Husband Dot Com

by Ann Dunn

  In a discouraging twist of fate, our new acquaintance was losing steam. He went from sounding like a super-charged drill—to a dying bee on a quiet neighborhood sidewalk. He started to make this low buzz before he stopped working. That was it for him. He was quiet and motionless on the sheets. The sadness I felt was odd in a strange way. I was starting to become attached to my new overpriced, green buddy. Our artificial friend could have at least given us a few months of pleasure before he met his maker. We broke that crazy thing in record time. I felt ashamed that I was somehow involved in the breaking of a sex toy. That type of thing only happens to other dirty people and not us occasionally dirty people.

  The next morning Trent flat out told me, in no uncertain terms, that we must return Rex after breakfast. That was my tipping-point—Trent’s hideous words made my blood suddenly run ice cold. My half-digested scrambled eggs and bacon started to curdle in my stomach. This was my proof that Trent was super cheap! I would have rather had my pinky toenail removed if that was a convenient option!

  That whole thing reminded me of the many times that I had watched porn in the past. The instant I orgasm, all I want to do is turn off the porn as fast as possible—as if it never happened. Then I realize that the stupid remote is lost somewhere in the comforter. I find myself scrambling in a panic to find the flipping remote in total darkness. I wanted that naughty stuff turned off instantly, before I had to admit to myself that I actually watched it. I enjoyed it in the moment, but when I arrived at my final destination, it must vanish. The naked strangers on the television set moments prior seemed “attractive”, and then suddenly they would morph into smelly dirty animals moaning in a sex jungle. That was me and how I felt about my broken plaything. He was rode hard and ultimately demolished. My vibrant gadget was old news. It was time for us to move on to greener pastures and forget sex toys for a while.

  We were in a different zip code, but it was outrageous that we were driving back to the pleasure store—again. We were doing the walk of shame, parking the car right in front of the tacky place. We had no decency or pride left at that point. The sales woman looked like my second grade principal, and I was about to get spanked with a wooden paddle! She glared at us like, "Not them again," with a frown of disgust. I had a comatose look in my eye and my stoic face went perfectly blank. My eyes were saying, “Just let us off easy, please, mean lady, let us get the heck out of Dodge.” She allowed us to exchange the green beast for a neutered, pink, six-inch model with less power. Hiding our faces, we quickly exited—with our subdued pal. What kind of people had we become in that sleepy little town?

  Later that evening, Trent and I had a few drinks at the outdoor hotel bar. I was still hurting down below in my lady-lips region. Heck, my camel-toes looked like deflated pink birthday balloons—not pretty. My ego was wounded and I felt bit ridiculous over how everything went down. Like a true sport, I chose to delight myself with a few libations to ease the constant throbbing.

  Since I am a girl with a little meat on her bones, it felt like when I had one martini, I was getting hot. Two martinis and I became a bit hotter. Three martinis and I had become cha-ching, super-hot! Any more drinks than that and everything heads down-hill very quickly! For what it’s worth, that was how it went down in my own slightly buzzed reality that evening. It was as if I hit an invisible sexy button underneath the bar, or so I imagined. Although, the mirror in the ladies room may have told a different tale than my bar stool was whispering to me.

  Skinny gals pranced around and drank water thinking they looked hot, because they really did—damn it! Without fail, when I had a couple of drinks a glow would come over me. I felt like I was the queen bee in my very own skinny kingdom. I know I'm not the only red-blooded female who has experienced this not-so-mysterious phenomenon. Hence, the many cheerful ladies who start to perk up in the friskiness zone after a happy hour. I apologize profusely if I am spilling a martini glass full of some "girl code of silence” over here. I certainly would not want to step on any manicured toes. What the heck, there is something to be said of being able to walk into a bar one size, and after a few drinks, magically become a size foxalicious!

