Once upon a time, things between my boyfriend and I were all roses and Cherry fucking Coke. Good morning kisses, special surprises or romantic gestures, even nightly rough breedings—especially the shower sex. Oh, god, and let me tell you, I’ve never had a guy make me bust so much that… Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked.
We met in college. I was a whimsical English major (to the dismay of my parents) on the verge of becoming a self-published steamy romance writer; he studied business and mortuary science. He was tall, charming, and athletic. Caring and sensitive. And now, he was a mortician. A little spooky, right? But my live-in lover was nothing of the sort. Well, at least so I thought.
When people bring up—what would you even call it—struggles in a relationship, my mind instantly jumps to one of two things. Is he cheating? And if he isn’t, is there something wrong with me? It’s not that I had an inkling of doubt when it came to my boyfriend’s commitment to me. I didn’t think he was running around with someone else. Did his feelings for me change? Well, in a way, but the reasoning behind that sure as hell wasn’t what I expected.
And if you would’ve told me I would get my reward tenfold for waiting patiently for the big reveal like a good boyfriend—mercilessly pinned beneath a whole lot of man (I guess men, technically) as I contracted uncontrollably in pure ecstasy—then, well, I suppose I wouldn’t have tried to channel my inner Nancy Drew to investigate. Oh, well. Either way, what a hot ending—and as for the romance? Well, uh, let’s just say that our love for one another is most definitely eternal.