Dishonor Thy Wife Page 3

  There is panting outside the door, and God help me, I grow even more excited and touch myself, imagining Brad in my bed, wanting my husband, remembering how he felt when I squeezed him through his pants.

  I throw off the covers and leave the light on, knowing that Brad is watching. I loathe him for making me act like Mama.

  At the age of ten, I snuck out of the house to the titty bar Mama worked at. I hid under a table and watched while she stripped in front of leering men. One gruff-looking biker stuck his hand in her underpants, filling her crotch with cash.

  When it was the next stripper’s turn, Mama went to the alley with the biker who gave her 10 five-dollar bills.

  I hid inside the garbage can with the lid lifted an inch, spying on my alley-cat mama.

  The girl I once was with stringy hair, hollow stomach and a face washed with spit, still lives inside me. That poor pathetic child cries out, her heart wringing because her mama abandoned her when she was ten, running off with the biker who didn’t like children.

  The child inside me still longs for the daddy she never knew, and searches for respect in the face of every man she sees. She tells herself, I am as good as anyone is.

  I often stroke the fine wood and luxurious leather in my Tudor-style mansion and the girl inside me is comforted. I never really expected love in a marriage, not when my own mama left me and my daddy did not want me. The only time I have had sex was the date rape with Brad.

  When I first met my husband, his healing hands made me think, what a wonderful man he is. Here is a man who saves lives. Soon after marrying, I learned that Brad O’Boyle is more destructive than healthful.

  Well, I was never the brightest kid in the projects and am playing a dangerous game with Brad.

  I am masturbating while he spies through the keyhole.

  And God help me, for the first time in my life, I am enjoying the power of my sex.

  Chapter 6

  WIFE

  Brad is only technically married to me since our marriage is celibate, but if Barbie Simpson was free, Brad might murder me. Ha! I am joking, but still Brad would see me as a threat to his financial health. Pops made sure there was no prenuptial contract, a condition of Brad not going to prison for statutory rape. Brad accused me of not telling him I was 17. “It’s about disclosure, Ronni, full disclosure, something you know nothing about.”

  “It’s about disclosure, Brad, full disclosure, something you know nothing about.” Brad never revealed that he was engaged, or that he had a fight with his fiancée Barbie on the day we met. The dumbest lie a girl can tell herself is he did not tell you about his fiancé because he loves you and does not want to lose you.

  It will take about four years attending college part-time to become a dental hygienist and earn financial independence. Given Brad’s volatile moods, I plan to walk out on him then. I was never mean until my husband taught me to be.

  I was not always cynical. When we first married, I was naïve enough to think that his anger towards me would abate and we would have a real marriage and live happily ever after. Brad remained cold and distant all through the pregnancy. Traci was born and the baby should have brought us closer together. We created a life, a miracle, but a child born of a loveless marriage widens the gulf between man and wife.

  Brad only became friendlier after we made an agreement to stay out of each other’s way. Giving Brad a peep show last night violates our agreement. All week long, I dress like a nun in long skirts and shapeless shirts, my feet in manly shoes. I hover in a corner expecting him to lash out at me for being like my mother.

  The darkness eats away his insides—the darkness he usually shows his wife and child. Brad is resisting his mean urges such as yelling, “Goddamnit, Ronni! I told you to hang up my jeans as soon as you take them out of the dryer! Get your butt over here and iron them!" His rotten behavior is before Philadelphia, and I sniff his shirts before doing the wash but his scent is unchanged.

  Traci has become a traitor. A little attention from Brad for the first time in her life and she is all giggles and grins for her father.

  This morning Brad says “good morning” and I bark at him,

  “Well, who got into your panties?” he says.

  “Not you,” I snap.

  He laughs as if that is the funniest joke he has ever heard. “Your eyes are puffy and red, like you’ve been crying.”

