Dishonor Thy Wife Page 4
Oh, God! I long to touch him. Squeeze him. Caress him.
I grasp his shoulders, totally losing control as he pounds against my body with the lump in his pants.
Finally, my body shudders, slowly coming back to earth, limp, relaxed.
I am confused and angry at the delicious feeling. No, say what it is, orgasm. I have had my first orgasm with a partner and he is still humping against me, making me want...oh, God! Again!
Brad is still fully aroused and then he pushes hard against my panties and groans, his head slumping over my shoulder.
Well, he did not exactly rape me, he did not penetrate me, but I yell nevertheless, “Get off me, you pervert! Quit molesting me!”
“Well quit teasing me,” he growls.
Am I angry with him for taking advantage of me? I have had too much to drink! Or am I mad at myself because I still want him?
He climbs off me, appearing embarrassed because he ejaculated in his pants.
Guilt seeps between my legs. I should want to please this man the way he pleased me, except he forced me, sort of. He has a rough way of seducing a woman. The first night Brad came back from Philly, he begged me to have sex, and now I understand why. Sex with a partner can be good, addictive even. No wonder he wants it so badly. But with Barbie. Do not forget about his mistress. Quit wanting to make him feel as good as he makes Barbie feel. Do not try to prove to him that you are just as good as she is in the sack. Remember, Brad blames you because Barbie, on the rebound from their cancelled wedding, married mega-rich, old man Bubba Simpson. As consolation, Brad got stuck with you and Traci.
Good! I have come to my senses.
I yank down my skirt and stroll nonchalantly to the door, pretending I did not slip my right foot into my left heel and vice-versa, so that I am walking like a duck. Quack! Quack! A good orgasm seems to bring out the humor in me even while mixed emotions agitate my heart. Forget my mind, his presence one-step behind erases all rational thought.
I drop my forehead against the door, hugging myself and shivering. “You don’t play fair, Brad.”
He scoffs and bumps my shoulder, walking quickly into the house as if to get as far away as possible.
I run upstairs to my bedroom feeling like an animal trapped by my own passion, scared to death of losing myself with him, in him, and through him. He will hurt me, destroy me.
I slide down my bedroom wall, hugging my knees and rocking.
Stay away from me, Brad. Please stay away. Go back to Barbie where you claim you belong.
He is playing with me. Brad is up to something. How can a man change so quickly? Why is he suddenly interested in me?
Yet, I rise from the floor and slowly strip, peeling each piece of clothing off, my hair covering one eye like a sexy starlet from the 1940’s.
I fall to the floor and crawl across the carpet like a snake tempting Eve in the garden of delights.
I climb on my bed like every night the past week and stroke myself, thinking of the back seat of the car and how good Brad looked in blue jeans.
I turn on my side to give him a full view because Brad is watching, always watching through the keyhole.
Don’t trust him. Riley said not to trust him.
Don’t let him in.
He wants to come in.
Did you lock the bedroom door?
You’re playing with fire.
You’re going to get burned.
Brad is going to burn you.
Yes, he’s burning me up with his eyes!
Chapter 9
HUSBAND
I read the entire ebook How to Be a Good Husband for Dummies Whose Wives Are Clueless about What Kind of Shits They Are Married to or just how Far the Cheats Will Go blah, blah, blah, but had not yet gone online to rate the pages because if Ronni noticed my deceit, I planned to demand my .99 back.
