by Lacy Maran
But being the psychotically obsessive hunk he was, Slap had tailed me home to make sure I hadn't hopped on any stray boners I might have come across. Slap's insane streak came in handy though as he swooped in and defused the explosive ex with a little soothing S&M.
Wait...my boyfriend had the nerve to dom some other dame in front of me? Never mind that I should have been happy to still be alive. Never mind that Slap was just trying to talk Psycho out of her frenzy. I was going to get irrationally jealous and worry that Slap would leave me for the fruit cake in a mini skirt in front of me.
Finally Slap was able to whisk me to his car where I could stew about the woe begotten spectacle that was the life of a submissive nitwit.
***
Later, back at the billionaire's mansion, my brain farted like I'd just eaten a six pack of burritos.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked, ridonkulously upset.
"I get off on spanking chicks butts until they bleed. What isn't wrong with me?" Slap replied.
"Yeah. My butt. Not your crazy ex girlfriends tuckus. And for kinky's sake, who talks someone down from a ledge by offering to give their heiny a good hammering? What did you, grow up in an S&M parlor?"
"Look. I'm damaged goods. I come with more baggage than a trophy wife after a shoe sale. My childhood was something out of a horror movie. Not to mention all the women I date remind me of my crack whore Mother. So the way I see it, I have a blank check to act like a goon buffoon."
"Wow. It's almost like bad boys really can't be reformed. How's it possible that books and movies have lied to me all these years? What's next, you're going to tell me that Santa Clause isn't real?"
"Uh, hello...we're talking about my suffering here. Now I know I promised not to spank you silly, but it would be so romantic if you could hand over your butt cheeks just one more time."
It was then a light went on in my head. Which was strange, because I didn't realize my noggin had a light switch all this time. In the ultimate act of super slo motion self realization, it became clear that Slap was one sick puppy.
I mean, I knew his name was Slap McHappy, but everyone gave their whip a nickname right? And whose exes didn't want to murder them in cold blood at a charity blow job auction? Plus, you had to give some leeway to a guy who had a lobotomy worthy childhood then acted out all his aggressions on unsuspecting naive coeds...
Wait a minute, was obsessive fury not a sane response to your girlfriend acknowledging that another man existed? Was wanting to slap someone's ass silly really that twisted of a desire? Was I the biggest dumbass in the world for putting up with such blatant abuse for so long? Suddenly it occurred to me that a well adjusted woman would have fled the scene long ago. But I thought, why not give him a fiftieth shot to muster a half human emotion?
"You have to admit, you're kind of twisted, right?" I replied.
"Well duh. But I'm also a hunky billionaire debonair dingaling swinging between my legs," Slap responded.
"You had me at dingaling."
"So, you want to get married even though I have no concept of what love, honoring, or cherishing is?"
"Depends. Can we have butt plug sex on the honeymoon?"
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
I swooned. "This may just be the happiest degrading marriage in history. Hooray for low esteem."
The End.
My Butt Hurts (And Other Problems With Marrying A Sadistic Billionaire)
If you didn't know it, your honeymoon was simply the best time to throw a balls to the wall tantrum. At least that's what Slap told me. Then again, Slap also insisted that unicorns went extinct after the great joust-a-thon of 1372, so maybe he wasn't the best source for intellectual nibbles.
To be fair though, the line dancing elephants at the wedding reception would be enough to throw anyone into a cataclysmic hissy fit (could you believe it cost $25,000 to train a pachyderm to square dance?). Back in reality, or at least the deranged corner of the universe I called home, all hell broke loose.
Slap had taken me to the South of France for our honeymoon (really, that was the best you could do billionaire? I routinely took vacations to Mars in my head, so I expected nothing short of Uranus from you). It took all of five minutes for Mr. Well Adjusted to blow his gasket. Now generally if you got into a knock down drag out throw the ironing board across the room fight on the honeymoon, you knew your marriage was built on a foundation of lumpy pudding.
