Monday, July 25, 2011

You always hurt the one you love

There I sat staring at it.

It wobbled a little back and forth throughout it's gelatinous, molded shape.
"What in the hell is that thing?" I ask him.
"What do you think it is?" he laughs.
I knew exactly what it was, my question really meant, where in the hell to you think you'll be putting that thing. I assume up your own ass.
My secret birthday present had been revealed. It was even wrapped.
But now the monster stood there, intimidating me. "No way. Nooo way."
"It's OK, it's fine. You don't have to. I thought you'd want to. It would feel good," he says in his most convincing voice.
"It would dislocate my vagina. You're a fucking weirdo."
"You're so funny." he taps the thing on my leg, "he just wants to say hi."
"Get it off me. Away from me," I toss it across the den and it hits the wall with a loud thud.
"Don't break it. It wasn't cheap, and I doubt I can return it." He picks the colossus up at stands it up on the coffee table again."It has a suction cup."
"I feel like you're trying to sell me a used car."
"Just once. With lots of lube. If it hurts I'll stop."

Three weeks I endured sly innuendos about the massive thing. It lived in the bedside drawer, rolling around every time he reached in to grab his reading glasses. It sounded like a severed arm, sliding back and forth, hitting the dovetailed wood. It mocked me.

One day I was cleaning up the bedroom, and thought about the plastic menace and peaked in the drawer. The smell of rubber wafted up to my nose. I picked it up. It seemed heavier than before.
You could knock a man out with this, I think, while giving it a baseball bat swing.
As I followed through on my home run hit, the slippery surface of the rubber made my fingers begin to slip. As if in slow motion, the dildo left my grasp as the bedroom door opened. He stood there with a confused look on his face as the 3 pound projectile hurtled towards his face.
I watch in horror as this porn star plaything slams my boyfriend right in the nose. Blood gushes everywhere.
"Why the fuck did you throw that at me?!"
"It slipped. I was pretending it was a baseball bat. I'm so sorry. Is it broken?"
"Yes it's fucking broken," he fires back.
"Let me look," I peer at the bloody mess. His nose was clearly bent to the left. "It's broken."
"Pop it back where it goes," he squints his eyes, bracing for adjustment.
I gingerly grasp the bridge of his nose and quickly pop it towards it's home. He screams, and then sighs with relief.

"If it hurts, I'll stop.".
And that is the story of why I walked funny for several days in May 1999.

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