How to Be a Good Husband for Dummies
Chapter 1 Help Out Around the House
1. Fold the clothes.
2. Take turns loading the dishwasher.
3. Carry the trash out, stuffing the bag into the dumpster.
4. Roll the dumpster out to the curb on trash day.
5. Carry the groceries from the car to the kitchen.
6. Roll your sleeves so she will admire your bulging muscles.
7. Cook breakfast. See the appendix for instructions
8. Clean the house.
Chapter 2 Support Her Emotionally
1. Learn to heat up Chicken Noodle soup.
2. Try not to gag when massaging her feet.
3. Don’t say, “What’s up, bitch?”
4. Listen, keeping your opinions to yourself.
5. Be punctual to keep her stress level down.
6. Kiss her even when you are not looking for sex.
Chapter 3 Sex If You Want More Than One Time
1. Sleep every night in your wife’s bed
2. Do not demand nightly sex. Some nights just spoon her.
3. Give her pleasure and do not forget the G-spots.
4. Close your eyes if you must during sex.
5. Never wear a paper bag over your head during sex.
6. Even worse, do not place a bag over her head during sex.
7. Remember that oral sex can be a two-way street.
8. Do not force her to give you oral sex.
9. For instance, never lock her head in a wrestling move.
10. Same goes for sitting on her face.
11. Be a gentleman.
12. Be respectful.
Chapter 4 Be Romantic
1. Place a rose on her pillow, thorn-side down.
2. Have a date night every month.
3. Deliver flowers to her even when it is not her birthday.
4. Tell her she looks as young as when you first met her.
5. Tell her, even you met her in elementary school.
6. If you can remember your anniversary, buy her a card
7. Sneak up behind her and give her a wedgie.
8. Insert a little heart in your emails.
9. Shower a skinny wife with heart candies for Valentine’s Day.
10. For a fat wife, cut little hearts of lettuce for Valentine’s Day.
11. Act like a gentleman and hold the door open for her.
12. Do not let the door go before she is through the opening
13. Remember, hospital bills are expensive.
14. If she falls, help her up, even if you secretly tripped her.
Chapter 5 List of Don’ts
1. If she gets hurt, you may have to be her nurse.
2. Resist shoving her.
3. Do not push her down the stairs.
4. Do not kick her.
5. Do not trip her.
6. Try not to yell at her.
7. Never hit her no matter how angry she makes you.
8. Do not argue with her.
9. Learn to be a Yes man and then do what you want.
10. Never threaten her.
11. Remember that she is the weaker sex and not just her brain.
12. Keep belittling remarks to yourself.
13. Try not to be so selfish.
14. Keep your jealousy at bay.
15. Let her eat the last candy bar unless she is overweight.
16. Let her drink the last beer, unless she is overweight.
17. For a heavy wife, mix a fat-eating vinegar drink for her.
18. Never compromise.
19. Always make her think she is getting her way.
20. Do not make promises you cannot keep.
21. Do not be caught cheating.
CHAPTER 6 LIST OF DOS
1. If she asks, tell her where you are going even if you have to lie.
2. Tell her who you were with last night even if you have to lie.
3. Keep nothing from her even if you have to lie.
Chapter 7 Things to Talk About
1. Agree with her on every aspect of religion.
2. Claim to support a woman for president.
3. Laugh with her and not at her.
4. Compliment her, if you can find anything worthwhile.
5. If not, then keep your mouth shut and do not insult her.
6. Share her interests. Does she sew?
7. Does she upload videos on YouTube?
8. Social Media is a great place to collect future evidence.
9. Post loving messages on Facebook.
10. Send loving spousal Twitter tweets.
11. Post together photos on Instagram.
12. Do not tell blatant lies.
13. Earn your wife’s trust by proving you are trustworthy.
14. Be who she thinks you are and not the real you.
15. Do not keep secrets from her.
16. Be open only about your positive feelings.
Epilogue
One final note: Memorize this book and then burn it, or permanently terminate the ebook, so she never finds it. Ha! Don’t feel guilty about following any of the guidelines in How to Be a Good Husband for Dummies Whose Wives Are Clueless about What Kind of Shits They Are Married to blah, blah, blah. Even men fake it sometimes.
Chapter 10
WIFE
The Oasis Restaurant on Lake Travis sits high atop a hill surrounded by trees with multi-level decks overlooking the water. Houses around Lake Travis sell in the millions and the higher up the mansion, the richer the owner. The Queso (cheese) dip on the menu when doctored with salsa is to die for.
