Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 35

At age 2, I married the first friend I remember having. My family was moving to New Jersey from Iowa. Manny and I were neighbors and desperately in love. In an uncharacteristic display of reverence for convention and sweet notions, my brother and his dead sexy best friend Mason Muldoon (I could look... I wasn't married YET.) decided Manny and I should wed. Immediately. Before distance and time had the opportunity to sully true love.

Mason and my brother fashioned a ring from tin foil. My brother officiated. Mason witnessed. To consummate the marriage, Manny and I rolled in tandem down the steepest front yard hill on our block. This was my idea. Even at 2, I had an eye for dramatic moments. I'm not certain we kissed. We may have hill-rolled instead. But the euphoric metaphorical roll in the urban hay seized the day and would have been the money shot on the wedding highlight reel, had people recorded (toddler) weddings in the mid to late 70s. I mean someone probably did. The 70s were fuckin' filthy.

In high school in Iowa, with little to no fanfare, Manny and I were reunited. Grown now, he answered to Man. Which made me bristle. He would always be my little Manny. Man was a viable high school commodity. There are persistent rumors that a very dear friend of mine unknowingly may or may not have made off with Manny's virginity at a county park. Obviously I had no idea at the time my toddler groom was being ransacked by a high school hussy. Or I might have intervened. But I was prolly busy getting boned by a senior.

Because I am called to entertainment at all costs, senior year, seated at something like the cool kids' table, I spared no detail when I told the lunch crew about my clandestine child marriage to Manny. Manny was seated to my left. His proximity sparked the memory. I think I could hear him breathe. Then fail to breathe. The cool table was grinning, laughing, agog. Manny was shy and turned candy apple red and feigned to not recall our epic ceremony on Barnum Street. Oh Manny. Really?

Men. Manny was so emotionally available at 2. So loving and lacking resistance. So vulnerable and accommodating and crowned in dark curls above chubby cheeks. Oh Manny. You'll always be my first husband. Damn the laws and norms and your selective fucking memory.

So I think we've established that despite a minor cognitive issue, my first husband was a doll. My second husband was not doll material. Instead, Satan was droll. Real funny. As long as you didn't think about it.

When Satan inserted himself into my second consecutive vacation, this time in Florida, to ask for the Smith & Wesson box I already gave him (oh yeah, Satan has guns, isn't that reassuring?), I eventually took my cousin's advice and blocked him. Because either Satan still has the same boring online research hobbies he had when we were married and discovered my current business by coincidence, or he was straight up stalking me. Either way, it's enough.

Satan could not conceive of me ignoring his trifling text, let alone blocking him. He asked his sister if I changed my number. She told me he was shocked (and it sounds like shaken) by the moves I was making in my post-Satan life. Seems he imagined I would be preserved under glass to infinity for his continual access and control. I'd be the perennial star of his glass menagerie. Bitch, I shatter glass. Watch your fingers and toes.

My second husband pretended to be sick to get me to agree to a rushed courthouse marriage. So he could get on my good insurance. To seek treatment for his fake illness. He thought it was his heart. It was. His heart was missing. Cardiologists can't fix that.

Satan robbed me of a traditional wedding and reception and honeymoon. He told me we could have a party later. Then convinced me this was futile. We had a honeymoon after 10 years of marriage.  And the heart doctors found nothing. Cuz there was nothing to find. Once married, I began my life in exile. Hiding from loved ones. Afraid to show others and acknowledge myself what had really happened here; what my life had become because I agreed to be duped.

People at work thought I was pregnant due to the shotgun marriage. But no. Satan made sure that didn't happen, either.

Then, about a year and a half after the trick rushed marriage, Satan got drunk and had an ATV accident on purpose so he wouldn't have to work for my stepdad anymore. Because my stepdad wouldn't do what Satan said. My stepdad wasn't me. But karma's a bitch and Satan couldn't have known the calculated fall I watched him get limp for in advance would be onto a pile of rusty farm implements. Which nearly cut off his dick.

Do cum back to learn the decades long tale of the problematic pecker.

Until Next Time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness