“Finally!” I think as JD rips my shirt to shreds.

I try not to be annoyed, it’s one of my favorites. I can see by the bulge in his grey sweatpants that he’s hard and excited, so I bite my tongue and just roll with it.

Tearing off more strips from my shirt, JD binds my hands to the bedposts. He uses the last strip of shirt to gag me, then stands back to examine his handiwork. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says gleefully.  “Another one?” I think. I’m plenty surprised now and getting wetter by the moment. JD goes into the bathroom, I can hear him rummage around, opening drawers and cabinets. I test my bindings, he’s got me tied tight. The gag tastes like fabric softener, not a very April Fresh flavor at all.

I wonder what triggered this. JD is vanilla with a capital V. This marriage isn’t really working anymore. Everything was fine as long as he had two jobs and was never home. Ever since he lost one, we’ve discovered we’re nowhere near as compatible as we liked to pretend. The sex, however, has always been lackluster. The closest he’s ever come to kinky was producing a half-used bottle of cherry flavored body oil, left over from a tryst with an ex-girlfriend. I’ve tried to talk him into tying me up, roughing me up a little, but all I’m met with is nervous laughter and another round of the missionary position. Over the years I’ve sent him dirty emails, dropped hints, bought toys, all to no avail.  I’m eager to see what he finally has in store.  Continue reading

Much to everyone’s surprise, especially mine, I’ve become a suburban housewife.

When JD proposed, I accepted. I thought why the hell not, I’ve tried every other type of lifestyle. We have a little suburban house in a liberal college town. Now I decorate the yard according to the appropriate holiday, an inflatable turkey for Thanksgiving, enough Christmas lights to blind an airplane landing in the next city. We eat at Applebee’s on Friday nights. The bills get paid and I’ve finally found a brand of kitty litter/dishwashing liquid/paper towel that suits my busy modern lifestyle.

I know I’ve settled. JD weighs over 400 lbs and he’s not very interesting, but he’s nice. After a string of disastrous relationships, he seems stable and reliable. I’m not unattracted to him. He works two jobs, so he isn’t home much, and when he is, he’s watching sitcoms. I work 50 hours in an office and work on my nursing degree at night. We get along.

The logistics of having sex with JD are not complicated. The rare times we do have sex, I’m on top. It’s all very vanilla and perfunctory, especially considering that I wanted my last partner to hold a gun to my head while we fucked. I haven’t told JD very much about my past, sex-wise. When I try to, he says I’m not that person anymore and he doesn’t need to know.

One night after too many watery Margaritas from Chi Chi’s, JD says he has a confession. He asks me to turn the light off because he can’t even look at me while he tells me this. It’s been weighing on him, not telling me this.

Taking a deep breath, he tells me when his friend Jeff had his bachelor party, they all went to a strip club somewhere around Detroit,  then they went to an Asian massage parlor. There were prostitutes there, and he didn’t know that they were going to go. He swears. But they had a few beers first, he didn’t know what he was thinking, so he went in too. He confesses he got a blow job, but she put a condom on him before she blew him.

“That’s it?” I ask. “How long ago was this?”

“Eight years,” he stammers. He sits in silence waiting for my terrible judgement.

“That’s the single most interesting thing you’ve ever told me,” I say. “Let’s fuck.”

I call in sick, my head isn’t right.

I tell my husband, JD, that it must be the flu. He says it’s going around, kisses my forehead, leaves for work. The instant the car pulls from the driveway, I begin. I’ve felt this day hovering in the horizon. A slow sick feeling starts in my heart and spreads outward, poison seeps into my brain. I am utterly defenseless. A therapist once asked what would happen if I didn’t give in. I don’t know, I’m not yet strong enough to find out. When I first married, I told my husband I liked pain with sex. He told me I needed more therapy.

Starting with the kitchen, I look for anything pinchy, sharp, moderately dangerous. I grab the clip from the bag of Doritos. I test a binder clip against my arm, but that’s too much even for me.  I pull open every drawer in the bathroom, and make a small pile of stuff on the bed, hair clips, a brush, anything.

There are rules to this. If I’m going to just masturbate, I set a timer and I have to masturbate the entire time. If I hurt myself, I have to lie still and endure it until the timer goes off. I can’t masturbate for relief until the timer goes off. Generally, one cycle of this is enough. The black cloud bursts and the relief comes, bright and brilliant.

I clamp little butterfly hair clips all over my breasts, the rough teeth break my skin. I set the timer for five minutes and reach down between my legs.  I can’t climax. I try again and set the timer for ten minutes, then fifteen. It isn’t enough. My head isn’t clearing, it’s getting worse. Continue reading