True Love Swallows

“I Love You”.

What a simple yet complicated statement. The things we do for love often astonish even ourselves. We all have countless formulas for how we express and understood it. The love I have for my children is unconditional and makes me a better person. The simplicity of the love I have for my family reminds me of my need for security. I love my friends in a way that reinforces my desire for inclusion. However, the love I have for my husband is so pervasive it transcends all configurations of love in existence. I am often confused at the way I love this man to such an extent, who at the same time irritates the living hell out of me. He is loud, obnoxious, rude, inappropriate, thoughtful, sincere, and sexy all balled up into a 5’5” blob of misguided testosterone that fires at will into the abyss of my unstable grasp on reality.

I may not always comprehend the depth of my love for this man, but I have known since our first date that I love him. The first time he offered to watch my children so I could have some ‘mom time’ with my best friend. Before we moved in together and he would get off work early to race me to my house and fold all my laundry, wash the sink full of dirty dishes, and have dinner in the oven before I even walked in the door. The way I feel like the only woman in the world even if we are at a bar full of beautiful women. These moments combined with millions more are the basis of where the love grew. Now, don’t get me wrong, we have our issues just like every other couple. Our fights are the most passionately magnified chaos of destruction full of contempt; yet a simple sarcastic comment or side smile will bring me right back into his arms.

What we do for our loved ones never ceases to amaze me. For my children I break my back to provide for them. Unfaltering grace that receives no monetary reward. I buy them the world just for them to trash it. To my family and friends, I offer advice and support. I give graciously without being asked or expecting anything in return. For this man, however, I give my heart, my body, and my soul. I share my dreams for success and fears of failure. I sit in his stench while he unloads his bowels so we can enjoy a few precious moments in private to discuss anything ‘adulty’. I wash his laundry and pop the zits on his back. I cook for him, I clean up after him, and I share every inch of my body with him.

The sincerest demonstration of love I show to anyone is my award-winning performance starring as the floozy who survives only by feeding from my husband’s life saving blast of man juice. The ultimate gift I give my husband is stifling my gag reflex while struggling to make the sound of my dry heaves appear sexy. Concealing the swells of vomit as I feign moans of pleasure from the slime of his orgasm gushing down the back of my throat. Tears trickling from my eyelids as I suffocate on the enormity of his masculinity and struggle to swallow the salty goop that infiltrates my tonsils. When I lose whatever control I have, and the slimy concoction of salty residue spills from my mouth onto his still pulsing erection, he will display a genuine smile and dribble the sludge onto himself. When his penis stops convulsing, he will erupt into a fit of laughter while watching me disgorge the gunk lodged in my throat. He sees right through my charade of unwholesomeness. Yet, serenades me with adoring compliments for my extraordinary blow-job abilities. Some women have extraordinary oral pleasure skills I am sure, but not me, the mere thought of stabbing the back of my throat with his urine pistol makes my stomach queasy. Yet, I continue to subject myself to the assault of my esophagus with the same excitement as a newly adopted Ethiopian child devouring his first American Thanksgiving dinner. And because of this profuse love, I will continue with the same this chore with vigorous enthusiasm till death do us part.