Dishonor Thy Wife Page 2

  His snoring is keeping me awake. Brad has never snored before.

  When we lay on the stairs like two stacked pancakes, my nose in his collar, he smelled somewhat syrupy. I forgot liking Brad’s sticky sweet smell.

  When he removed his body from on top of me, I somehow felt cheated. I actually clenched my hands to keep from hitting him and yelling, “Is that all there is?” It took all my control to hide my shaking desire, and unfulfilled...what? What exactly is missing in this sex puzzle thingy?

  Ugh! I wanted to have sex with Brad O’Boyle! Mama was a prostitute and I’m afraid to be like her. And I am. I am.

  Brad’s fingers fluttered like butterfly wings across my vibrating stomach, and stopped...at the center of my universe.

  His hand cupped my crotch, pressing against me, the heat of his skin seeping beneath the denim. I actually whimpered.

  I now kick the sheets off, writhing on the bed, my hair sticking to my neck. Oh, God where is the cool air? Have I suddenly become a fallen angel? I am mortified to have grabbed my husband, rubbing my hand against the lump in his pants that was so hard and hot even through the fabric. I hate you, Brad O’Boyle! Do not ever touch me again!

  The stink of a woman was on him, some female sweating between the legs for Brad O’Boyle. Most likely, he drove straight home from his mistress of the dark that tramp Barbie. She must not have put out for Brad, which is why he nearly raped me—again. I was 17 then but should know better now. Brad still insists there is no such thing as date rape. A guy knows when a girl wants it, is his motto. Well statutory rape has the word rape, date or not.

  The last time my husband showed any interest in having sex with me was about six years ago. Now, suddenly Brad returns from Philadelphia and is climbing all over me and panting like a horny teen.

  My best friend Riley and I, when we were high school juniors, managed to climb out the window one Saturday night and hitchhike to Sixth Street. Yippee, Sixth Street is always one big weekend party with nightclubs and music, where college students hang out getting drunk, begging to get laid. Our butts jiggled in short-shorts with blouses tied above our flat stomachs. We were sticky hot chicks, clicking our stiletto heels up Six Street, sweating up a storm, and rubbing elbows with the midnight crowd. We slapped fake ids of women a decade older looking nothing like us, into the wet palms of bouncers whose eyes never strayed from our boobies.

  At the third club, stood handsome Brad O’Boyle, rich intern, lounging against the bar to keep from falling down drunk. We danced or he danced all over me. We talked; actually, he slurred, I talked; and then we began seeing each other in secret.

  Do not judge a poor, ignorant girl for trusting a man because of one motion picture show and two hamburgers. I was a naïve virgin who never heard of date rape. When Brad begged to lie on top of me on the grass, I did not know his lump against my leg meant danger. “What is that,” I had whispered.

  “I promise not to do anything bad to you, Ronni. You’ll like it, trust me.” He groaned as if hurting. “I need you,” he moaned and stupid I believed a doctor only spoke the truth. Brad needed me.

  A desperate, naïve girl believes two dates signifies a relationship. She mixes up sex with love, and makes excuses for rape. He had too much to drink. He is really a good man. He does not apologize because he feels guilty. He really believes all that Love Story movie bullshit about love means never having to say you are sorry, ever—omens of futures filled with screw you, Ronni!

  Tonight, Brad returns from Philadelphia, and his walk is slightly off, as if unsure of himself. He acts passionate with me. Tonight, my husband made me long for a loving marriage and then I remember that the alternative to Brad marrying me was prison. My grandfather, Pops, put a shotgun to Brad’s head and threatened statutory rape charges, to force him to marry me because he knocked me up.

  I now tiptoe to the bedroom door and snap the lock in place.

  Brad is up to something. He actually wanted me and in a sexual way, not his normal way of screwing with my head and my heart. When I was in the kitchen earlier, I grabbed a screwdriver from the junk drawer and hid it under my pillow.

  I’ll screw Brad all right, with this! I lunge at the air with the nine-inch-shaft screwdriver several times. I shift to the other arm. The movie Psycho is my favorite. This is fun, quite a workout, arms of screwdriver steel. I should videotape myself and upload it on YouTube. Ronni’s Exercise Video—Five Minutes to Sculpting Your Husband. A million hits!

  I wear myself out with plunging and then tuck the screwdriver beneath my pillow. The feel of cold steel seduces me to sleep.

  I dream of a big black hole. I grip the sides, trying to climb out as a man with a shadowy face shovels dirt, filling the hole and smothering me.

  I wake up in the morning with a gritty mouth and fling the blankets over my head, shivering and coughing.

  Scary, shitty nightmare seemed real.

  Chapter 3

  HUSBAND

  They have a saying in Texas; if you don’t like the weather, come back in five minutes. Last night a tornado blew me in from Philly. This morning, the weather alarm radio screeched, “The National Weather Service in Austin has issued a flash flood warning for Travis County, and Williamson County. Drown dickhead!”

  I might have missed the toilet in a flash flood and then slipped. How in the hell did I wind up sleeping on the toilet rug?

  I do not usually drink until wasted any more but my new best friend from the medical conference hung out in the bars with me for my flight home yesterday or should I say flights home. We rebooked our flights so we could continue to party. We drank our way through the airports of Philadelphia, Boston, and New York where we then separated, me headed for Austin.

  He gave me a goodbye hug and said, “Good luck, and don’t be nervous. Everything will go as planned. For a hangover, the Germans eat raw herring with onions and a pickle. Or you could chew the dried penis of a bull like Sicilians do.”

  Raw pickled herring with onions or dried bull penis. I shoved my head in the toilet and vomited up to the eighth level of dry heaves.

  No little girl should ever witness her father in his underwear hugging the toilet bowl and stinking of vomit and piss.

  Traci stared with big, luminous eyes. She was small for a six-year-old. Her stringy hair made her resemble a scarecrow.

  She took a step back with hands clasped behind her back and her face stretched tight.

  “You can come in, kid, no need to be afraid of a pint of fermented grain mash. Whiskey after a hangover is like rotten toast with rancid butter.” I stood on rocky feet, a black sock sagging around one ankle. I yanked my undershorts higher on my waist. Odd, being shirtless and not wearing pants in front of Traci did not cause discomfort. On the other hand, not having a watch on my wrist made me feel undignified.

  The kid had the balls to flush the toilet but seemed shy. After being gone for over a week, a little girl should throw herself in her daddy’s arms. Quit staring kid, as if at an alien. I removed the Darth Vader helmet yet you are still making me feel like I am breathing in an iron lung.

  Traci took a shaky breath.

  “Uh, sorry I didn’t bring you anything from Philadelphia, Traci. I, uh, forgot.”

  Traci stood with her hands hanging limp at her sides. The child inherited from her mother a gift for making me feel like a heel. “Well, uh, I have to get ready for work.”

  “Okey-dokey.” She skipped towards the bedroom door.

  “Hey, Kid! Have a good day at school, huh?”

  The sight of Traci smiling as if she liked me turned my insides to mush.

  She waved before she ran out the door and I wiggled my fingers, grinning crookedly. I would have liked to have pecked Traci on the cheek but we did not have that type of relationship.

  In the light of day, the bedroom engulfed me with joy, and I giggled like a girl. Each of the photos in the room was of a young boy at various ages and I held the pictures up to the mirror in comparison. I was the young age
of 32 but getting older was still a bitch. Nowhere in this thoroughly masculine bedroom were there any pictures of the wife or kid, but then it was a man’s domain.

  My head was like a balloon about to pop and my mouth tasted like dog shit.

  I felt more human after a shave and shower and was thinking of sneaking out the back door to avoid Ronni and then she yelled, “Come on, Traci, let’s go,” followed by the front door slamming.

  There was 45 minutes before work, the house all to myself, and Ronni’s bedroom door was unlocked!

  The décor was virginal with a white eyelet, frilly bed cover and a swirly white-ruffled canopy. A row of red and white teddy bears reclined against a mountain of fluffy pillows.

  A mirror swept around the dresser so that a vain woman could see not just the front of her face but the sides of her face as well.

