rachel hartley-smith

My ten year marriage to a limp dick (attached to an ass who failed Ethics) ended with eye-punches, counseling, and court dates. While he had fiddled with his tool pump, I practiced pleasing myself. Masturbation, of course, is never enough, and – though I will never get rid of it – the vibrator with bunny ears is only cold plastic. 

Newly divorced, I renamed myself Anne Sexton, picked up long cigarettes, and placed an ad online. Responses came from a beer-sucking war veteran (not unlike my father) and a hipster who painted his penis from multiple angles, in vivid colors. A third man responded, with a blurry photo mysterious enough I could shape him into a being of passion, grace, and open-mind. I wrote him my life-long confession and convinced myself he wanted me more than anything. So it happened.

We met at sunset in the parking lot outside my therapist's office. He was older, balding, a tech-head with quick fingers. Honesty made for easy conversation. We made love in the front seat of his Nissan Maxima. Grateful, I enveloped him well-practiced. His apoplexy went unnoticed until I reached a conclusion.