by Lisa Ferrari
It’s perfect.
In that moment, watching Tinkerbell flit across the sky over our heads, I am so completely and totally in love with Kellan that I can hardly bear it. I’m at a loss for how to show him or tell him how I feel.
So I simply stand there, holding his hands, enjoying the show. Enjoying the moment.
WHEN THE PARK closes, Kellan buys a churro on our way out, and we share it. We stroll together down Main Street, savoring the buildings with their beautiful lights.
We get back to the hotel and swing through the gift shop to buy a couple bottles of water. We spot a box of chocolate-covered fudge cookies that looks interesting, particularly because it says Sugar Free! on the front of the package. Kellan reads the ingredients. He points out the maltitol, which is a sugar alcohol, which is fine. But when consumed in large quantities, it can cause flatulence. We agree to each eat no more than two cookies.
We open the package while we’re in the elevator. The churro seems to have awakened our sweet tooth.
By the time we’re opening the door to our hotel room, we’ve each eaten four cookies. Holy crap they’re good.
We eat half the package.
And then we eat half of the remaining half.
Finally Kellan closes them up and stuffs them in a cupboard, way up high. We agree to save the rest for tomorrow.
We shower together, but just as Kellan predicted, we’re too exhausted to fool around. Kellan washes my feet, giving me a luxuriously soapy foot massage.
We fall into bed naked. Kellan turns out the light and we gaze out the window at the lights of the park. The pointy white spires of Space Mountain are visible, with blue lights. It’s enchanting.
We replay the day in our minds, discussing each attraction.
I understand now why Disneyland is such a big deal to so many people. It’s a magical place.
We’re in the middle of planning our day for tomorrow, beginning with checking out Disney’s California Adventure, the other park.
I feel pressure in my abdomen. In my stomach. In my gut. After several minutes, I’m feeling uncomfortable and I’m nearly ready to ask Kellan for some antacids or something.
And then I fart.
A big, long, loud fart.
And it smells.
Bad.
Kellan and I stare at one another, eyes wide.
I cover my face with my hands in embarrassment.
And then Kellan farts.
Big, long, and loud, just like mine.
With the same odor.
“See?” Kellan says. “Maltitol. Sometimes it bothers me and sometimes it doesn’t. Looks like tonight is one of the times when it does.”
“What do we do?”
“Nothing. Fart it out.”
“Oh, God!”
I want to jump out the window. The windows don’t open, however. Probably to prevent people from jumping out of them.
“Claire, it’s fine. People fart.”
“Not me. Not in front of you.”
“It’s fine. It’s a natural human function. Especially after eating an entire package of sugar-free cookies.”
The farting continues. First me, then Kellan. Then Kellan, and then me again. We laugh each time, interrupting our discussion to rate the volume and duration of each toot.
Kellan says the sharing of bodily functions is something every couple must negotiate. It’s an opportunity to bond and to draw closer to one another.
He’s already held my hair for me while I vomited, so farting should be no big deal.
Sleep eventually supplants our exhaustion. Kellan drifts off first. He farts in his sleep several times before I, too, am in dreamland.
I dream of carriages and white horses, and of Kellan dressed like a prince in a white tuxedo and tall white riding boots. We’re in a rose garden, walking down the aisle toward a white gazebo. There are dozens and dozens of people sitting on either side, smiling at us as we pass. Everyone is attired in fantastical storybook garb.
My prince and me.
I’m happier than I’ve ever been.
Chapter 15
BY THE TIME we awaken, the farting seems to have ceased.
I am relieved. Bonding opportunity or not, I don’t think I’ve ever had that much gas come out of me. The bloating is gone and I feel mostly normal once again.
Kellan and I return to Goofy’s for the breakfast buffet before we make our way to California Adventure. I’m eager to ride the big white roller coaster.
On our way to the park, we stroll through the grounds of the hotel. We come upon a rose garden with beautiful green grass and a white gazebo exactly like the one in my dream.
For the second time in twelve hours, my head explodes.