Exquisite stringy, cheddar cheese sticks between my teeth as lovers sigh over the setting sun reflected across ripples of water. A few tables celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. Others keep a vigil with their wristwatches and cell phones, eyeing the time and wondering how much longer before their out-of-town company goes home.
Have you ever had one of those days when you scoop a tortilla chip brimming with warm melted cheese into your mouth and a jalapeno pepper burns a hole in your stomach? Then you realize the chili pepper is vinegary and not hot at all, yet your lips burn, your belly aches, and your body goes limp like a rag doll and you slide from the chair.
Then your daughter says loudly, “Mommy, what are you doing under the table?”
Brad is not only spying, he is following me—again! It cannot be a coincidence that a server seats him at a table next to us. The restaurant is big so difficult to find a particular diner because multiple wooden decks overlap each other and covering the tables are Cazadores Tequila umbrellas.
“Why sweetie, I’m not hiding,” I say and laugh self-consciously. “My napkin fell under the table.”
“No, it didn’t, Mommy.”
I pump a puff of asthma inhaler into my lungs.
Brad wiggles his fingers at Traci and the little traitor yells, “Eat with us, Daddy!”
I march over to his table and poke his chest with a finger. Screw the other diners who are staring. “Why are you following us, Brad?”
“Believe me, Ronni; I didn’t know you were coming here. A patient recommended the Oasis. I looked forward to eating here all week.”
“Right, like you’ve never eaten here a thousand times.” Tell another lie, Brad, about your patient. Is she a woman? “Who are you meeting?”
“No one.” He smiles lazily and flirts with his eyes.
Traci hollers, “Come on, Daddy, eat with us!”
Last time Traci made a scene in public, Brad slapped her. Now he drags a chair over to our table, plops down, and kisses Traci on her cheek.
She squeals with delight.
The live music is a shit-kicker biker band, and I should have worn steel-toed boots. Barbie Simpson will show up any minute and plant her big rear at our table between Brad and Traci. Part of the plan must be that Barbie should get to know Traci because my rival will wind up Traci’s stepmother after she divorces Bubba and Brad wins custody of Traci.
Over my dead body!
I cause the scene to end all scenes—I clench my fists and scream bloody murder. Bubba Simpson will charge into the restaurant waving a gun. Everyone knows Bubba is a crazy jealous fool. I could care less if Bubba shoots Brad, but what if he misses and shoots Traci instead.
Once more, I scream.
Brad jumps from his chair, slaps his hand across my lips, and gives me a good shake. “Sit down, wife; I’m not going to bite.”
But I do bite and he yelps.
Traci’s lip trembles from holding back her tears. “Can’t you just get along?”
My face flushes with mortification. I am acting loony and low class, like Mama. I stare dejectedly at my hamburger, ketchup running down the sides of the soggy bun. I am ruining this evening for Traci.
Minutes pass and neither Barbie nor Bubba show up.
My cocktail napkin has a cartoon figure of a woman leaning against a wavy wall. The words on the napkin state: I drink because I am insecure, socially unfit, and I like alcohol.
“Here, let me,” I say in a tiny voice and examine my teeth-marks on his skin. This kinder Brad may be worth a napkin to wrap his bloody thumb.
“Suck on it to stop the oozing,” he says in a suggestive manner.
I grab his drink and pour Gin on his cut, smiling as he winces from the pain. Well, alcohol is good for rabies bites.
I cringe, waiting for Brad to break the empty glass over my head. Instead, he flashes a charming grin. “Some men prefer the ones who sting them.”
I cannot help but smile back at his retort. Slowly, I begin to unwind and have a good time, even laugh at a few jokes. Odd, Brad was never this funny before. My husband has always played practical jokes at everyone else’s expense, but he never made me laugh. Usually, I cringe, like last month when he filled my Facebook page with condolences. The Facebook background photo was replaced by a photo of a R.I.P. headstone with my name on it. Seeing your death predicted, like three months from right now, today, would freak anyone out, joke or not.
I deleted the Facebook page and tweeted, Help! My husband is trying to kill me! His name is Dr. Brad O’Boyle and he is insane!
