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Anniversaries Suck

Cheesy Balls

VIOLET

Today is mine and Alex’s one-year anniversary, and it sucks donkey dick. Well, it’s one of our “anniversaries.” Alex likes to celebrate every single milestone in our relationship because he’s sappy and romantic like that. He also likes to have an excuse to buy me gifts. Lots of them. Extravagant ones. For my birthday he bought me a car. A nice car. With heated seats and automatic everything. New cars are scary because they don’t have dings and dents, and they need to be maintained.

Anyway, I digress. Anniversaries. This month we’re celebrating our “First Official Date” Anniversary. Alex likes to consider the first time we had sex our “real” anniversary, but since we hardly knew each other then, apart from how our genitalia fit together, I prefer to fast-forward a month to when I wasn’t thinking with my beaver. Not totally, anyway.

It’s still up for debate as to whether the day he locked me in the conference room at my work and forced me to have coffee with him later was our official first date. I’m inclined to go with the night he took me out for dinner and we ended up back at his place, banging on his couch, which is what we’re celebrating tonight. It’s marked on our calendar. There’s even a sticker with a smiley face. I’m dubbing this one our second sexiversary because it’s the second occasion when we had sex, and because it annoys Alex.

Sadly, we might not get the opportunity to fuck like it’s our third time—we did it twice that first time, for those of you keeping score at home—again tonight. Alex is currently on a bus back to Chicago with the team after a series of four away games. He’s been gone for more than a week. A snowstorm is blowing north through the Midwest, and last I heard from him, they were stuck at some rest stop—still more than two hours from home, and that’s without the snow slowing them down.

It’s already three in the afternoon. If they can’t make it back before it gets dark and the storm picks up, he’ll be stuck at a hotel for the night. We might be able to have phone sex, but that’s not the same as hugging his wood with my beaver. So that’s why this anniversary sucks.

And even if he makes it home tonight, he’s bound to be bagged, which may put a damper on the sexiversary lovin’. Not that he won’t perform. He will. He always does. But it won’t be with the level of exuberance I’ve grown accustomed to over the past year. I might only get two orgasms out of him instead of the requisite three or four he usually strives for.

Charlene, my best friend and colleague at Stroker and Cobb Financial Management, peeks her head into my cubicle. She looks disembodied with the way the rest of her is out of sight. She’s also smiling like she belongs in some kind of asylum.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“You have a delivery.”

“What kind of delivery?”

Alex likes to send me gifts at work. Once he had some guy dressed as a beaver sing a love song to me. It was mortifying. Jimmy, one of the other junior accountants, recorded it and posted it on YouTube. Obviously I made him take it down, but it had already gone viral.

“An Alex delivery.”

I brace myself for humiliation as she grunts, moving my gift into view.

I don’t say anything for a few long seconds. Alex is over the top with everything. But then, when you’re the highest-paid NHL player in the league, you can afford to be extravagant and highly ridiculous.

“Not what you expected?” Charlene asks, biting her lip to keep from busting out laughing.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I gesture to the four-foot stuffed beaver wearing a hockey jersey. It’s almost as wide as it is tall. “I don’t even know if it’ll fit in my car.”

I also don’t want to carry it through the building.

“I’m sure we can make it fit.” I ignore Charlene’s eyebrow waggle. She’s referencing my fiancé’s monster cock. I’m not talking about a pet rooster, either. His dick is massive. I love it so much, even though putting it in my mouth is a workout all on its own.

I grab the beaver by its ears, hefting it into my cubicle so it’s no longer blocking all the walking space between my office and the one across from me. Thank the lord Jimmy isn’t in there or he’d be all over this. I need to hide the beaver. I don’t have to see the back of the jersey to know it’s got Alex’s last name and number on it. This is a giant version of the small beaver Alex sent me back when he was first stalking me. Because I’m so awesome in bed. And he loves my boobs. And I told him I loved his cock. It was quite the first encounter.

My relationship with Alex Waters, center and team captain for Chicago, started as a one-night stand. A poorly thought-out one. I would’ve run into him after our night of passion since my stepbrother, Buck, is on his team, but I hadn’t thought that far ahead when I was sticking my hands down his pants a year ago.

The beaver is holding a heart-shaped box. I pluck it from his paws while Charlene puts her arm around it and takes a selfie. I open the card; of course, it’s beaver-themed—a pair of cartoon beavers with little hearts above their heads. They’re in love, just like Alex and me.

I flip it open, expecting Alex’s usual hilarity, which is how it starts, but by the end I’m about to cry. He really is that damn sweet:

Violet,

A year ago you agreed to go for coffee with me, and then your boobs agreed to go on a real date. You came into my life and turned it upside down in the best way. I’ll never look at Spiderman pajamas the same way, or Marvel Comic boxer briefs.