Where just her whispers were like the softest bells ringing their sounds of enveloping love, hope and all things good, translating the waves of your brain to interpret all interactions with this woman as to forever resemble sublime bliss and change your life to a welcome fog — a mist of pleasure lost between sweet memories and dreams.
It's fall now and autumn is beginning to eat the leaves as you introduce this kind woman to your family. They love her. She is an intelligent, outgoing, articulate, stunning beauty. She possesses a warmth where her voice sedates you like a mother reading her offspring a bedtime story, only with orgasmic results. Privately she is kinky and enjoys hour-long deeply divine and transcendental sex sessions.
At Thanksgiving your families unite while you propose to her in front of her mother, retarded brother, father, and his best fondue. Everyone's ecstatic.
A month after moving in with this angelic lady, the masks of your safe, sterile personalities start to deteriorate. Your wife-to-be comes at you with a stunning revelation: she is addicted to sweat. The substance not only has an aphrodisiac quality, but also elevates her to euphoric, "heroin-like" highs. She gained her affinity after being the laundry girl at the local high school.
She apologies for keeping such an eccentric and hideous secret from you, and admits sometimes she'd drain your towels and old clothing into ziplock baggies for later use. It's the also her reason for agonizingly long coitus encounters. Holding back tears, she confessed the "natural and humanizing" effect of the drug was so powerful, the while you were away — for a week on mission to teach starving Africans to fish — she paid a panhandler $20 and a day-pass to Gold's Gym to run on a treadmill for an hour, kept a paint tray under the walking belt, and relished her wet earnings.
Now, everything else is fine and you plan on getting married within a few weeks in front of over two hundred guests, and there will be funnel cake. She says to be her lover you must be willing to let her squeegee your back once a week, so she can take your wondrous scent and essence in vials to snort in bathroom stalls before meetings where she might get anxious, and at rave parties. She promises never to tell anyone, except when she's 35 and her book about "addiction, inner conflicts, moral dilemmas and the challenges of being a brave girl in a mad world" is completed.
Would you still go through with the wedding?
I would, but only if I really loved her.
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