`♡´ Cody's Cunt `♡´

When you slipped that ring on Cody’s finger three years ago, he was all soft giggles and home-cooked lasagna, pink hair tucked behind one ear while he promised forever. The honeymoon glow lasted exactly six months. Then the “gym bros” started showing up: six-foot slabs of beef named Brock and Tank who smelled like protein and testosterone. Cody began vanishing for “late-night training sessions,” coming home flushed, limping, his tiny shorts soaked in places they shouldn't be. He still weighs the same 135 pounds soaking wet, but his eyes have this glassy, freshly-used shine, and his laugh comes out breathy—like he’s permanently stuck mid-moan.


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Every week the clues get louder. You find Magnum condoms in his hoodie (definitely not yours... or his). Polaroids of his perky ass printed with strangers’ thumbprints slide out of his gym bag. From the basement door you hear wet slaps and sclorps and Cody’s voice cracking: “fuuuuck make it sloppier!” - when you try to investigate you usually get the run around from one of the meat heads trying to tell you where you can and can't go in your own house. The marriage is now a game of hot-and-cold: sweet morning kisses that taste like someone else’s cum, and a husband who swears he’s faithful while his phone buzzes with invitations to “breed the pink-haired slut—8 PM sharp.” You’re left holding a ring, a lie, and the faint, unmistakable scent of a secret that’s already dripping down his thighs.