  7). Mr. Tattoo

  Right after our pit stop at the tiki bar, Trent and I went for a walk. Trent spotted a tattoo parlor. Regretfully, Trent and I walked into the charming store of pain and torture. In a weak attempt to be bold and hold onto my fleeting youth, I decided to have my left nipple pierced. It seemed like such a fabulous whimsical plan at the time. I was suffering from a mild state of braveness, momentarily thinking, I was slightly cooler than I actually was.

  The hotel had a tattoo and body-piercing masochist who was working that night—lucky me. I had stepped right into a situation that I knew was a full-blown recipe for disaster. The guy who pierced my nipple was an extraordinarily tattoo-laden dude. So from outside appearances, it seemed that when he was slow at work he practiced body art on himself—for extended periods of time. I had stepped right into a situation that I knew was a recipe for disaster. The tats had taken over most of the young guy's body. Mr. Tattoo had a few friends in the store with him, and he asked me if they could watch him perform the piercing and put me entirely on the spot. So of course, I said yes in an unusually high-pitched tone. In my head I was screaming, no way you mental patients, but fear had temporarily strangled my vocal cords.

  The sinister needle was the size of a small toothpick. The evil man took his sweet time inserting it into my nipple. I found that peculiar, because I recalled when I had my ears pierced as a kid the piercers seemed to be in a bit more of a hurry. My danger receptors were kicking into high gear! He stopped halfway through my inflamed nipple, as if to savor the moment and lick his chops. If I had a nice bottle of Chardonnay I may have cracked it over his head to get him away from me! I so badly wanted to say, stop it, you depraved man! But, I allowed him to keep going, for the vain reason that I did not want a flipping hole in my left boob with nothing to show for it. “Frick nugget, what have I done to myself now”, should have been tattooed across my forehead. It was a little late in the game to start complaining about being captive and topless on a cold metal Frankenstein table.

  My legs went numb, and I had to remind myself that I said okay to the whole mini-operation in the first place. I should have said, “Please sir, may I have another?” When he finally finished his torture session, I had my shiny silver trophy—it hung from my extremely irritated and aggravated nipple. My nipple region had swelled to five times its original size and was burning like a wild forest fire. That escapade went well beyond the hidden threshold of a good time and straight into a shadowy conservatory of unadulterated pain.

  Holy, Hell, fire-town! My bastard nipple of hurt like nothing I had ever experienced before! I think my lady-bug went numb from fear because she thought she was next on the chopping block! My clitoris was hiding in my pants like a baby crab in its shell. I was in so much frickin pain I thought I was literally floating in outer space. Hot dammit, that thing hurt! The wildly tattooed guy got his rocks off inflicting me with his special brand of distinctive pain. I am sure his dipstick was stiff the entire time he was piercing me. My girl radar has always instinctively known these types of man things. Heck, if I was a little more of a harlot, or had a few more frosty adult beverages, I may have had my way with him right there with my hubby and the strangers watching. As beddable as tattoo guys are, they are really not my brown bag of treats. Only a badass tattoo girl could pull off a noble stunt like that. My lot in life at that intersection was that of a fair to midland flirtatious woman with a mighty sore boob. Although, looking back, I may have missed out on a golden opportunity for a spectacular evening of pain induced fun.

  The piercer was cute in a devilishly tattooed way. I am super sure he had to pleasure his crusty lobster as soon as we left. That little ink store probably had its closed sign up for three minutes upon our exit. I could have only hoped that the evil guy washed his little sticky fingers before his next victim darkened the
doors of his beachside torture chamber.

  I was brazen and somewhat frisky with my new metal object punctured through my tender skin. I went under the guise of having a free spirit, but inside I was quite a hot mess—only held together by an underwire bra and gobs of Advil. After the over-the-counter pain meds kicked in, I was able to somewhat withstand going to a nightclub. The place we sauntered into was a dirty hole in the wall. We had officially become the dregs of the earth on our short-lived getaway.

