Marrying George Clooney

it looked like a tick. it did.

the lights were dim. it was nap time.

okay… fine.

not nap time. FINE.

it was … yes yes yes yes yes oh yes… SEX TIME.

i said to ken, holy shit, hon, i think you have a tick on your belly.

he said/asked, huh, really? wow. well, get it out.

i said/asked, like right now?

he said, yeah. now.

we turn up the lights. his side, my side. i examine his belly. yep yep could be a tick. i say. could be.

i pick up the cuticle/nail clipper, ken is mortified… not that, he says. not that.

tweezers, he pleads.

fine. tweezers, the thing is so small and embedded, my god, fine.

we get out of bed.

we go in the bathroom. the lights are much brighter. he sits on the toilet seat. i get on my knees. i look up at him, he looks down at me.

this doesn’t feel right, i say to him.

huh, he says/asks, what’s it feel like?

i say, well, it feels like you put whatever the fuck that little thing is in your belly to get me on my knees.

i would never do that. never. he says.

i believe him.

we’ve been married 18 years. this is such a cheap shot, even i know he wouldn’t think this fucking fast.

i take the tweezer. he closes his eyes. he says: YANK.

i yank.

he screams.

i get it.

it’s a …ugh… a blackhead.

(i wait a moment….pausing. giving both my stomach and the moment enough time to … you know…)

i tell him honey all is okay now.

i get up off my knees.

he looks at me with such disappointment. like, where you going? this could be really sexy, fun…a little… you know…

i tell him, trust me, there’s already been …  a little …  head involved.