When Kellan sees me going crazy and asks me what’s up, I tell him all about my dream and him in his princely tux and me in my gown.
He says maybe it’s a sign. Or a vision of the future. A themed wedding we’re destined to have here, with all of our friends and family dressed in period attire. Or perhaps it’s a dream memory, of an actual wedding that we had in a past life several hundred years ago, somewhere in England.
Wow.
I like the way he thinks.
Disney’s California Adventure is amazing. The big white rollercoaster doesn’t disappoint.
The big fun wheel is fantastic, offering an unparalleled view of the parks and the city. The Cars ride is a blast, and I adore the Little Mermaid ride so much that Kellan and I get off, go around to get back in line, and ride it again.
We hop back and forth all day between the two parks.
It becomes apparent that we need at least a week or ten days here. There’s so much to see and do. Two days is simply not enough.
NIGHT FALLS.
We watch the fireworks again, grab another churro, and stroll down Main Street toward the exit. I’m so, so sad that we’re leaving and won’t be returning tomorrow.
But Kellan promises we’ll come back, perhaps for Christmas. He says they put up a huge, tall Christmas tree. Christmas is my favorite holiday, so I’d love to see that.
We skip the fart cookies on our way through the hotel. We shower together again, bathing one another. This time, when we get into bed, we make love. There are no farts to interrupt us. Flatus interruptus? That would be a funny name for a novel. Or a gimmicky short story.
Kellan is asleep in a matter of minutes after his orgasm. As I fall asleep, relishing the feeling of him still inside me, I am happier than I’ve ever been.
THE NEXT MORNING, we enjoy a third buffet breakfast, and then pack our bags and check out. It will be a six-to seven-hour drive home, but I’m looking forward to cruising with the top down in my new car, with Kellan beside me.
Once we get through the mountainous, twisty, and very beautiful road known as the Grapevine, we descend down into the valley, where Interstate Five stretches almost perfectly straight all the way toward Sacramento.
We pass signs for Bakersfield, where Kellan’s douchebag embezzling brother the convicted felon lives. I think he’s doing time. Neither of us mentions him.
I am curious, though. I’d like to know if Kellan will ever get his $3 million back. But I hold my tongue.
Kellan puts his seat back and relaxes, enjoying the autumn sun on his face.
I truly understand now why three of his four cars are convertibles. It turns mere driving into a pleasurable activity. Akin to going to a movie or out to eat, we could simply pop the top and go for a drive.
Kellan and I hold hands while we drive. The wind tosses my hair. The little red Pontiac hums along effortlessly. I have several hours to muse over the recent days and everything they’ve entailed. The meeting, the Del, the SEALs, Disneyland… Talk about adventure. I’ve never had so much adventure.
The joyous memories and my overwhelming affection for Kellan make me kinda horny. I start rubbing his thigh. Then his crotch. Then his penis, which I find is erect.
I unzip his zipper and reach into his jeans.
After a minute of me fumbling, Kellan opens his pants and takes himself out. I stroke it while we drive.
I wonder if the truck drivers can see as we zip past them. I’m doing seventy-five miles per hour. Is giving your beloved a hand job the same as using your cell phone? Is this distracted driving?
I retrieve a small tube of aloe vera hand lotion from my purse, squirt most of its contents on Kellan’s erection, and proceed to moisturize him.
I’m the one becoming moist.
About 15 minutes later, Kellan comes all over the place. I try to avoid the head of his penis, so I don’t tickle him.
I also try to keep my eyes at least somewhat on the road. The last thing we need is for the CHP to find us crashed on the side of the road. They’d take one look at us and say, “Yep, we know what they were doing.”
What a way to go.
But wow. A seventy-five mile-per-hour orgasm.
WE STOP FOR gas and to find some food.
We have lunch at Red Robin, a restaurant chain known for its amazing burgers. Kellan orders fried zucchini. It isn’t on the menu, but our waitress says they have it. They’re long spears fried to a crispy golden brown and topped with shredded parmesan, and we dip them in Ranch dressing. Holy crap. They’re hot inside and I burn my mouth, but it’s worth it.
