Eight months pregnant and struggling with mobility, I satisfied my drunk husband Samuel Garcia in other ways. My movements were clumsy and awkward.
He leaned against the headboard, his tone filled with dissatisfaction: "Compared to Adeline, your technique is terrible. When I get the chance, I'll arrange for you two to meet, so you can learn from her." Adeline Moore was his childhood sweetheart.
Hearing this, I felt like I'd been struck by lightning.
My voice trembling, I asked: "She's helped you like this too?"
Samuel didn't care at all, even burping from the alcohol: "That was her punishment for losing at Truth or Dare. Don't worry, we didn't have any real contact."
I was stunned, then said: "Let's get divorced."