  His gentle voice makes me want to slap him. What has Brad been playing at, acting so nice since Philadelphia, yet his eyes appear cold and his smile is creepy. Last time I told him good morning, before Philadelphia transformed him into a kind man, his response was, “go to hell, Ronni.” He then pushed my coffee cup with lipstick marks away from him. My favorite cup fell to the floor, shattering to pieces. The cup was in shards but I pieced the words together on the ceramic—My husband went to Vegas and came back a bigger asshole! The devil will have to stick his pitchfork up his own butt before I ever wish Brad O’Boyle a good morning again.

  “Don’t forget about your parents this Sunday,” I remind him before he heads out the door for work.

  “Parents,” he squeaks. Brad is quite the mama’s boy yet he pales at the mention of his folks.

  “Our usual monthly dinner on Sunday, remember, Brad?”

  “Oh, yeah, right. It’s just my mind is preoccupied with work.” He gives me a peck on the cheek as if we are a normal couple.

  I am seriously thinking of driving to one of those custom t-shirt places and having them make up a design on a red t-shirt with words printed in bold white:

  My husband returned from Philadelphia with his brain tattooed.

  Pussy rubs up against his leg now, making me think Brad has changed.

  However, can I really trust a cat that licks my husband’s balls?

  Chapter 7

  HUSBAND

  The more Ronni ignored me, the more I purposefully threw myself in her direction. I would kneel in the hallway outside her bedroom door after she retired for the night without even wishing me sweet dreams. Every night my eye looked through her door as if the keyhole was a telescope, watching Ronni strip off her clothes and give into her baser instincts. She wears a see-through red nightie with a big heart on the chest and wedge heels with straps criss-crossing her long muscular legs like a Roman soldier. Yeah, I could ride her like a horse.

  She was so close yet unattainable and driving me crazy with her striptease and all the other sex games.

  She went out Friday evening dressed like she was meeting a boyfriend so I sat on the den sofa with my arms crossed in front of my chest, waiting up for her. She found me amusing when she got back after midnight!

  She kicked off her shoes, aiming the heels in my direction and laughing. She had obviously been drinking. “Why in heaven's name are you staying home? Well I go out to get away from your suffering company! You make me sick with your newfound sweetness,” she slurred and threw a beer can at me.

  I must be more careful. Ronni accused me of being up to something.

  I began making a rocking horse for Traci. I needed something to unleash my pent-up frustration and the violence of cutting wood helped. When I first walked down the steps to the basement, a wave of guilt struck me. Traci watched me make the horse, her eyes dancing. She chattered away as if a bird set free from its cage. It was unpardonable what I was doing to her and her mother.

  To make it up to the kid, I was creating a magnificent wooden horse with real horsehair, leather saddle, and beautifully polished.

  Ronni again went out Friday wearing a skirt barely covering her buttocks with a big zipper down the front as if she was advertising Open Me. I would make one hell of a private eye and did not need the help of a zipper Yeah, I could take a magnifying glass, bend on my knees, and look up her skirt. Just call me a private dicktective.

  I stood with the garage door slightly ajar, spying on her driving away from the house.

  Hers was the Chrysler Cruiser, virginal white with fake wood paneling across the sid
es.

  Mine was the Darth Vader Death Star black Mercedes Benz, a car forged in Hades that drove itself home when the driver was sloshed.

  The colorless, grey SUV was ours. The color grey was middle ground, but the wife and I could never meet in Middle-earth except on quicksand. Lint grew beneath the gold band around my sweaty wedding finger—One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them. Except for disliking hairy big feet, I was a fan of The Lord of the Rings.

  I followed Ronni and with great stealth, parked the black Mercedes several cars behind her Cruiser, watching her walk into a bar a half block from Sixth Street.

  I stood on the dark street across from the bar, keys dangling in my hand. I have been tailing Ronni for a while now but her peep show every night had given me the balls to get closer.

  I swaggered towards a bar named Lovejoys.

  My cockiness vanished as soon as I walked into the bar. I never used to be so sneaky but since Philadelphia, I have changed. I leaned against the bar, one boot on the footrest, and nervously drummed my fingers against the wooden counter. The bar was carved in the shape of a coffin.