Kellan also orders fish and chips. Again, delicious.
For lunch he orders the Fiery Ghost Pepper Double Ridiculous Insanity Burger. Or something to that effect. It has barbecue sauce made from ghost peppers, as well as fried and fresh jalapeno peppers.
I opt for the Prime Chophouse Burger that has sautéed mushrooms and fried onion straws and is served on an onion bun.
We cut our burgers in half and offer one another a bite.
Holy hot sauce. Kellan’s burger is hot as Hades. I almost spit it out. I grab for my water but he says water will make it worse. He hands me his giant glass of milkshake, which is a banana and chocolate concoction he cajoled our waitress, Sonja, into adding some Captain Morgan to. It helps a little.
“That is so hot. How can you eat that?” I wipe my lips with my napkin; they’re on fire.
“It’s good.” Kellan takes another big bite, along with a big fat French fry dipped in ketchup.
Kellan devours his burger, along with half of mine, and the rest of the fish sticks, and the rest of the fried zucchini.
I love watching him eat.
Greasy fingers and shiny lips.
The muscles in his jaw pulsating.
I want to make a YouTube channel called Watch Kellan Eat. It’ll be nothing but videos of him eating. I could monetize it and probably make five grand a month in no time. Half a million subscribers in about 20 minutes. Especially if Kellan ate with his shirt off.
Take that, Pew Die Pie.
YouTuber of The Year for sure.
I could buy a whole new wardrobe, and lots of really expensive lingerie, and lots of pairs of sexy boots.
Lots.
I could get my anus bleached.
I could vajazzle myself, too. That’ll give Kellan something else to eat. What happens if you put chocolate fondue all over your vulva?
When Sonja asks if we saved room for dessert, Kellan says, “Of course. Mud pie, please.”
I’m not sure what mud pie is but it doesn’t sound good.
Not that I can eat any more. That burger was as big as me.
But then the mud pie shows up.
And it is a mountain of chocolate ice cream with fudge, caramel, and Oreo crumbles.
Kellan attacks it. He tips it onto its side, making it easier to cut into.
It’s so much food. I think I just consumed 5,000 calories.
“Don’t worry,” Kellan says, as he spoons the last of the melted chocolate ice cream into his mouth, “this is vacation eating. You have to go a little crazy with your nutrition. That way, when you get home and get back on your cutting regimen, you’re a tiny bit disgusted with all the rich food. And the gas and the bloating and feeling like you want to throw up, and praying to sweet little baby Jesus that the toilet doesn’t get clogged and overflow tomorrow. I think maybe I’ll go poop at Nordstrom’s or something, just in case.”
The notion of getting back to eating clean food is appealing. I am so full that my stomach kinda hurts. It’s been months since I pigged out like this. I used to do it all the time. It’s how I got so big in the first place. But now that I’ve been eating better, I’m able to contrast it with eating this restaurant food. I’m puzzled by how I used to do it so often, cramming so much food into me that my stomach hurt when I was finished. I did it at work, I did it at my parents’ house, I did it at Denise’s house, I did it at home by myself when there was no one to judge me. Or to hold me accountable.
What was I thinking?
I’m not going to beat myself up over it; it’s simply how I’ve always related to food: eat as much as you like. Which typically translates to eating as much as you possibly can. But now I see food more as fuel than as a crutch or as an escape. Vacations like this one nothwithstanding.
BACK IN THE car, Kellan offers to drive so I can relax.
And relax I do. I put my seat back and once my stomach stops hurting, I’m able to truly enjoy my food coma. The sun is warm on my face, the wind plays with my hair, and Kellan finds some nice music on a local radio station. They play a block of Cold Play, and then a block of U2, and then a block of Natalie Merchant, and then we lose the station because we’re too far north.
Kellan reaches over and rests his hand on the inside of my thigh. It feels nice.
The next thing I know, his hand is down my pants and I’m convulsing from my orgasm.