  A print of a Gustav Klint painting hung on a wall. The print was The Kiss portraying a couple beneath gold blankets. The man was kissing the woman but held her head at such an angle on her shoulders that she appeared beheaded. The woman in the painting sort of resembled Ronni. Yeah, the wife would look just as pretty with her head cut off and sort of tilting on her neck. One little jiggle and her head would roll down her arm and bounce on the carpet.

  One of the dresser drawers was slightly open revealing a row of underpants prettily lined in a row like a garden of delights. Red. Black. White. Navy blue. Lace. Bikini. Hot pink. Sexy boy shorts.

  Ronni, Ronni, quite contrary, how do your panties grow?

  With silver balls and cock shells and pretty puss all in a row.

  My face grew hot when stroking the lingerie. Only a peeping Tom would gawk into a woman’s panty drawer. Jesus, I should have left well enough alone. Now every time Ronni walks by I will imagine…I yanked the sexiest panties from the drawer and rubbed the black silk triangle, a thong no more than a crack up a rounded butt and a small tent to hide Mount Bushmore. I had never been a thief but now shoved the panties in my pants pocket.

  I drove to work, distracted by an image of Ronni modeling her undies. Her underwear so tangled my mind that I got lost for seven minutes but finally found the office.

  I felt creepy and transparent walking into the office. They will know I have changed. They will smell the wolf on me.

  Whew, the staff is all smiles!

  The redheaded receptionist, Brandy, placed the files of today’s appointments on the desk along with the schedule for the week. It was going to be a long day and a half-full bottle of whiskey in the right top drawer of the desk was tempting, but drinking on the job would not be added to my list of sins.

  In the left top drawer of the desk was a framed 8 x 10 of a Texas beauty queen with a plastic smile and a greedy look in her blue eyes. A flowery signature was scrawled across the photo: To Brad, love forever. Your poopsi whoopsi, Barbie.

  Brandy sashayed into the office and dropped a load of file folders on the desk. She leaned across and the top three buttons of her blouse popped open.

  I slammed the drawer shut, hiding Barbie’s picture.

  Brandy whispered in a little girl voice, “I missed you, boss man.” She ran a finger down my sideburn.

  I pushed the chair back from the desk, grinding the wheels in a nervous whine. “Well that’s, uh, very nice of you, Brandy.” A wedding ring with a large diamond circled Brandy’s finger. “I don’t want your husband blowing my head off. Just cool it for now, okay?”

  “Yes, doctor huge.” She sashayed back out of the office, wiggling her tight ass in an exaggerated fashion.

  I tiptoed to the door, locked it, and then made a phone call.

  A receptionist, a woman by the name of Irene, answered. “Dr. Tremblay did not come into the office today.”

  “Jayden canceled all his appointments? Is Dr. Tremblay sick?”

  “Dr. Tremblay said you might be calling, Dr. O’Boyle. He said not to worry. Everything is under control.”

  Under control, huh? That is what he said in Philly.

  I gave a heartfelt sigh, my balls sucking into my body and pushing against my kidneys in frozen fear. “Have you ever done anything you’ve regretted, Irene?”

  “Sure. Who hasn’t?”

  “Well, it was good to hear your voice.” I hung up with a shaky hand. Irene had a motherly sounding voice, and I almost confessed everything to her.

  Chapter 4

  WIFE

  It has been a week since my husband came home from Philadelphia and Brad has not turned back into a frog. Hell must be freezing over if my husband has really shed his skin into a new-and-improved Brad.

  Our daughter no longer hides behind the sofa when he is at home. Brad sits on the recliner watching television, holding Traci on his lap. He watches the children’s station while Pussy sits on the arm of the chair, licking her paws and cleaning her fur.

  Brad plays computer games with Traci, or reads to her. He helps our daughter with her homework. For the first time in our marriage, Brad is acting like a daddy, and Traci is blossoming.

  In the morning, he fixes two bowls of cereal and eats breakfast with Traci. He ruffles her hair and yanks her ear. Giggles fill the kitchen.

  “Would you mind driving Traci to school? It’s just for this one morning.” I try to keep the whiny pleading from my voice because Brad has told me countless times, “When you are in one of your pathetic moods your voice rises, making you sound like a cat in heat.”