But since I flipped the bird to my sanity long ago, I figured our marriage could coast on genital gymnastics just fine for the next forty or five years (give or take a few mental breakdowns). In Slap's defense, I did decide to tan topless, so naturally the man of my dreams (or was it nightmares?) felt the need to mark up my knockers in a whirlwind of fury. I guess the logic was "if you're going to show your boobies off to the world, I'm going to scar them so no one but a sadist would want to see them bouncing again."
With that kind of level headed thinking, I was so glad I vowed to spend the rest of my life with the douche bag of my dreams. But despite the kind of abuse that would send most women running for social services, I decided to reluctantly allow Slap back inside my carnal cupboard (after all, it was our honeymoon). After playing a little peek a boo with Slap's profound pecker, all was right with the world again.
***
Back in the rainy confines of the Pacific Northwest though, my marriage became a minefield of manipulation and childish mind games (was the second week of marriage too early to start couple's counseling?). Slap would torment me to the brink of hurling myself into the Pacific, then woo me back with his wang. Then I would try to exert my independence only to find myself gobbling his knob at the slightest dance of Slap's dick.
You'd think two people with the brain power of lobotomized beavers playing mind games would be akin to beauty pageant contestants performing brain surgery, but somehow Slap and I took manipulation to a new and completely unnecessary level.
It was a vicious cycle--fight, fornicate, repeat (and don't forget to add a dollop of self loathing for extra kick). With that level of dysfunction at play, it was no surprise when Slap suggested a butt plug could be the solution to all our problems. The conversation did not go quite as he expected:
"You want to put what in my butt?" I asked.
"I know a butt plug isn't in your top five fornicating favorites, but to be fair there are far worse things I could put back there," Slap insisted. "Kumquats, rutabaga’s, a litter of newborn gerbils--"
"Only you could find a way to make extreme spanking seem like a good alternative--"
"Hey, just say the word and I'll grab my paddle. I just put a new coat of polish on it and can't wait to take it out for a spin."
"Here's an idea. Let's not stick any foreign objects into my tush."
"Wow. You really are a party pooper. I think me and my ginormous woody are going to go pout in the corner."
"If you're going to get all maudlin about it, then fine. Just spread me ass cheeks with care."
"Yay, emotional immaturity wins out again. Now, let's ram that rod into your rectum."
***
After the tush push, things went back to sadism as usual. That was, until my uterus started crying out. A couple of dribbles of pee on a dipstick later and the stage was set for the biggest shit storm this side of a manure lot.
"I'm pregnant," I said.
There were a lot of ways to react to finding out your wife was with child. Storming out in a huff of emotional napalm did not top the list (although it did score partially better than throwing priceless artifacts across the room then blaming your pet ferret).
"That seems like a rational response," I said to myself, realizing what a great father figure Slap made by walking out on his own fetus. But the ample time I had with just me and my zygote meant I had to buck up and come up with a name for the future kid myself. I was thinking about Dumbass Jr...or maybe Petunia.
By the time Slap came back hours later, I had a whole list of bone headed
names to run by him. But he was drunker than a leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day. Not to mention he had the unmistakable stench of whory ex girlfriend on his clothes.
"Alcohol is awesome," Slap slurred.
"I can't believe you walked out on me and fetus."
"What, you aren't going to apologize for getting pregnant on me? Do I look like the kind of emotional infant that can handle a pooping, crying baby? I want to be the only one throwing temper tantrums around here."
"Oh, get over yourself. Rich people don't raise babies. That's what nannies are for."
"I thought nannies were for hand washing my dirty butt plugs. Anyway, don't worry. I'm not nearly as mad as I could be. Having sex with my psychotic ex girlfriend took the edge off."
"Of all the women to cheat on me with, you had to pick the craziest. Why couldn't you just bone some buxom brain-dead bimbo on the side like a normal guy?"