  What excuse could I make for being at Lovejoys when she left the house just fifteen minutes ago? Ronni was already suspicious of me.

  Well, hell’s bells, America was supposed to be a free country. I had as much right as anyone to be in Lovejoys.

  “Hit me with a beer,” I told the bartender and loosened my tie. I was dressed like a doctor or like an undertaker.

  I removed my black suit jacket and slung it across a gold metal pipe that wrapped around the wooden bar. I rolled up the sleeves of my white shirt and yanked a black tie over my head, nearly choking in the process.

  I grabbed a mug of beer and guzzled the entire contents. “Hit me again.” I burped.

  The rest of Lovejoys looked more like a living room than a bar. Ronni was sitting on a couch with her back to me chatting with another woman. Her friend, Riley, looked cheap. Her skirt rode up her hips, and revealed a bit of white panty.

  Ronni and Riley drank the hard stuff and seemed to be having a serious discussion. Neither paid attention to the men in the bar ogling the women. I walked quietly with my hand hiding my face, and then stood against a counter across from them and eavesdropped.

  Ronni said, “Brad just seems so different. He is somewhat sweet, you know? He actually fried me eggs for breakfast on Sunday.” Ronni’s shoulders slumped and her chest sunk in. Her voice sounded heartbroken. “I almost hoped...”

  “You and Brad might have a happily ever after?” Riley raised an eyebrow. She took out a cigarette and lit the cancer stick. Riley then sucked on the cigarette, turning her face sideways to prevent smoke blowing in Ronni's face.

  “Traci runs down to the basement every day when she comes home from school just to stare at the pieces of the rocking horse he’s making. I swear that horse will rock Traci to heaven when Brad is finished with it.”

  “Are we talking about the devil Brad, your husband? Well, I would not trust him. How can a man and woman live in the same house together for over six years and not have sex? Brad has always been a bastard. Your husband propositioned me one time.”

  “I know,” Ronni said in a small voice, “but that was a long time ago.”

  “That a-hole wanted to have sex with me only because it would be a coup to sleep with your best friend and forever put a wedge between us.” Riley turned her face in my direction and blew cigarette smoke.

  I shoved my hand in front of my face but still Riley said, “Well, well, your hubby is spying on us.”

  Ronni swung her head over to me and my heart beat so fast everyone at Lovejoys must have heard my blood pumping. I threw some bills on the bar top, grabbed my jacket, and turned towards the door.

  Do not even look in her direction, you ass. You will only make things worse.

  Ronni jumped in front of me, blocking my path. “Are you following me, Brad?”

  “I, uh, came over here to play pool.”

  “We have a pool table at home.”

  “I wanted a beer.”

  “We have beer at home.”

  “We don't have my favorite homebrew that is sold only at Lovejoys, The Leg Spreader.”

  She bit her lip. “Are you, uh, meeting someone here?”

  “Nope. Not meeting anybody. No plans. I'm all alone.” I sighed as if I was the loneliest man on the planet. “How about you and I play a game of pool, huh?”

  “Mm. We have that pool table at home but you and I have never played a game. What shall we play for, money?”

  “If I win,” and my voice dropped two octaves, “you give me what I want.” A sensual gleam lit my eyes and a grin split my face. My voice filled with intimacy making this bar seem too small for the two of us.

  “And if I win?” she softly said and swallowed.

  “Then, I give you what you want,” I said in a voice that implied she must want the same thing.

  “Anything?” She grinned.

  “Anything.” We shook hands on the deal.

  I stacked up the balls and Ronni broke them.

  I raised my eyes to the ceiling and silently swore. The woman knew her game. Three balls went in on the first break. “Hustler,” I muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.” Damned if my pool stick skipped and nearly tore a hole in the green fabric of the pool table. I always had bad luck with green felt but figured Ronni would be an easy win.