  “Sure, I’ll drive the kid.” Brad drops a few strawberries in Traci’s cereal bowl. He does not scream about how, “I am too busy to drive the damn kid! My job is more important than your measly dental appointment! You are a lazy-ass parasite taking part-time classes yet want me to drive your daughter to school? I put a roof over your head and feed you both, and now you expect me to drive Traci? Well, screw you, bitch!”

  Nor does Brad kick over the kitchen chair and throw his cereal bowl at the wall.

  “Have a nice day and I hope your visit at the dentist is not painful,” he adds.

  “Thanks,” I mumble, unused to kindness in his voice.

  Quick! Run out the door before he changes his mind about Traci!

  Chapter 5

  WIFE

  This evening, again none of the cars is missing from the garage. Brad has suddenly become a homebody. He even loads the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. A devil does not suddenly change into an angel. The one and only time I ever asked him to clean up the kitchen, he broke all the dishes in the sink. “Oops, sorry, Ronni, slippery fingers. Ha!” He then picked up a carving knife and jabbed the blade at me. He then stomped on the dishtowel and flung it at my face. So forgive me for repeating that the new Brad is odd.

  He has never enjoyed reading classics before but Brad sits on a comfortable study chair reading Pride and Prejudice of all books and a paperback no less. Brad has always claimed to prefer the True Crime genre and reads ebooks but more likely smutty pornographic hard-core erotica.

  The study is my homework domain in the evening. I push the power button on the computer and cough as a hint for Brad to take his book elsewhere.

  He burrows his rump more comfortably into the leather chair, turning the pages.

  Fine, I am used to ignoring you. I wrap myself in an imaginary cocoon and pretend Brad does not exist. A prophylactic suddenly comes to mind when thinking of a cocoon, with me inside the silk condom vibrating against the sides because of the condom I found in Brad’s pants. He wore the pair when he came home from Philadelphia. I was not snooping but washing clothes. The condom was labeled Trustex; like in trust your ex to still want to have sex with you until he finds someone else. The wrapper read that the rubber was made of animal membrane, so of course, it belongs to Brad, and did not leap into his pocket from another man’s pants.

  Brad lifts his eyes from the book and stares at my legs, rolling his eyes upward. He boldly stops at my crotch and licks his lips as though he can see what pair of panties I am wearing.

  I cannot concentrate on my schoolwork be
cause of the creepy feeling that Brad has been spying on me this past week. He is memorizing my routine. Again, he looks at his watch as I walk up the stairs to bed.

  “Ronni, whatever you want, just ask.” he says in a voice that would chill wine.

  I toss my head, yet a devil in me makes me shake my behind.

  “You’re a tease, spreading your legs under your short skirt.” His voice is hoarse with yearning.

  My heart rises to my throat. I grip the handrail, deliberately stopping high enough where he can see my panties. My hand is shaking and my chest, I cannot breathe.

  He slowly begins climbing the stairs and I spread my legs even wider and bend slightly so my skirt rises.

  Brad is looking up my skirt, and I am letting him.

  I move my rear slightly, a few times in a humping motion, thinking of pole dancing.

  He moans slightly and his footsteps quicken.

  I walk slower until he catches up to me.

  His fingers walk up the zipper of my skirt and grasps at the clasp.

  With trembling hands, I grab his thumb to stop him. Not here, it is too hot. I am going to faint. “No,” I manage to gulp out, “the past haunts us, Brad.” My voice cracks with remembrance.

  He holds up his hands as though burnt by a hot stove and steps back.

  Breathless, I scurry down the hallway to the master bedroom and quietly lock the door.

  His knees crack as he kneels in the hallway breathing heavily against the wood. Brad is watching at the bedroom door, his eye to the keyhole.

  I perform a slow striptease in the bathroom with the door flung open, humming a burlesque song, and probably looking ridiculous as I throw my bra across the room. I pour glass after glass of water on my head to wet my t-shirt.

  I stand, facing the door with breasts thrust out and nipples soaking wet.

  Surely, he has gotten an eyeful so I drop to the floor and strip off the rest of my clothing.

  I crawl to the bed, not wanting him to see my naked sweaty body.

  I slide beneath the covers and listen with my breath in my throat.