9:45 PM FRIDAY
When I told my fiancée that she should consider being more adventurous in bed, the last thing on my mind was opening our marriage to twelve fucking Chippendale dancers.
Guess I should’ve been more specific, huh?
But, no, my fiancée took a different route. Which is why I now find myself standing in the doorway of my own Vegas honeymoon suite, watching my wife slither around the bed with what looks like a dozen very oily and very naked male strippers.
Well, they’re not completely naked. They’re still wearing their tuxedo cuffs and bowties.
Fucking my fiancée is a formal affair, apparently. It’s a punch to the gut. There’s no pretending that it’s not.
One moment, I’m ready to put my bachelorhood behind me—ready to become the kind of man who can look himself in the mirror without wiping the makeup of last night’s one night stand off of it.
The next, I’m watching a male stripper wipe cum off my fiancée’s back and put his bachelorhood behind her, so to speak.
To be honest? Not my kink, not by a fucking long shot.
So I clear my throat and say, “Surprise, honey. I’m home.”
“Brendon!” Henrietta gasps in shock, her left tit in the mouth of a dark-haired stripper while she’s got her hands wrapped around a depressingly diminutive dick.
“If I knew you preferred small dicks,” I say in a voice so calm it scares even me, “I could’ve told you long ago it was never going to work with us.”
A few of the guys are smart enough to catch on to the fact that I just insulted them. Only a few, though. The others might not have even heard me, what with various cocks in their mouths, asses, and fists.
Henrietta tumbles off the bed and falls toward me. Her hair, which she’s normally very particular about having hairspray-helmeted in place, is a matted mess that can only be the result of a few hours already spent fucking this group of less-than-adequate guys.
Granted, this whole situation is far from normal. For me, at least.
For all I know, Henrietta might have been hosting orgies in our bedroom every time I had an away game.
I guess it’s true what they say: you never truly know someone until you walk in on them fucking a dozen strippers at once.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she pleads, clutching my shirt.
I’m not really sure she knows what those words mean—because I don’t know what else this could possibly be. She had another man’s cock in her ass. They’re not exactly holding a bake sale here.
I calmly peel her fingers off the fabric and place them at her side.
I reach over to the settee and grab a robe, throwing it at Henrietta so she can cover herself—more for my benefit than hers, honestly.
“It looks like you’re fucking a bed full of STDs the night before our wedding, babe. I think I get the picture, more or less.”
Quantity over quality never struck me as Henrietta’s M.O., but then again, neither did group sex.
“Hey man,” a blonde dude getting blown by another blonde dude says. “That’s a little uncalled-for.”
“Is it?” I raise an eyebrow. “Better safe than sorry, buddy.””
“I am sorry, Brendon. Please, can we talk about this?” As Henrietta cinches the robe at her waist, she has the decency to look embarrassed.
She turns around to survey the scene from my vantage point. She nervously chews on her fingernail for a moment before turning back to me.
“I…I…was getting tips from them,” she says. “You’re just so much more experienced than I am in the bedroom, so I wanted to learn a few things to please you.”
She grabs my arm with both her hands and tries to turn me away from the bed. I don’t budge.
“That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard,” I tell her, staring through her. “For someone claiming to be inexperienced, you’re apparently a quick learner, based on what I saw when I walked in.”
Henrietta falls on to the settee with a sigh.
She takes a moment to think about her next move, not realizing that there’s absolutely nothing she could say that would make me forget what I’ve seen here tonight.
“I didn’t know they were going to be here, I swear,” she finally says, and then undermining her credibility even further, she shrugs. The bitch actually shrugs!
As if I didn’t know she was just throwing excuse after bullshit excuse against the wall to see if anything would stick. She’s not even trying to hide her slutty, true self, now.
I simply roll my eyes at her and begin to head for the door. Springing into action, she follows me and grabs my arm again, this time to stop me by digging in her heels.
“Like you wouldn’t fuck twelve strippers if you had the chance,” she says.
I whip back around from the sheer ludicrousness of that statement to see her standing there with her hands on her hips.
“Obviously I wouldn’t,” I say, starting to yell, “or else I’d be in bed with them right now!”
Taking a step back to gain my composure, I say, “Instead, I’m standing here on the night before my wedding day, watching the woman I love get fucked every way that’s under the sun.”
Although…love. Using the word in the present tense feels pretty fucking wrong from where I’m standing right now. Admired, maybe. Tolerated, definitely.
There aren’t many women who would take a chance on a man like me. The notches on my bedpost are the same in number as my batting average if you move the decimal point two places to the left.
