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    farmbitchone Prije 3 godina/e
    We had just fallen in love when Blake asked me how many sexual partners I'd had. It was Thanksgiving and we'd spent the day together, making our own meal of crab and prime rib, which we ate while watching Pixar movies—the perfect, low-pressure Thanksgiving. That night, we lounged on the couch, our stomachs full, legs entwined. I felt happy and excited and scared—that cocktail of emotions that accompanies a new relationship. At last I'd found an attractive, smart, creative person who seemed to have his life together. So, I simply answered with my number. I could've guessed that my new boyfriend's sexual history didn't have as many chapters—or footnotes—as mine, but that didn't matter to me. He'd spent most of his date-able years in a monogamous relationship while I was still playing the field. It was just how the numbers shook out, I figured; we were at different places in our lives. But Blake didn't see things this way. In his mind, there were numbers that were too high, and mine was one of them. The day before we got married, Blake insisted that I tell him, once and for all, how his penis measured up. We had been together for a year by then and I had spent much of that time, ever since that Thanksgiving, enduring interrogations about my sexual history. But this time, he literally backed me into a corner, yelling that I tell him the truth about his size—why couldn't I just do that?—as if my experience made me some kind of phallus-measuring expert. I was scared. Finally, I broke down and admitted that, in my inexpert opinion, he was on the smaller side of average. I felt ill. It was one of those things you just don't say, no matter what, but Blake had a knack for getting me to speak the unspeakable—to not just cross my boundaries, but to erase them entirely. "while he was conscious, clinicians injected some kind of solution into his penis, which would cause tremendous swelling and pain. " The next day, we eloped. We bought plain wedding bands at the mall on our way to the court house. I wore a lacey pink and white dress I'd pulled out of my closet and cried throughout the short ceremony, a knot in my stomach. Deep down, I knew marrying him wasn't going to solve any of our problems. Sure enough, a few days later, Blake brought up the idea of having his penis enlarged. Until then, I hadn't even known such a thing was possible. But my husband had already done his research, spending hours in the darkest recesses of the internet where desperate, insecure men gather in chatrooms to discuss back-alley methods of augmenting their manhood. He had found a clinic in Mexico.
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