with the stars burning and exploding.

Day 40 | Five of ‘Em! | We’re Doing the Wild Thing, Booze-Free in da’ Hood!

The intense climax of sexual energy after a good round of sex or masturbation. It’s as if your life flashes before your very eyes as you stare blankly into the walls or ceiling while the violent [deliciously yummy] sensation courses through your body. You may let out a low, soft moan or a good, loud yell during an orgasm. Strength of the orgasm varies on mood and stamina of the sex parter. [I ride solo with Husband beside me] The better the mood and the greater the energy, the stronger the orgasm is. Best damn feeling in the world. —Urban Dictionary; my number 1 definition on anything

I wanna fly all night.

Day 28 | So Dry I’m Spitting Cotton | Down 13 Pounds, 53 to Go

“How ’bout doing the wild thing,” I say, as he slips into the bathroom. My nose is sunk deep into Garrison’s Guts ‘n Gunships.

“After I shower.”

Hot diggity.

I toss the book aside, snag our implements from the bedside drawer, strip off my shirt and hit the light.

Hell, it’s been a month.

It’s been since….I stopped drinking.

Husband arrives “flesh and fluffy” and goes to town.

Tongue to hoo-hoo.

[pause for perspective]

Twenty-nine days ago and beyond, I’d be frisky at bedtime. Waggle my eyebrows at hoo-hoo guy, begin disrobing [in the confines of our teeny room at Ted and Sue’s]. Miraculous—considering the amount of alcohol in my system—typically a 6-ounce vodka martini, 3 or 4 glasses of 14 Hands Hot to Trot, a shot of two of ginger cognac. All consumed in about 3-4 hours.

[Food in the stomach gives consciousness longevity.]

To the bedroom we’d go where Husband would immediately fall asleep [pass out] and I’d employ my Pocket Rocket [“a girl’s best friend”] for up to an hour hoping, praying and straining for rapture.

I’d be lucky to experience a pang the size of a wavelet.

[fast forward]

Husband. Tongue. Hoo-hoo.


Still high on the fading reverberations, Husband mounts me. The shot of Jamison’s hasn’t effected him in the least. He does his thing, dismounts.

Hell, I’m still feeling tingly.

Apply Pocket Rocket to hoo-hoo.

My forearm encounters Husband’s abundant pool of ick.


He tissues it off.

Not really off, just sort of spreads it around my hip. And forearm.

I go at it.

It happens again.

And again.

Husband gets out of bed, returns with a handful of pretzels. He’s doing the assist and crunching in my ear. It’s distracting, but I don’t want to be a jerk and say “get out of here, will ya?”

I’m going for FOUR times. It’s a record.

An all-time one.

I subtly push the pretzel-muncher from my flesh; he begins tossing the pretzels in his mouth from his cupped hand.

Sex and pretzel-munching?

At 52 and 65?

I concentrate on the job at hand.

I’m getting a headache, straining.

The rise, the flare, the pang.

It’s number four.

Husband falls asleep with his head and arm wrapped around me in the same way my mother gripped my niece to her bosom after her father hanged himself on Thanksgiving Morning.

I get a crick in my neck.

But he’s happy and I’m happy he’s happy and I’m happy I’m happy.

He’ll eventually turn over, anyway.

pull yourself together, baby.

Day -60 | Hammered Every Night | How ‘Bout a Bgood “Adopted Luke,” Two Sides of Sweet Potato Fries and a Vanilla Shake

What happened to Husband in Vegas, did not stay in Vegas.

My husband made me a martini. He had taken a red-eye from Nevada where he spoke at a conference some days before; returned home at 8:00 this morning. I had been away for the week with the dog and cat, up in Seabrook, putting the last touches on a book-length collection of essays.

Husband and I and the dog and cat had co-existed on this Friday, off and on, since 11:00 AM.

We’re sitting on the couch when I swallow the last drop of my drink. It’s 7:00. I’m gazing into the glass, lamenting it being empty.

He says: “I slept with a twenty-six-year-old girl in Vegas.”

He had a reason for waiting to tell me.

I’m not entirely underwater, though, not too far removed to do the math.

Twenty-six is half my age.

I sit unmoving, gazing into the glass for a long time, thinking, did he just say what he said.

Thing is Husband and I have this agreement.

I was having this sporadic fling with a married zillionaire when we met. Once a quarter or so, the guy would fly into town to attend a meeting at some startup he had poured venture capital into and we continued to hook up.

Out of fairness, Husband and I spoke of his taking advantage of an opportunity—if it presented itself.

It presented itself.

Eleven years after we made the Gentlemen’s Agreement.

The last time I saw Zillionaire, five years ago, when I was fit and fucking rockin’ at 47, I received an email from him four days later accusing me of making his dick itchy. For the first time in years of cheating, the guy had Guilty Dick—his kids had recently left the nest, he and his wife bought a new home, as a couple they had embarked on a new and exciting life together.

I wrote Zillionaire back and asked what the hell is chlamydia and Husband and I went to Mass General’s STD Unit. Imagine this: a couple devoted to one another go to a clinic because one has taken liberties outside the relationship and there’s talk of an itchy dick.

It’s a grueling experience, right?

It wasn’t.

Husband and I were in this together. And we checked out clean. I can’t tell you what Zillionnaire’s reaction was to my report of cleanliness because I deleted every and any email he’s ever sent me.

The twenty-six-year old.

The news. I reeled; despite the Gentlemen’s Agreement. Held up the martini glass and asked for another out of the ridiculously enormous bottle of Grey Goose Husband surprised me with before he left for the trip.

He had listened to this girl’s sad story. Bought her nachos. Paid her. Kissed her, his lips to hers, his fingers to her hoo-hoo. Let her ride his willy, perched on top of him. 

After the second martini, a glass of wine and a shot of Ginger Cognac, Husband held my hand in bed. I took my hand away.

The next morning, at my asking, he recounted his confession. I asked him how I did in the reaction department. He told me I handled it well.

In other words, I hadn’t gone ape shit.

His acts were uninhibited, he told me. Because, he stressed, I granted him that freedom beforehand. He showed me how and what he did with her; the warm and hot and sexy way he is with me.

Remember, it’s about being fair.

I had stepped out on him; doesn’t matter how long ago, how fuckin’ hot I was, how fuckin’ fat and gray I am now.

By the minutes and hours, my feeling offended lifted. I grew happy for him. Checkmark on the bucket list—at 65, Husband scored with a twenty-six-year-old.

Hell, he wasn’t looking for it. She came into the bar in Dick’s Last Resort, of all places, and sat her young and sweet ass donning faded denim cutoffs next to the only guy in the joint that was dressed in a suit and tie.

She nailed it.

I love Husband. That he’s already been to the clinic. I love our honesty and trust. I love how no one knows about the intimate facets of our relationship.

The Gentlemen’s Agreement—that hopefully won’t ever be enacted again.