I’ve never enjoyed beating somebody at anything as much as I love beating you each week at our Apple watch fitness competitions. Every time I see your points go up, I get a little jolt and find myself willing to do anything at all to surpass you. Jumping jacks on my way to the bathroom from the kitchen, curls while giving JOI, and climbing extra flights of stairs, you name it. Anything for a win. Anything.
In two days it’s going to be a new year. Plans for 2025: get married, buy a house, make a baby, have a baby, publish a shit ton of stories/essay, get books accepted for publication, get famous, become millionaires, fuck 365 times, travel, make music, make art, get fit as hell. Maybe I’m completely out of my mind, but these things all seem totally reasonable to me.
We really need to figure out how to answer the question, “So do you have a wedding date yet?” I don’t even know if we’re having a wedding. Do you?
You made flyers for my book tour and one of my events and they’re so good and so sexy. Almost everything I post on Blood Oath Daily is some version of “I won the lottery when I met you” but like… seriously. I won the lottery when I met you.
Sometimes I wonder how you get anything done. Every time I look over at you, at least one of your hands is down your pants, fiddling with your dick – protecting, covering, twisting, poking, and gripping it – and the other either swatting at me or reaching for a pet. It’s a goddamned funhouse over here.
You have survived the holidays with my family. We went over there at 4pm but we didn’t eat dinner until Jesus knows when. 8pm? 9pm? 10? Who doesn’t eat Christmas dinner until 10pm? We started texting each other things like, “What the fuck is happening?” and “I’m so hungry, I think I’m dying,” and “But seriously, when are we going to eat?” and I know that it is a small amount of torture, but they’re my family and I love them and I love that you make it fun, even if we both died on Christmas Night, Rest In Peace.
I deleted my fertility app after Trump got elected (for obvious reasons) and it’s so fucking hot that you took it upon yourself to start tracking my cycle so you can predict my most fertile days and fill me up at exactly the right time to maybe get me pregnant. But I swear, we really can’t get engaged and pregnant (and possibly married) before we’re even living together. It’s just too modern.
It’s my birthday. For weeks, you’ve been asking me, “What do you want?” And I didn’t know what to tell you because this is all I wanted—to wake up next to you, to fuck and eat breakfast, to realize we get to do this over and over for the rest of our lives.
Your mom and sister-in-law and best friends are already sending holiday cards addressed to both of us and it really hit me that we’re, like, a thing. And I’ve never been so turned on by being so attached.
You are going to take my last name when we get married. I can’t describe how much that turns me on. We are anti-capitalist, anti-patriarchy, non-conformist artists and writers, but there’s some secret part of me that is traditional in a hopefully not creepy way that can’t wait to hear you say your first name with my last name and it’s not a joke.