Quick-witted and always thinkin’ of others, up until his very last breath. “Aye.” Father Doherty smiled, wiping a bittersweet tear from his eye. With his eyes closed and his breathing shallow, Pat whispered to me, ‘Father, tell the folks back home … that I pissed in all their wells, so they won’t be too broken up about my passing.’ ” He was in and out of consciousness, but he did manage to say a few words there at the end. There, I blessed him and read him a few passages from the good book. “The nurses at the hospital had called to inform me that his time was near, so I went to his bedside. For the most part, he responded beautifully … except when he didn’t.“It was my humble honor to be there, by Pat’s side, when he passed,” Father Doherty continued, reclaiming my attention. Well, guess what? My husband read that shit.Īnd guess what else? He upped his fucking game.ĭrunk with power and under the dubious advisement of my best friend and colleague, I began testing the limits-crafting journal entries specifically designed to manipulate Ken’s behavior. If I couldn’t have that kind of passion again in real life, I could at least write about it.
Marine turned motorcycle club outlaw, a baby-faced punk rocker out on parole, and a heavy-metal bass player-were every bit as tattooed and testosterone-fueled as the leading men in my favorite romance novels. After all, my ex-boyfriends-a tattoo artist turned U.S. Perhaps my gorgeous, cold, number crunching husband simply wasn’t capable of the kind of passion I’d come to expect. Doing so would be considered “unethical” and “a fireable offense.” Lucky for you, ethics was never my strong suit.Īfter spending years trying to spice up my sex life, I gave up and took to my journal.
School psychologists aren’t supposed to write books about sex.
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