I'd always loved sex. Any kind of sex. At college, I was considered very kinky. Do you know how hard it is in college today to be considered kinky? My sorority sisters didn't know a position or hole they didn't like. But I was always proud to take it a step further. My nickname was Subway, because of how many riders I could carry.
Then I met Robert Karlsen. Tall, blond, Icelandic hunk of man, but tender and loving. I'd just graduated college and had my first job at the firm Bobby worked for. I saw him, and it was over. This was my man.
We dated for three months before we got sexual. I was crawling the walls but didn't want to appear slutty and Bobby was taking it slow, but oh, so thoughtful. Everything with Bobby was so romantic. Flowers, candies, an orchid for my wrist on our first date. He opened doors, pulled out my chair; everywhere and every day he treated me like a queen. But.....
There always seems to be a but. (Yes, he had a handsome butt, but that's not what I mean). He was Icelandic, and I suppose that explains it. He loved fish. And not just any fish, unless it was the most smelly, disgusting thing in the world. Now, I don't like fish. We didn't grow up with it in the Midwest, like they do here on the Coast. Yes, there was lake fish and trout, but my mother was terrified of bones. She always told us the story of a childhood friend who choked to death on a fish bone. So, except for canned tuna, fish never touched our lips.
Bobby, on the other hand, never snacked on chips or crackers -- for him it was anchovies and sardines. That I could take, to a point. Knowing that there are bones in them while he drops them in his mouth like a trained seal is really hard for me to take.
No, the real problem was his preference for dinners. Lutefish was hard to take, but Surstomming makes me want to heave. Scratch that -- it made me heave. The smell is atrocious. But then he likes "foreign" dishes, as if rotting herring was Apple Pie American. No, there's Shiokara from Japan, and Hakari from Iceland are so revolting I threw up on the table when he tried to get me to try Shiokara. The waiter looked at the remains of my lunch on the table and said, "That's a novel approach to Shiokara I hadn't seen before!" He smiled down at me as he gathered the four corners of the tablecloth. "But a wise choice. I'll bring you a shot of whiskey. I'm told it helps." It did. I later bought a bottle to keep on hand.
The damned Hakari he has sent to him by a cousin in Iceland. It's some kind of fermented shark. He had invited me to dinner, thinking I'd try it, but when he opened the door, I started gagging and ran back to my car. That almost finished us.
But I loved Bobby, and I was his queen. He agreed to keep his fish away from me and I agreed to leave him forever if he didn't. I'd still catch whiffs of the fish dishes on him (I think he sweats the stuff, sometimes), but not enough to make me want to lose him. I thought we'd worked it out. Then we had sex.
Like I said, I loved sex, any kind of sex. But my Icelandic god had some problems. First, when I gave him a blowjob, the image in my head was that I was sucking on a dead fish. Literately. A dead, rotting fish. His penis tasted and smelled of fish. But I soldiered on, then wished I hadn't.
He came in my mouth, big time. I guess he hadn't had sex or "relieved" himself in all the time we dated. He gushed. And suddenly I had a mouthful of slimy Surstomming. Or lutefish or Hakari, I don't know. It was so fucking disgusting. I gagged and just made it into the bathroom before vomiting.
You know, dating a guy who makes you vomit usually ends the relationship. But I loved Bobby. I lied and told him oral sex was disgusting. The problem was, I really enjoy oral sex, but not if it was going to end with a mouthful of revolting, decaying fish taste.
I love Bobby. But it turned out he was not very good at sex, except for one position: Missionary. In any other position, he went at it with gusto, but it was like being poked repeatedly with a pool cue. Not a good feeling. Getting him to slow down or adjust his angle never seemed to make a difference. I was weeping by the time he got off. I never let him try anal -- I didn't think my intestines could take it. I think I would have ended up in the hospital with a shredded colon.
But my Icelandic god was a god with the missionary position. Somehow, he just naturally went in at the right angle to stimulate my g-spot and my clitoris. He could make me cum like no one else ever has. God, I love that man.
Bobby was willing to do anything for me, so when I told him everything else was disgusting or offensive or unsanitary, he would let it go. He was my missionary man.
I loved him so much, when he asked me to marry him, I swore to forsake all others, but in my mind, I was forsaking all the sex acts that I enjoyed. I gave them up for Robert Karlsen.
Three years into our marriage, Bobby was working harder than ever, with longer and longer hours. He began traveling to other locations, leaving me alone sometimes for weeks at a time. He had his brother Doug come over and take me to dinner and to family events. As a result, we spent a lot of time together.
One night, after celebrating the birthday of one of my sister-in-law's at Bobby's parents' house, I drank too much. Not sloppy drunk, just feeling good, like I did in college. Doug drove me home, and not wanting to be alone, I invited him in for a nightcap.
