Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
And admitting it was a drunk mistake is sure to end my time at the firm.
But can I really ask that of Daphne?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Daphne
With some things in life, the evidence is unclear. Usually, things like emotions are fuzzy. How does one person prove they were happy or sad?
With a few dozen photos, apparently.
They're all here on my phone. They're all over my social media. And, of course, my new adviser already saw them. She reached out to congratulate me personally. She even joked about it.
What a smart idea! Have the honeymoon before work kicks your ass. And the ring is good too. It's not fair, but people trust a married sex researcher more than a single one. They think you're in the job because of your own love and commitment.
When I was single, everyone acted like I was some sort of perverted freak.
What they don't know doesn't hurt them, huh?
Best,
Yukiko
She's probably right. A single person with an interest in sex is seen as desperate, slutty, perverted, or just plain strange.
A person in a relationship is seen as a good partner.
And a married woman?
Well, she's just sensible.
The patriarchy strikes again.
Ugh, I've been listening to too many of Cassie's rants. Not that she is somehow more of a feminist than I am. More, that she's a lot more interested in talking about sexism than I am. Sexism in media, especially.
If we're talking about sexism in medical research—why are most studies still done on men and assumed to have the same results on women—or diagnosing women's pain is more likely to be ignored, especially women of color's pain.
Well, she's happy to listen to my rants on those occasions. And our interests overlap in areas of sex. I come at it as a medical researcher. She comes at it as a bisexual songwriter.
Apparently, women are better kissers, and they're usually much better with digital and oral stimulation.
They have the equipment. They have more experience with it. They know sex doesn't start and end with a penis in a vagina. The freedom from penetration means they can focus on clitoral stimulation.
Most women need clitoral stimulation to orgasm. Eighty percent.
But then, if I'm telling myself statistics, I'm avoiding my real feelings. Statistics can't save me here.
I made my bed.
I need to get divorced in it.
That's the only logical conclusion. Right?
Or does it make sense to keep the ring on my finger, officially?
It will keep coworkers from asking me out. It will earn the respect of my boss, apparently.
But then it will also brand me as a liability. Married women of a reproductive age are seen as a ticking time bomb. At any moment, they are eight months away from maternity leave or even quitting their job to take care of their kids.
It's bullshit. No one expects married men to quit the second their partner gets pregnant. But I can't do anything about other people's assumptions.
I can only control myself.
There are pros and cons to staying married. The logic doesn't fall neatly into one category.
This needs to be about something besides logic.
This needs to be what's best for both of us.
I look through the pictures again. In every single one, I'm beaming. I'm a blushing bride. From all appearances, this is the happiest night of my life.
The evidence is there: bright eyes, wide smile, proud posture.
A picture of the proposal.
The rings—all from the Lost and Found.
The chapel.
The officiant dressed as Elvis.
The wedding.
And even a few shots of the honeymoon. Well, me, stripping out of my white dress and climbing right on top of my new husband.
I must have insisted on these too. It's hard to tell from the angle, and he's obviously an interested party, what with the massive erection, but again, I'm beaming.
Apparently, as a married woman, I'm a sex freak.
That was good. The parts I remember. And I remember them vividly.
Even now, when I close my eyes, I taste his lips, I smell his skin, I feel his cock inside me.
That's what I want.
Three weeks of sex.
Is there any way he'd agree to that?
Fuck this marriage thing. Actually, fuck me. Until I go to New York.
I check my social media again to make sure none of the X-rated pictures made the cut.
There are so many likes, comments, messages.
Everyone loves a wedding.
Everyone wants the best for me.
A few exes are pretending they aren't seething with jealousy. Or maybe they're evolved enough they aren't.
Yukiko left congrats comments on every post. She also said she'd love to meet Jackson sometime. Which is great. So great.
At least she didn't ask when he's moving to New York.
I don't want to drop that bombshell anytime soon.
I turn my phone off, I look around the room, and I stare at the scenery for a moment. Cassie lent me her room after I ran here in last night's dress.
She lent me a spare outfit too, a black dress that's short on her and criminal on me. She's tall, but I'm a giant.