

Ken and I didn’t have sex right away.

Okay, okay, I know what you’re thinking.

BB? Not behave like a whore? Did she have mono that month?

But it’s true, Journal. I swear!

I would just go over to his house on non-school nights and make out with him on his supple microsuede cloud of a couch, and then we’d fall asleep watching
Highlander
or some shit. He never pressed me to have sex, and for some reason, I never initiated.

I think I was still too confused about how I felt about him. Ken wasn’t dangerous or rebellious, other than his potential masochism. He didn’t play games. He was…a gentleman. And I think all that chivalry dried my vag right up. Even though my eyes liked what they saw and my head knew that Ken was a good, solid choice, my wild heart kept searching for some spark, some flaming, naughty ember, and coming back wanting.

It also didn’t help that Ken was as emotionally available as a tomato. The man wouldn’t know a feeling if it dry-humped his leg. Skeletor, Ding-Dong, Bless His Heart—those boys could
feel
…about a thousand different emotions an hour. They’d go from gazing into my eyes and asking me to marry them before the condom even came off to screaming and throwing a trash can through their basement, bonus room, or garage window because
somebody
made Velveeta Shells and Cheese for dinner when they’d specifically asked for the OG Kraft kind!

So, it was a double-edged sword. I appreciated that I wasn’t constantly patching sheetrock and walking on eggshells around Ken, but after a few weeks, it became very clear that I wasn’t going to be getting hearts and flowers anytime soon.

Whether it was in spite of his flat affect or in light of it, the more I got to know Kenneth Easton, the more I liked him—like, as a person. His introversion and stoicism were in perfect harmony with my extroversion and emotional sensitivity. He was fucking beautiful, and we loved all the same things.

“No way. You have Marvin the Album by obscure one-hit wonder ’90s band Frente? Me too!”

“Your favorite pizza is ham and black olive from Papa John’s? Mine too!”

“Oh my God, you like to put Peeps in the microwave with little toothpicks under their wings and see which one stabs the other first once they start to puff up? ME TOO!”

It took about three weeks for me to get past Ken’s lack of tattoos and emotional range, but once I finally realized how stupid I was over this guy, I knew it was time to do what I did best—spread my legs.

Our first time wasn’t
bad
, per se, but it was missionary, and I don’t usually get down like that. But I was on a mission (no pun intended!), and getting off was low on my list of priorities. My first objective was to investigate whether or not Ken really was a masochist, and if so, to what degree. My second objective didn’t become evident until we started in with the foreplay. I needed to boost the man’s confidence, stat.

After we’d started making out, Ken touched me so cautiously that it was as if I were the meanest goat at the petting zoo, and he was one wrong move away from losing a finger.

It made no sense, Journal. We’d been dating for over a month. I was ninety-five percent sure he wasn’t gay or married. Neither of us was drunk. And an erection of more-than-respectable size was pressed against my naked hip. Why was he so hesitant to make a move?

At first, I assumed it was just because I’d never been with a gentleman before.

Perhaps he just doesn’t want to overstep my boundaries
, I thought.
Perhaps there’s some secret bat signal of consent that I haven’t given him because I don’t know what it is because I’ve never been with a nice guy before.

But then I remembered that I’d brought an overnight bag with me. I’m pretty sure if there were ever a universal sign for
down to fuck
, that would be it.

Whatever the reason, my cool, calm, collected Ken was behaving like a mime trying to get out of an invisible phone booth, so I decided to help the poor guy out. Rolling him on top of me, I shifted my hips until the head of his impressive cock was poised at the entrance of my impatient, thrumming body. Then, I kissed the shit out of him.

There, motherfucker. I consent. Bring it.

But still he didn’t relax. Ken’s body remained stiff above me, and his breathing was quiet and shallow, like he was concentrating on something. I, on the other hand, couldn’t concentrate on anything with him hesitantly sliding the entire length of his manhood back and forth over my slippery flesh.

Gradually, his pace quickened. Over and over, with each successive pass, Ken would graze my entrance, just enough to cause me to lift my hips in invitation, before denying me again. Confused and frustrated, I glanced up at his face in search of an explanation.

Is he afraid to fuck me without a condom?

(He should have been.)

Is he reliving a childhood trauma? Is he having a seizure?

While the man looming over me did look tense, for reasons I didn’t understand at the time, it was the familiar smirk and the twinkle of mischief behind his aqua eyes that made me realize this motherfucker was playing a game. He was going to
make me
call every shot, just like he always did.

Kenneth Easton had all the power, and he was using it to make
me
take control. As much as I didn’t appreciate being manipulated, I couldn’t deny how empowering it was to be the puppet master of this hunky, mysterious, real-life Ken doll.

Submitting to his impossibly strong will, I reached between us and stroked Ken’s slick girth, which felt rigid and ready and so right in my hands. Guiding him into my body, I gasped at the way he stretched and filled me. It wasn’t painful. It was perfect, like a puzzle piece locking into place. I held him to me, appreciating the exquisite fullness, and he waited.

I don’t know if he was feeling what I was feeling or if he was still just stubbornly refusing to take the lead, but once we began to move, it became pretty obvious that Ken was feeling a whole lot of
something
. Finally letting go of all his self-imposed restraint, Ken pulled my thigh up around his waist and rocked into me with everything he had. His mouth crushed into mine. His hands claimed my hair, my hips, my ass. He was feral and free and sexy as fuck, and I wanted desperately to reward him for that.

The only problem was that no man had ever or would ever make me come missionary-style. It’s just not how I’m built.

Rather than risk Ken’s newfound confidence by flipping him back over so soon, I decided to noisily fake an orgasm around the three-minute mark just to give him a little positive reinforcement.

Because I’m selfless like that, Journal.

With my second objective taken care of (Confidence boost? Check!), I moved on to priority number one—figuring out whether or not this hottie really wanted me to hurt him. While pretending like I was still in the throes of the mind-blowing orgasm he’d just given me, I sank my nails into Ken’s shoulder blades as hard as I could. Instead of hearing him suck in a pained breath or feeling him flinch in response, which would have been the appropriate reaction, I felt Ken’s taut muscles soften like putty in my hands.

The fuck?

I’d just stabbed the man with ten little 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.