The morning started out unusually different for me and my lawfully wedded husband. For nearly eight years we fell asleep in each other's eyes after praying the Lord our souls to keep and awakened inside each other's eyes before we brushed our morning breath into oblivion. He was the first and last person I saw every day for nearly a decade. To say that Jonathan Waters changed my life was putting things mildly.

He came into my life the instant I stopped looking, hoping, praying and searching for love, despite snubbing the idea of actually working on myself. I was desperate during those days. I was nearing the end of my twenties, the whore years, and playing musical beds became eight tracks in my life when I only had a cd player.

Masturbation has grown as cold as the untouched lotion bottles on our dresser or maybe the frozen turkey in the freezer when I was a ham type of man.

The day I fell in love was the expiration date on touching myself. I was living in a Mazda four door hatchback when we met. My car wouldn't start at the grocery store and the general manager called the tow crew on me. Jonathan was the tow man. I remember I started crying because all my possessions were in my car and I had no money to get it out. Jonathan towed my car to my mom's old house and he took me to dinner.

And the rest is history.

I was a ladies man, but my love for men snubbed that logic. Weighing two hundred and seventy pounds (six feet, three inches tall), I was a little on the heavy side (not much) and I inherited the gout in my feet from my dad.

I also suffered from gastric problems and was pre-diabetic.

My husband Jonathan was gorgeous. Everybody wanted him, but he chose me. What made him so appealing was the fact that he was totally unaware of how sexy he was. He loved people, adored the elderly and wasn't afraid to speak his mind.

But the buck stopped with his psychotic mother, Lady Waters.

The things I did for love was crazy. Because I was in love with Jonathan, I tolerated Lady, but I couldn't stand the bitch.

Eight heartbreaks led to Jonathan.

He got it right on the first try. He was a twenty-seven year old virgin when we met. He'd never been kissed. Growing up he said that no one liked how he looked, so he was regularly passed over or only used as a make-him-jealous prop with phony girls that dated him for momentary gain.

I found it ironic. During our first two years together he dumped me eight times because of my insecurities. I was insecure because a). he was too good to be true, too pure, b) I was waiting for his beautiful spirit to turn into the doggish affairs of my ex men and c), every time we argued his first reaction was to call it a quits because he truly didn't know what to do in a relationship. He was never in one before. I was his first everything.

I thought about my past sexcapades, lame ass ex-boyfriends, bad decisions I've made and regrets when I opened my eyes in my enormous bed as the alarm clock sounded on a gloomy Tuesday morning, annoying the hell out of me. And morning wood didn't help matters either.

Like I always did, I tenderly reached over and felt for my husband because his eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes were absent.

Where was my baby?

Hitting the snooze button, I grabbed the lotion bottle and stroked myself until orgasm, just to get it out the way. Jonathan normally took care of my morning erection, but he was persona non grata at the moment.

I never waste my seeds, so like a paper cut I swallowed, smacking my lips. Jonathan loved my freaky self.

I hopped out of bed, hugging the covers to my somewhat athletic body wrought with intricate tattoos. I called out his name, roaming throughout our one bedroom apartment, looking for him.

I glanced at my checkbook on the nightstand, ignoring the small crack on the bottom of my Tiffany lamp.

I was still sore from working out at the local gym (on guest passes; my cheap ass didn't want to pay for a membership) with Sean of Timberlake Fitness for the past ninety days.

Doing squats and biceps when you were out of commission for the past few years certainly wasn't the business, but if I wanted to lose my burgeoning gut I had to change my diet, modify my painful eating habits, have lots of marital sex and hit the gym.

Suffice it to say, screw the gym right now. I was a bit flustered. This was unusual. This was the first time I awakened without looking in my husband's gorgeous bedroom eyes.

My heart pounded when I looked in the bathroom and didn't see him. He wasn't in the kitchen or in the living room. He wasn't on the back or the front patio, cluttered with dusty ass fake plants and a sea of black ants.

The hairs stood on the back of my neck when he didn't answer his phone. I was numb. I didn't remember grabbing my overly expensive, over hyped iPhone 6 from the nightstand or remember telling Searie, the automated bitch, to dial his number via the voice command feature. Oh how I missed my Blackberry.

The phone rang, ceaselessly. Odd. Very odd. He always answered by the third ring.

Maybe he'll call back. He always did. I gave him ten minutes to return my call. He didn't. Again, this was odd. He'd normally call back in five minutes.

I didn't like the sinking feeling deep in my gut (with last night's pasta).

I called his ass again.

I heard a familiar ring tone. Frank Sinatra. You'd think my husband was a virgin addicted to whacking off to Penthouse magazine with all the romantic ringtones on his phone.

I looked across the room and his phone sounded from his side of the bed.

I moved heaven and earth to remain calm.

My palms were moist and itchy.

My mind racing, I put on my robe and poured a tonic. I hadn't eaten anything, but I didn't care.

Something was not right.

"Baby, are you all right?" Jonathan asked, strolling into the bedroom like nothing was wrong.

Oh, thank God! "Where were you?"