I was piping mad at that point. Not to mention fed up. Did I kick my two timing turd of a husband to the curb like even the dumbest of broads would though? Nah. I did toss his favorite whip in the pool though. Plus I threw his favorite panini grill across the room. It turned out I was really good at breaking crap. Maybe I had a promising future as a professional mover ahead of me. But first there was more fighting to do.
"Look, why don't I just bone your brains out and we forget all about today?" Slap asked.
"You really think I'm that numb skulled?" I replied.
"Hey, you were dumb enough to marry me."
"True."
"Besides, sex solves all the problems in a relationship."
Even though Slap was a nincompoop and had the most twisted sense of logic of any idiot I knew, I was a sucker for his sex stick. Not to mention my clit was itching for a good dick dejavu.
***
Amazingly enough, it seemed when Slap and I weren't in horny horizontal heaven, that we did nothing but fight. But our latest unresolved disaster about Slap's uber virile sperm taking the scenic tour of my ovaries had to be shelved. In a wild plot twist too ridiculous to take seriously, Slap's sister had been kidnapped by...dum dum dum...Mr. Schizo himself.
If you were having trouble connecting the dots, don't bother. The logic of my life made little sense. And go figure, everyone around me was completely bonkers. I mean really, when I was the sanest person in any room, a straight jacket shouldn't be out of arms reach.
Any who, in the sake of getting back to tawdry titillating sex, I diffused the situation by trading an old pin up photo of my self in a sexy French maid costume for Slap's sisters release. Voila! Take that, improbable plot. I had an equally impossible solution. Naturally, Slap gave my labia a victory lap for my heroic efforts. Damn was his dong sweet.
***
Finally with dumb things like plot finally out of the way, I was free to live happily ever after with my sadistic husband and the unborn child he wished didn't exist. Oh, I'm sorry. Were you expecting Slap's semen to signal some form of character development or emotional growth? Were you seriously expecting the story of my life to have any redeeming qualities at all?
Let's be honest, you only suffered through this dreck to hear the butt plug and other boner related sexcapades. It was a check your brain at the door affair. Feel free to pick it up on the way out. And Slap did not disappoint. Yup, he remained the manipulative bastard I'd come to love/hate, free from annoying things like pathos and redemption. I meanwhile stayed sex addicted, dumb as a brick, and blissfully shallow. And that was just the way I wanted to keep it.
The Sadistic End.
I'm So Going To Make You Cry At The End
Cindy Sue really needed to find a first love before her rare incurable illness spoiled her afternoon yoga. The problem with icky diseases was they went and had pesky side effects on her--which meant no downward dogging (or dogging of any kind really). Didn't the universe realize Cindy had to save a blind three legged dog and end world hunger over the weekend? But noooo, instead Cindy was stuck staring out at the regal North Carolina countryside, wondering if the rolling hills realized just how majestic they truly were. Finally when she was done ogling the scenery and dreaming of unicorns, she went into town to get an artisan latte. Little did Cindy Sue's heart know that a six packed surprise would be waiting for her when she got there.
Landon McComeuppance was an impossibly hunky jerk that needed to be taught life lessons from an idealistic, yet terminally ill girl. Luckily, one would soon be pulling up in her planet saving hybrid. In the meantime, Landon told the world how rich he was and flipped karma the bird, preppy style.
When Cindy Sue entered the quaint little coffeehouse, it was like a really emo, love ballad came in playing on speakers behind her. She was a revelation in a sun dress. And it almost seemed inevitable that fate would have her order the same drink as Landon so they'd have an excuse to make casual chitchat that would lead into an intense and robust romance that would shake the very core of the universe. Until she croaked, that was.
So when the artisan latte arrived at the counter, Cindy Sue and Landon knew love was brewing (oh, the metaphors are about to get way cheesier). For once in his life, the smooth talking libido legend was at a loss for words around Cindy. And seeing Landon, Cindy realized she would not let her heart go belly up until she turned Landon into a hunk with a purpose, poised to save the world with warm and fuzzy goodness.
"Well, aren't you the sexiest pack of abs I've ever seen in my life? You should model underwear--in my bedroom," Cindy said.