  She chuckled and I gave her a dirty look.

  There was nothing like the public humiliation of having your ass kicked in public by a woman. In just four shots Ronni announced, “Eight ball, left corner pocket.” Bam—the ball went in.

  “Ball breaker,” I muttered.

  “Did you say something, Brad?”

  “You win.” I shoved the pool stick back into the holder on the wall, so hard that the holder crashed to the floor and all the pool sticks tumbled down on my head.

  Ronni laughed aloud at me.

  I glared at her.

  She reached her hand up and straightened my hair. “There,” she said, “now you don't look so wild.”

  I turned my head and kissed her wrist, one swift lick of the tongue, and then lowered her hand between us, not letting go. My voice lowered to a husky tone. “What do I owe you, lovely lady, for beating me at pool?” I stared at her expectantly, trying to act cool.

  “Oh, I want what every girl wants.”

  Her hand scorched my skin, her heat seeping through my bones, boiling my blood. Ronni burned for me.

  She burst my bubble by adding in a whiny voice, “I want flowers,” and then shook her hand free of my grasp.

  “Fine! I doubt any florists are open so I'm going home.”

  “Well, you don't have to be such a bad sport,” she said, grinning.

  “And why are you laughing?” I said to Riley.

  “Because if you knew your wife better, you would know that Ronni has been a pool shark since sixth grade when she began hanging out at the pool halls while waiting to escort her grandpa home after he'd had too much to drink. Ronni was practically raised at the pool hall.” Riley turned to Ronni and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve got to go. There’s my date.”

  Ronni spun on her heel, ran out of Lovejoys, and pulled her car out of the parking space.

  I raced to my car and jumped in.

  I lifted my foot from the gas pedal and slowed the car down, hiding a few cars behind her. The smile on my face was the predatory smile of the hunter.

  Chapter 8

  WIFE

  My husband is following me and my traitorous heart beats with excitement at the chase.

  We swing our cars into the garage at nearly the same time.

  Aha, beat you by a yardstick, creep.

  I jump out of the car and race to the door, shoving the key into the lock.

  He covers my hand with his, stopping me from turning the key. He is breathing heavily, almost painfully. The hair on the top
of my head creeps across my scalp and his hot breath heats my skin all the way down to my toes.

  He picks me up and I’m kicking my legs and screaming. He’s laughing!

  Brad carries me to the car and opens the back door.

  Damn, I should have locked it!

  He flings me across the seat. “Quit playing hard to get,” he pants. “I can smell your desire.”

  “No!”

  “You don’t mean no, Ronni. Quit being coy! You know you want it. You were giving me sex vibes when we played pool! Every night you’ve been touching yourself, playing with yourself all for my benefit.”

  “You are sick!”

  His index finger crawls down the zipper of my skirt as if the little teeth are piano keys.

  I sigh with relief because he does not yank at the zipper. Fine. He scared me. Now we can both go into the house and act like sober adults, a married couple with no sex privileges.

  Yipes! He yanks up my skirt.

  I push my knees together, beating his chest with my fists.

  He grabs my wrists, jerking them over my head.

  He climbs on top of me grinding his rough, denim crotch against my panties.

  Oh, God, what is happening to me? Brad feels so good.

  He pants, whispering in my ear and grunting, “You’re aroused when I touch you. Admit you want me, Ronni!”

  I shake my head back and forth, meaning no.

  But then his thumb slides in between our sweating bodies and pushes against my moist sensitive button, circling fast and…If he really touched me there with no clothing in between I swear I...my fists are pathetically punching him…now rubbing his chest, then encircling his neck as my head spins. A wanton desire engulfs me. Something more is happening, a heat seeping through my veins, a pulsing…there.

  I wrap my leg around his leg and move against the crotch of his denim jeans, pushing hard, panting and sobbing as wave after wave hits me. I bite my lip, swearing not to beg him to make love to me; only it won’t be making love, the act would be fucking and I can’t…not with Brad…never again with Brad.