44 CHAPTERS ABOUT 4 MEN: A MEMOIR by B.B. Easton

“Dear Journal,

This motherfucker is killing me.

Fresh out of shower. His hair’s all damp and sexy, and his beard scruff is at that perfect length — just long enough to be soft to the touch, but not so long that it hides his perfect chiseled features. And the way his undershirt clings to biceps and stretches across the hard planes of his chest…I could stare at him all night. Actually, I have been–throughout the corner of my eye. But that’s not enough.

I want to touch him.

I could lace my fingers through his, or run my knuckles along his rough, square jaw. Maybe I could be playful and walk my mint-green nails up his sculpted ab muscles, then, once I have his attention, I could thrust those same fingertips into his wet hair and straddle his damp, clean, hard body.

But I don’t do shit, because I know all it will get me is a sideways glance and a shift in the opposite direction.

My husband is a rock.
Not as in, <<He’s so strong and supportive. I don’t know what I’d do without him.>> But more like, <<He’s so fucking cold I wonder if he still has a pulse.>>

Ken has never held my hand, Journal. Not on purpose, anyway. 
He has had his hand held by me, while unconscious, but whenever I try that move during waking hours, Ken will politely endure the discomfort of human contact for…oh, say, five and a half seconds before smoothly removing his soft, limp flesh from my grasp.

Sex is pretty much the same story.
Ever the gentleman, Ken will lie on his back and allow me to have my way with him while he quietly engages in minimal and obligatory petting.
Regardless of the level of theatrics involved, afterward I always kiss and cuddle Ken’s lean, beautiful, unresponsive body, trying to squeeze a single degree of warmth from the man-shaped boulder that is my husband.
All the while, I can almost hear him counting to himself–one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand–before he taps me on the ass. My cue to get the fuck off of him.

Kenneth Easton is a lawn-mowing, bill-paying, law-abiding, defensive-driving, trash-toting husbot–a cyborg built specifically to withstand seventy to eighty years of gale-force matrimony.
I’ve never caught him looking at another woman.
Hell, I’ve never even caught him in a lie.

No, the problem with Ken is that he’s married to me.”

Kindle, 2016