Kellan licks his finger.
Wow.
A COUPLE HOURS later, we stop in Patterson to stretch. Kellan wants coffee to help him stay awake.
We enter the gas station and there is a restaurant attached. Kellan whispers in my ear that he wants to take me into the bathroom and fuck my brains out until we both come, and he wants to come deep inside me.
Holy trucker talk. I’m instantly wet listening to him describe what he wants to do to me.
But he says we’ll wait until we get home, so I can scream.
I want to. I plan to.
But once Kellan has his coffee and I have my sugar-free Rock Star and we’re back on the road, I grab his hand and push it down the front of my jeans again. I’m so horny. I don’t know why.
Kellan massages my vagina and clit, moving up and down between them. His rhythm and timing is perfect. When I start to moan and gasp and cry out because I’m getting close, he goes back to my vagina, which is nice, but I can’t come from that.
Finally, after a good 30 minutes, he lets me have my climax.
And it is a good one.
Wow. I always knew, and read in Cosmo a million times, that build-up is the key, but wow.
Kellan licks his finger again.
I’m so happy that he’s not turned off by the secretions from my delicate lady parts.
I’m so happy.
ONCE WE’RE HOME, we quickly unpack and Kellan does our laundry. We have a good hour-long workout in the home gym. We superset chest and back, going back and forth between bench press and lat pulldowns.
I can’t believe how strong I am. Kellan says it’s all the food, the extra calories, the complex and simple carbs, the sugar, the caffeine and other stuff in the Rock Star.
I’m able to bench-press 135 like it’s nothing. I do four sets of twelve. I’m astounded.
After 20 minutes of cardio and a brief cool-down, Kellan prepares a protein shake for each of us and we take them into the pool, floating and swimming and relaxing while we sip our chocolate shakes. They’re almost as good as the mud pie. Actually, they’re not even close, but I tell myself that they are.
We climb into the spa and enjoy the hot water. Kellan pulls me into his lap, so I’m facing him.
He hugs me tight, wrapping both arms around me. I feel so safe and secure.
Kellan exhales a long breath. I feel his body relax.
“I love you, Claire.”
I gaze into his eyes. “I love you, too, Kellan.”
Our lips meet, and we’re lost in one another.
THE NEXT DAY, at work, it’s business as usual.
Except that it’s totally not.
Not for me.
It seems like I haven’t been here in a long, long time.
Things are different.
The notices on the cork board are different. The plastic pitchers are on the bottom shelf and the coffee pots are on the middle shelf. I always put them the other way around, because we use the pitchers every day for every single event, but not every event requires coffee to be served.
The bread baskets are dirty. Some have bread crumbs in the bottom. Others have old, dried butter stuck to the woven wicker. WTF?
When I go to make coffee, I can’t find the filters. They’re not on the stainless steel shelf beneath the coffee maker with the bags of coffee. I eventually find them in the back room, inside the big metal cabinet where we keep the salt and pepper shakers and the all the sweetener. WTF?
I guess this is what happens when I’m gone for a week having casting meetings and staying in neat hotels and touring Disneyland and getting my brains bonked out by the man I’m so in love with I can barely contain myself.
As I make the coffee, it’s all I can do to refrain from texting Kellan to tell him I love him. And to maybe duck into the bathroom to take a pic of my nipple or my pubes or something, to send to him.
Chris sees me making coffee and comes over to talk.
He’s officially Head Chef. It’s even embroidered in shiny blue cursive script on his brand new chef’s whites.
I congratulate him.
He asks how my time off was.
I say it was good.
Chris pulls out his phone and says he heard it was better than good. He shows me his Instagram. Kellan was tagged by that floozy cocktail waitress Brandi on her own account, with a long, bullcrap caption about how she got to hang with Mister Universe and blah blah blah, with a bunch of hashtags about fitness and fit chicks and fit dudes and how much she rocks.
Brandi also posted a pic of Kellan getting all chatty and smiley with Kim K.