"You make me think there's more to life than being a raging douche bag," Landon admitted.
It was a sappy, gooey, fondue kind of wooing. Almost as if love at first sight had come to the sleepy town of Happy Ending, NC as an early birthday present to Cindy.
But before Cindy Sue got wrapped up in all consuming, unrealistic, pull out the violins love, she had an admission of her own. "I just want to warn you, I'm probably going to drop dead on you pretty soon in a completely unbelievable way.
"So wait, you're going to convert me from a shallow conveyor belt of cash whoring to a gooey sappy sentimentalist, then you're going to die some horrific death right in front of me?"
"Actually, I'm probably just going to dramatically walk into the sunset in a metaphoric whirlwind. But yeah, you're newfound heart is going to be totally crushed."
"Whoa, that's pretty intense. I'm so in."
"Good, now let's fit a whole lifetime of sunset walks on the beach and moony eyes into nine weeks before I start coughing up my own lung."
***
The sunset was a perfect background for making dough eyes and taking raging hormones for a spin around the block. Cindy Sue and Landon could have sat on the beach and looked at the lapping waves during an apocalypse and not care because they had each other. Even when a seagull pooped on Landon's head, the young lovers just brushed it off and went back to cooing.
"When I look into your eyes, I feel like God's giving me a high five," Cindy Sue said.
"I may have only known you for an hour and a half, but I think we should get married in some really over the top wedding with elephants and hot air balloon rides," Landon mooned.
"You know, most girls would think that was the creepiest thing since old men doing tai chi in thongs. But since I'm a hopeless romantic, my heart just fluttered a little. Still, I can't go and die on you until I'm confident you're ready to change the world."
"Are you kidding? I can't even change a tire."
"That means I have a lot of work to do. Good thing I'm relentlessly perky. So, let's start with world peace..."
***
Cindy Sue was on a mission to renovate Landon's soul, and she didn't have time to hire lazy contractors. Instead she used her can do attitude and a bubbly spirit.
"All right Cindy Sue, I rescued a deaf dog with a limp from the pound, fed a hundred homeless guys at the soup kitchen this morning, then cleaned up senior citizens bedpans at the retirement home all afternoon. What are we going to do tonight?"
Ci
ndy Sue didn't hesitate. "Single handedly reverse the effects of global climate change while holding a bake sale to raise money for hurricane relief victims."
"How do you find time to do all that while you're ravaged by a life threatening illness?"
"I was going to save the manatees and catch a few criminals too, but a girl can only do so much."
Landon stared deep into Cindy Sue's eyes. "I was just thinking maybe I could give you hickeys while mesmerizing you with my washboard abs and super ripped chest."
Cindy Sue swooned. "Rain check on saving the world."
***
Cindy Sue and Landon laid in a verdant field lush with flowers and lusting loins.
"My diary is so going to be jealous," Cindy Sue swooned.
"That was better than looking at myself in the mirror for an hour straight," Landon replied. "Wow, you really have changed me. Maybe I really can save the world. Or, you know, at least not make it collapse under the weight of my throbbing ego."
"Oh, you're going to change the world all right. I'm not dying prematurely so you can sit around and count your money naked. Once I kick the bucket, I expect to be able to stare at you from a marshmallowy cloud and get all misty eyed as you honor my legacy."
"Can we stop talking about you pushing up daisies? It's seriously killing my boner."
"You're right. We should play more tonsil hockey. Sucking face is splendid."
***
"Cindy Sue, you wouldn't believe it," Landon remarked. "I just got you flowers and didn't even pick them out of your own garden. I really am a changed man."
But Cindy Sue just sat on her back porch swing with the kind of furrowed brow only super awful news could bring. "Landon, we have to talk. I'm dying."
"You've said that from the beginning. And yet you built a whole house for a homeless family with your bare hands over the weekend."
"Landon, I'm serious. The doctor says it's time to take the great swan dive into the afterlife. Which really sucks, because I have a nail appointment scheduled for Tuesday."
