44 Chapters About 4 Men: A Memoir (31 page)

No, not
on
the stairs.

Under
the stairs. In the ditch.

But Ken was all, “That’s a ditch.”

And I was like, “But no one would see us under there.”

And he was all, “Because it’s a ditch.”

Touché, Ken.

Finally, we compromised and settled on a spot under another wooden walkway, only this one jutted way out onto the beach and had a nice smooth patch of sand under it. No ditch.

Now that we had our location, it was time to talk logistics. Ken suggested that he could go for another “walk” tonight after the kids went to bed, and he could stash some towels outside before then for us to use as a blanket. I volunteered to wear a dress for easy access. The plan was coming together nicely. (No pun intended!)

After an absurdly romantic dinner at a quaint little Italian restaurant in downtown Charleston that night, Ken and I returned to the Little Shack of Horrors and put the kids to bed. We shot the shit with his parents until it was good and dark outside. Then, with a wink and a nod, we began putting on our shoes and jackets and fumbling for excuses as to why we were going on another walk.

“I want to see if the lighthouse really lights up!” was the best I could do.

Just before we walked out the door, I remembered that we’d need towels, and I hadn’t seen Ken stash any outside, like he’d said he would. Dramatically rushing back in to grab one, I could hear myself rambling to Mr. and Mrs. Easton about how I needed the towel because our feet would be sandy, from all the walking, on the beach, so we would need to rinse them off, with the hose, when we got back, from our walk, which would make our feet very wet, and would, in turn, necessitate the use of a towel. My circumlocution was made even more awkward by all the tripping I was doing over said feet as I tried to get the fuck out of there. When I finally made it out onto the deck, my flushed cheeks were met with cool, humid air, and I was greeted by a gorgeous man holding two beach towels, smirking like a smug son of a bitch.

“When did you put those out here?!?!”

“Right before we left for the restaurant. I just pretended like I was laying them out to dry.”

God, I felt like a dumbass. Why did he always have to be so smooth?

Letting out a defeated sigh, I dropped my towel on one of the patio chairs and linked elbows with Ken as we made our way to the non-ditch. Surely, we wouldn’t need more than two towels, right?

Wrong.

So, so wrong.

Minding the time, Ken and I made a mad dash for our agreed upon spot under the boardwalk stairs, which was just far enough onto the beach to be considered
on
the beach.

Although we were in a hurry—the last thing on earth I wanted was for one of the senior Eastons to get worried and come looking for us—a
little
foreplay would have been nice. Would have helped me relax, get in the mood. But I guess Ken was more nervous than me because as soon as we made it to our predetermined location, he spread out his towel and lay down just as supine as one of the dead jellyfish I had seen washed up a few yards away.

Great.
Ken the Cadaver was back, and his timing was impeccable.

I kicked off my flip-flops and shimmied out of my panties, tucking them inside the front pocket of Ken’s hoodie, which I’d thrown on right before we left. I didn’t dare take the hoodie off, however, because I was still way too cold, and way too inhibited, to part with any more clothes. Meanwhile, Ken shoved the other towel, still rolled up, under his head as a pillow and pushed his shorts and boxer briefs down over his hips, revealing the very flaccid product of his nerves.

We were not off to a great start, but damn if I don’t love a challenge.

Straddling Ken’s tense body, I leaned down so that we could make out, but instead, I smacked him right in the face with the dangling drawstrings of his hoodie. At least that broke some of the tension. We both snickered quietly as I tucked the shoelace-like strings into the neck of his gray hooded sweatshirt. Then, I readjusted my game face and dived back in. That time, I got him.

I thrust my hands into Ken’s sand colored, soon-to-be sand-filled hair, and kissed him with everything I had. Trying to massage out that worry with only my lips, tongue, fingertips, and hips, I steadily gyrated into the growing thickness between us. It didn’t take long for Ken to respond, grabbing my exposed ass and sliding me up and down his member until we were too stupid from lust to remember where the fuck we were.

When I finally sank down onto him I felt as though I’d been transported to another planet. My senses were being flooded with information that did not compute with what we were doing—the roar of the ocean just feet away, the smell of salt and seaweed, the steady onslaught of exotic wind coming in from somewhere foreign and fabled across the Atlantic. The only familiar sensation I could cling to was the feeling of my body locking into place with that of my other half. I tried to burn that moment into my brain, to hold on to it forever and ever, until a different, much more physical kind of burn grabbed my attention.

The towel Ken had selected to lay on was just a tad too narrow for both his torso and my splayed knees to fit on at once, so while I’d been grinding into him, my knees had been grinding into the sand.

As a kid, I always wondered how it was possible to take sand and make it into glass. Now, I know. It’s possible because sand
is
glass. It’s just tiny fucking shards of glass that will eat the skin right off your bones if you let it.

At first, I thought I could power through. I’m tough. I’ve been on the receiving end of more than my fair share of BDSM scenarios. I could take a little pain. It would just enhance the experience.

Fuck that.

I had to stop. If I didn’t, I was going to have to explain to Ken’s parents why my skeleton was showing when we returned from our little stroll. Pulling the rolled up towel out from under Ken’s head, I hopped off him and spread the terry cloth strip out sideways under his knees. As I padded our little love nest and made apologies for ruining the mood, Ken’s head flopped back with a defeated thud, as did his wilted penis.

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no!

I couldn’t start over from scratch! It was too late! We’d been gone too long.

No!

Ken might crumble under pressure, but not this bitch! I
thrive
under pressure. And I was going to make this happen.

At first, I thought I could just go down on him for a minute to ramp things back up, but while repositioning the towels, I had managed to get sand on not one, but both of my hands. If I went anywhere near Ken’s penis with those things, there would be a domino effect of sand contamination that wouldn’t end until I had it in my mouth, vag, and probably both eyes.

Maybe it was all the
prana
coming off the ocean, or maybe it was divine intervention, but whatever the source, the solution suddenly made itself known to me. I ripped off Ken’s hoodie, followed by my dress, and tossed my bra onto the pile, as if it were the cherry on top. I was completely fucking naked and
sober
(Those two glasses of pinot G at dinner were just a distant memory.), while outside, in a public place, with my children sleeping mere yards away.

The transcendent feeling I enjoyed earlier? Poof! Gone! Replaced by fear and mortification and the sensation of tiny grains of glass pelting my body in the wind like buckshot.

Happily, my unexpected striptease al fresco sparked an equal and very opposite reaction in Ken. Within two minutes, he was grunting and thrusting his release into me, and although I’d made some muffled noises for his benefit that could have been interpreted as a climax, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding between us that I didn’t get mine.

But that was okay, because Ken had given me something far better than any orgasm. He’d given me another shattered fantasy to add to my growing collection.

You see, Journal, every time I find out that something I once salivated over is actually a logistical nightmare and not fun for anybody, I appreciate my comfortable vanilla lifestyle a little more.

From now on, when we go on vacation, I won’t be pouting 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!

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 hus
boner
. 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!

Dear Journal,