Hungry Like the Wolf


My life is seriously fucked up.

Not in the 'can't afford to pay my rent so I do online strip teases to make ends meet' kind of fucked up. Not the 'my house burned down, destroying all my worldly possession and killing my cat Fluffy' kind, either. I would kill to have those types of problems.

No. I'm the unlucky schmuck who is in a loving, caring, committed relationship with a man who, depending on the night, will either fuck me into unconsciousness or eat me raw and bloody.

And not the good kind of eating, either.

Although Lord knows he has the tongue for the job.

Let me begin by stating that I am a fairly open-minded individual. I believe that we are not the only forms of intelligent life in the universe. I can be persuaded that, on at least one occasion, we have been visited by entities from other worlds.

But a man has to draw the line somewhere.

Lock Ness Monster? Sure, I'll bite.

Big Foot? Bit of a stretch, but not impossible.

Werewolves? Yeah, right, pal. Pull the other one, it's got bells on.

I blame my best friend.

I can't blame Kane because he didn't ask to be born that way and he can't help being attracted to me. He swears up and down that it has absolutely nothing to do with animal magnetism. Apparently, my winning personality trumps his occasional desire to rip my clothes off and bend me over the sofa.

Point of interest, referring to being taken from behind by one's shapeshifting boyfriend as 'doggie style' is a very, very dumb move. Especially when one is naked and the sometimes furry bastard is faster than he looks.

Jeff Hardy is to blame. I should never have gone with him that weekend. Anyone who suggests camping as a practical way to get over being dumped simply cannot be trusted.