I used to be infamous—on the field and off of it.
Until Henrietta came along, anyway. I didn’t even make a pass at my sister Becky’s blonde beauty queen friend at the family Christmas party this year—though God knows we both wanted me to.
Henrietta was never going to be a Mysti May Grace—but she was going to be my wife, and for me, that was good enough.
“How hypocritical can you be?” Henrietta shouts back at me. “You know you never loved me anyway.”
“You got me,” I say with a sigh. “I always ask women I don’t love to marry me.”
If I’m being honest with myself, she might be right. I never thought of Henrietta as the great love of my life. I just got to the point where I was tired of dating women I knew weren’t the right one for me.
So I guess I started looking to get hitched to one instead.
Meeting Henrietta seemed fated. Our moms knew each other. Henrietta’s mom had been pushing mine to get me to ask her out for ages.
I finally did, and we started dating. Or, rather, we never stopped dating.
That’s my best explanation for our relationship. It was easier to continue dating her than to end it. Not exactly the kind of love poets write about, I know.
But, come on. We all know that shit’s for romance novels and fairy tales. The closest Henrietta ever came to becoming royalty was being a fucking pillow princess, and I’m not exactly a Prince Charming type myself.
My parents have that kind of love. That’s a one-in-a-million kind of thing and we all fucking know it.
True love? That heart-stopping, earth-shattering bullshit?
Nah. That doesn’t exist in the wild.
“Fine, fine,” she says, resigned, “let’s just talk settlement, and we can put this unpleasantness behind us.”
“Are you mental?” I laugh. “You’ve some nerve if you think you’re getting one cent from me.”
“I’ve put a lot into this relationship,” she yells. “All those times I sat through your boring baseball games? You owe me for that. All those insipid dinners with your family? I want to be reimbursed for my time, dammit.”
“I didn’t realize getting to know my family was such a chore,” I say calmly, “but I don’t think it rises to the level of compensation. Most couples would consider that just the shit you do for the one you love.”
“Fuck you!” Henrietta screams.
Her abrupt change in mood and tone makes me think she’s been hiding multiple personalities all this time. Maybe I should buy these guys a case of beer for saving me from her.
“I’ll take you for everything you have—your houses, money, it’s all going to be mine soon! I can’t believe I wasted one minute on such a fucking dumbass jock who wouldn’t know how to find my G-spot with a flashlight and a map.”
She’s managed the impossible with her outburst—all twelve strippers have stopped fucking and sucking and are staring at her in disbelief.
“Maybe I’d have better luck making you come if you ever did more than just lie there like a wet fish,” I hit back. “If only I’d known the key to your sex drive was getting a dozen of my friends for a gangbang, we could’ve settled this a long fucking time ago.”
I’ve never been hit by a woman. Some might find that hard to believe, given the number of women I’ve been with—all of whom had multiple orgasms, by the way. There’s nothing poor or off about my sexual prowess and Henrietta knows it, too.
But I’m not fucking stupid—or blind, for that matter. I’ve been in enough bench-clearing brawls to know when I’m about to be on the receiving end of a punch.
I see Henrietta pulling her arm back. Just as she thrusts her fist toward my nose, I see a flash of blonde hair and a curl of red lips appear in the doorway behind my now-ex-fiancée, swinging a purse so hard and so heavy that when it connects with Henrietta’s head, it lays her right out on the floor.
“Goddamn,” the red lips swear in a southern accent as sweet as a Texas-sized cinnamon roll. “After the night I’ve had, that felt fucking good.”
As we stand over the unconscious body of my cheating whore of an ex- fiancée, I can’t help it—I grin.
I recognize that sweet little voice, that blonde hair, and those ruby red lips.
Lord have mercy.
Mysti May Grace, in the flesh.
Her blue eyes sparkle as she smooths an invisible scuff off the part of her purse that she knocked Henrietta out with. She’s sans an engagement ring, I notice right away—which is funny, given that…
“Thought you were in Tijuana,” I say, crossing my arms and tilting my jaw back. “Wedding night jitters?”
“You could say that. Wanna get out of here?” Mysti asks, running her fingers through her thick, wavy hair. It’s like spun-fucking-gold and I’m mesmerized by it—as are, apparently, all the strippers still standing naked in the room.
Mysti May doesn’t even give them a glance... “Seriously, let’s take off. I’d rather not have to knock out this bitch a second time.”
“After the favor you just did me,” I say, grabbing Mysti’s hand. I lead her out the door and away from my shitty, stripper-fucking past. “I’d follow you anywhere.”