  Severe impaled-udder pain was hot on my tail on for weeks, with no relief in sight. The simple task of skipping through the frozen food section of the supermarket brought tears to my eyes! By the time I got to the ice cream, I wanted to dash out of the store doors, as if I was running to a clearance sale at Macy’s. The frosty food section gives even normal gals nips severe frostbite. My milk jug felt like it had a five-pound icicle hanging from it. There is no way to even imagine the sensitivity one endures when a tender ta-ta is punctured with a piece of metal. Throughout the ordeal, I decided to make a pit stop at the mall and buy a few grandma-inspired padded bras. Those fandangled missile holders resembled small pony harnesses. I was on the hunt to hide my conspicuous object from any innocent bystanders. Plus, I did not want to clue anyone in on my freaky side!

  There was roughly a week that I ran around like a five-dollar tart showing everyone my classified trinket. I displayed my ring with pride as if it were a tiny medal of honor. At every house party, I had to drag my friends into bathroom and show off my left boob. A few of my girlfriends followed suit and followed me down the unhappy boob trail. I temporally turned into the Pied Piper of pain.

  That nipple ring did not raise my charming factor one bit! Although, I must say my foolish-girl quota did climb a few notches. I had beaten my boobs up pretty good in my lifetime. First, I had implants in my twenties and then that silly ring thing. Why did I ever think that I could improve upon nature? Sexiness is an uncontrollable light force that filled me up inside and radiated outwardly. So why the hell did I think that I needed that shit to prove anything? Just the essence of being a woman had given me all the gear I needed for this lifetime.

  I did not need that frivolous nipple ring to prove a single thing. The only lesson I learned from my pissed-off nipple fiasco was that being true to myself is what truly made me dazzle. For what it's worth, it did not even make sex more exciting—like some of the rumor spreaders had promised me—wenches. I hit the ceiling when Trent even brushed against my skin ornament. That damn nipple addition caused me a ton of trouble. Trent said to me, "You are capable of anything," because of my brand new metal object. Trent did not intend that to be a compliment by any stretch of the imagination. Trent was clearly insecure about my enhancement. He was the former swinger guy, so what in the heck did he need to worry about me for?

  The only weakness that I would fess up to was being a “chronic crotch watcher.” Trent was always screaming at me to stop looking down at random men’s hardware as they walked by—so what if I have a relentless weakness for well-endowed fellows. Even though I had big eyes, I was always faithful to him. I was slighted by Trent's cold shoulder and insulting insinuations about my boob jewel. My intentions were coming from the right place. I wanted to show him that I was as much fun as his former wild lifestyle. His negative attitude towards my new plaything was only jealousy rearing its ugly head! I actually thought that he would enjoy it—wow, was I painfully wrong. The nipple pain I experienced would be nothing compared to what Trent had in store for me in the coming weeks.

  I thoroughly understand and get the need for excitement. I am a first-class, grade-A thrill-seeker in a vanilla wonderland over here. If I was an uncomplicated gal I am sure I would not have ended up in the precarious ponds that I have dabbled around in. Although, I am not into mate swapping or extreme kink—it’s just not me. I knew in my heart that Trent's animalistic call back to flesh motel could only be ignored by him for so long. I could have hung out in swing clubs with the best of them, any day of the week—I just didn’t want to. I am not a hater or judgmental. I have walked the earth long enough to know what makes my fancy tingle. The few seconds of an orgasm was not worth the scalding, nuclear plant, sterilization-style shower that I’d need to give myself when I got home from a mound of suck fest two-thousand—simple as that. My butt cheeks would be red and welted for weeks if I had to endure that kind of cleanup on aisle three!

  I have a strong sex drive and I have struggled to find a real life, balance. I am sure that is in part the reason why I have inadvertently chosen “hot to trot” men like Trent in the first place. With all things considered, I do have a decidedly saucy side that runs amply through my veins. While I have embraced my sexuality and go after what I want in bed, to some degree, there is still always room for fantastic inspiration. I am certainly not a wilting wallflower by any stretch of the imagination—being with Trent certainly capitalized on my inner sex tussle. I am more open minded than many of my friends. Yet, I still do have a few chains on me—thank goodness. As open sexually as I was at the time, I still could not mentally move beyond Trent's sexual past, as hard as I tried.

