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I Kill Me was a semifinalist (top 20!) in the
Humor Category for the Goodreads Choice Awards!
Christine Bacon has a fatal attraction. To all things fatal. A veteran hypochondriac, her near-death experiences are exacerbated when her husband proposes they have a menage a trois with Eleanor, his busty British massage therapist, to "shake things up." Christine reluctantly agrees (although she is more wholesome than threesome), never expecting just how much she'd be rattled. As her marriage to Richard, a/k/a "Dick," falls apart, so, too, does Christine, whose fear of her own demise causes her to research every freckle, blemish, cough, bump, lump, tingle and hiccup. She isn't a doctor, but she plays one on the internet. There is solace for Christine: in raising daughters Lily and Carli, leaning on her friends, and wearing out the shower massager. In order to heal, she struggles to become her own person and to view her symptoms (and ex-husband) as less malignant, while searching for that special someone who will love her--despite her grave condition.
– from Chapter One: Breathless
I could think of two big reasons why this threesome wasn’t going to work: her boobs. When my husband of nineteen years told me he wanted to “spice things up,” I was envisioning sex toys…spanking…chocolate-
They were truthfully too big to be called “perky.” Thing One and Thing Two were up and out. My breasts, on the other hand, were not only small (32 B minus) but had turned into saggy, limp skin sacs with droopy areolae and indifferent nipples from two years of nursing babies. So it was very much unappreciated that my husband wanted to invite someone with a cup size further along in the alphabet than mine to join us under the covers.
It had all started with a trigger point. Richard had been complaining of his upper back muscles being tight, and since I knew he’d been under a lot of stress at work, I got him a gift certificate to a local spa. Eleanor, a transplant from England with what Richard called a “killer accent,” was his massage therapist. After about four sessions of seeing her, Richard mentioned that someone at the office had engaged in a threesome, and then said what did I think of that. I said a twosome was more than enough for me, and the conversation had ended. The morning after his sixth massage, he told me over breakfast (while the girls were upstairs getting ready for school) that he thought he might like to try a threesome, and what did I think of that. I had stirred my coffee a bit too vigorously so that some of it slopped over the sides of the mug and onto the table. I had not known what to answer, and thought it wise that I refrained from my initial response of what the FUUCKK?! After a few moments, I whispered (so the kids wouldn’t hear), why didn’t we just watch some good porn instead?
That’s not what I’m talking about, he snorted. I feel like we need to really shake things up here. Make it exciting again.
Aren’t I enough for you? I asked. I didn’t understand this; we’d had sex three times last week, and I’d gone down on him every time. Even when he hadn’t showered immediately before.
I need a change, he had answered. Sorry, but I’m just being honest.
That was when I got scared. And I said, okay.
They were truthfully too big to be called “perky.” Thing One and Thing Two were up and out. My breasts, on the other hand, were not only small (32 B minus) but had turned into saggy, limp skin sacs with droopy areolae and indifferent nipples from two years of nursing babies. So it was very much unappreciated that my husband wanted to invite someone with a cup size further along in the alphabet than mine to join us under the covers.
It had all started with a trigger point. Richard had been complaining of his upper back muscles being tight, and since I knew he’d been under a lot of stress at work, I got him a gift certificate to a local spa. Eleanor, a transplant from England with what Richard called a “killer accent,” was his massage therapist. After about four sessions of seeing her, Richard mentioned that someone at the office had engaged in a threesome, and then said what did I think of that. I said a twosome was more than enough for me, and the conversation had ended. The morning after his sixth massage, he told me over breakfast (while the girls were upstairs getting ready for school) that he thought he might like to try a threesome, and what did I think of that. I had stirred my coffee a bit too vigorously so that some of it slopped over the sides of the mug and onto the table. I had not known what to answer, and thought it wise that I refrained from my initial response of what the FUUCKK?! After a few moments, I whispered (so the kids wouldn’t hear), why didn’t we just watch some good porn instead?
That’s not what I’m talking about, he snorted. I feel like we need to really shake things up here. Make it exciting again.
Aren’t I enough for you? I asked. I didn’t understand this; we’d had sex three times last week, and I’d gone down on him every time. Even when he hadn’t showered immediately before.
I need a change, he had answered. Sorry, but I’m just being honest.
That was when I got scared. And I said, okay.
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AUTHOR BIO:
Tracy H. Tucker is first and foremost the mother of three of the best people on Earth. She has a Master's in Literacy from the University of Maine and has inspired the youth of America for seventeen years. She's an avid animal lover and would like to publicly thank her husband for putting up with the pet hair, the dogs in the bed, the things the cats hack up and the repeated requests for goats. It's a wonderful life.
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Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/205124
*I Kill Me was selected as the Best Indie Book for 2012 by Chick Lit Cafe!
Thank you for sharing!
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