I’m on my way to my first orgasm as a divorcée.
I’m drunk. So this might be a little nonsequitorial.
I’m in bed in the middle of the day with a Screwdriver in one hand and this hologram of a golden retriever between my legs. I have to visualize a dog, because all my fantasies for the last six years have involved my husband. Being molested. By a woman with dark hair; by a man; by my husband’s best friend; by a bull; by a thug named Dr. Meat, or Dr. Meat’s friend, as I watch through a one-way mirror.
I’m still excited by my ex.
Who isn’t exactly my ex, as he hasn’t left yet. I can’t get him out of my house. Our house.
I can’t get him out of my fantasies.
So I said, send in the dogs.
His expression is blank; he’s just a dog. I’ve had fantasy dogs before, but only as part of complicated, highly populated, sordid tableaus. I’ve never been alone with one. I feel like I should say something – like we’re on a first date. He sticks out his penis: a skinny, pink-and-brown roll. I’ve never actually seen a dog dick, but I saw a pig dick once in a bestiality video that turned my stomach. (I like only the idea of animal husbandry.) In the video, the pig dick was a corkscrew, like the tail. These two flappers, wearing their cute flapper clothes, were trying to get it inside them. They also tried to rape a pony.
I miss married sex. The between-humans kind. I especially love post-baby married sex. The no frills, quickie, I-know-you-you-know-me-let’s-get-it-on-’n-get-off kind — plain, in the bed or on the bathmat, gazing into eyes you’ve seen the color of a million times before.
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