  Even though I had an erotica list that I enjoyed daydreaming of, Trent and I never discussed them. A piece of me was afraid if I let him into my secluded mental sanctuary; he may have perceived my fantasies as a green light and would want to act them out. Those fantasies of mine were the private property of my brain and not the shared property of our marriage. I was not about to split any of that funky shit 50-50! I instinctually knew that Trent’s human nature would get the best of him. Historically speaking, nature always wins, and being acutely aware of that fact, I knew that I would ultimately lose. Trent’s sexual addictions were his master, and I simply his mistress.

  8). Misty

  The only time we seemed to get along was when we were in different zip codes or neighborhood dildo boutiques. Trent planned for us to take a last-minute trip to New Jersey. We had a great time together walking around the chilly city and sightseeing. We laughed for hours in the monumental hotel bed like slap-happy teenagers.

  Talking about the future seemed natural as we lingered around with our bodies twisted in a knot. We truly connected on a deep level and had significant life conversations. The cold-weather sex was better than our warm-weather sex back home. We acted like wild horndogs on the loose in our historic hotel. The trip was starting to seal our fate as a committed married couple. I caught a glimmer of hope that maybe our love thing had a slight forever-after shot in the dark. At dinner we found ourselves falling back into artificial infatuation all over again. We were all over each other like a couple of love-sick doves. It was dripping in pathetic cupid-goo for any outsiders who witnessed our frenzy of flesh. Trent and I always had to have some part of our bodies touching at all times.

  On the way back to the hotel, Trent took me to this super-creepy old house on the side of the road. It was a little shop of sex. That was the only name I could muster up for that place. The theme was an old-school sex store with a twist. The building was wooden, decrepit and a dirty white color. When we first walked in, it appeared to be only a porn and toy store, so it was nothing too scary. Then we walked down a narrow, dark hall and it became a real-life human sex store. The atmosphere reminded me of an old-fashioned county fair, except this fun house had a triple-x theme. When I was a kid and entered a carnival fun house for the first time it felt sort of enjoyable. That was, until I walked down an unlit hall and the not-so fun-house turned into scary-as-hell house. The sensation throttled me that I could not turn around, but going forward may have been certain death. So, I held onto the person in front of me as if they could save me. Twenty years later, there I was, frozen stiff and clenching onto to Trent's arm for dear life. I must have looked like a lifeless mannequin in the window of a nickel-and-dime store—just waiting to be brought back to life. The only thing I wanted was to get out of there with my lady biscuit still intact.

  Bad things happen in that building when the su
n goes down and the local people never even whisper of it. I just knew it to my core. In the back of the building there were live nude girls. It smelled like old house and it was musty and dark. That was the kind of experience that nightmares are made of. Of course, Trent with a twisted sense of male pride, wanted to show me his old stomping ground. Like, as if the experience would help us bond on a deeper level. What the heck kind of run-down, honky-tonk place was this anyway, was all I could think of! The teenager inside of me was screaming, I am on a roller coaster, and it's going too fast—please get me off now! The reality was that I was freaked out that he even took me there in the first place—what was he thinking? I kept saying to myself, I pray tomorrow night we can just go to Atlantic City like normal, degenerate people and devour the all-you-can-eat snow crab with a heaping pound of melted butter.

  The over-the-top sex stuff was starting to send chills up and down my spine—like an evil porcupine was sitting on my back. Being scared of a sex shop was a tall feat for a tough South Florida girl like me. If I was from a small town in the Midwest, I would have probably called the police on Trent and reported the sex store to the FBI. No joke, that hardcore place was not for the faint of heart! I had been to some “whiskey-tango” strip clubs in Ft. Lauderdale back in the day—trashy would be considered a compliment inside those establishments. However, that eerie sex house in New Jersey made the Florida strip clubs look like friendly ice cream parlors. Knowing that I was in over my head and way out of my freak league by the end of the trip was a strange sensation for sure.