And my husband thinks I have no sense of humor.
I no longer use social media, thanks to Brad.
Our dinner together almost seems like a date until Brad sips his beer, a Summer Love Extra Special Bitter. His cell phone rings and Brad blinks at the number but does not answer. He has a guilty look on his face.
Our conversation becomes stilted and we are both uncomfortable while watching the sun drop into Lake Travis and then vanish. The world is going to be permanently dark, the sun eaten by fish.
Brad insists on paying which is a moot point since he earned every penny in my purse.
We exit the arch of the restaurant and walk a pathway lined with Christmas tree lights in May.
On the drive home, Traci falls asleep with a smile maybe because she believes the three of us have become a family. For the past week, Traci has knelt mumbling her prayers. She whispers to the air, “Thank you, God, for sending me a daddy.”
I now whisper, “Thank you, God, for reminding me of my husband’s true nature.”
The road winds down Comanche Trail. I keep an eye on the mirror until Brad hangs a left on 620.
Brad does not make a U-turn, a change of heart, and follow us home. He is going to her. My husband is going to grind against Barbie’s body and give her an earth-shattering orgasm.
For the first time in our marriage, I feel cheated.
Chapter 11
WIFE
Brad is not having a fit over Traci wearing shorts and a t-shirt to his parents’ house. In the past he ordered, “Clothe the kid in a frilly dress and make sure her face is clean, no sticky candy. If Traci gets fingerprints on the car, she is going to be smacked.”
“Really, Brad? Maybe we should keep our daughter in gloves so she no longer smudges your life.”
“What a great idea! Get her a pair of those Mickey Mouse gloves so she’ll want to keep them on.” Brad always laughs at his own cruel jokes, at least he used to.
The crème-de-la-crème of Austi
n rule over their money from above the ripples of Lake Travis. Brad won the lottery when he was adopted as a newborn whereas I grew up at a rundown trailer park. The O’Boyles reside in a three-story red brick 7,000 square foot house. Visiting my in-laws is like having an impacted tooth yanked without anesthesia. I climb the walkway to the house feeling like a child again with the wrong tooth tied to a door handle by a drunken grandpa.
Brad’s mother, Viola, sits with mint tea bags on both eyes held down by smashed grapes. She yanks the tea bags from her eyes, handing them to Ethan. “Here, make us some Mint Julep cocktails.” She tosses the grapes at her husband. “Use ‘em as garnish.”
Ethan scuffles away walking like an old Japanese woman with bound feet.
He returns with a pot of acrid cocktails, smacks Brad on the back and bellows, “hello, son.” Ethan is half-deaf and yells to make up for it. He grabs my hand and squeezes so hard my bones crunch. He then waves his fingers at Traci.
Viola shoves an article under my nose about the booze gene being inherited. “Your grandfather was a drunk,” she informs me as if I am too dumb to remember Pops wobbling over to the sink, opening the curtain below, and yanking out a cheap bottle of wine for breakfast. “He was a fuckin’ alcoholic,” she slurs between teeth stained red from wine.
Viola slurps her fourth before-dinner Manhattan. She puffs on a cigarette, dropping the ashes on pillows of rich satin and velvet. Viola distinguishes drunks by the quality of alcohol they consume, not the quantity. She considers socialites such as herself social drinkers, not alcoholics. Viola socializes six days a week with her narrow-minded friends. She cheats at mahjong while sipping Dirty Martinis. She sticks out her foot and trips the leading bocce player, while hiding behind a Taj Mahal. When she’s losing, Viola topples the dominoes with her Pisco Sour. She zigzags a golf cart across the golf course while guzzling a Tinto de Verano. Viola skips the ball across the bowling alley, splashing her Sidecar so that the next player falls on her rear. At the weekly luncheon with the “girls” where they gobble-gobble about their turkey necks, Viola gargles a Clément Créole Royals. At the country club swimming pool, she drinks a Fuzzy Navel while sunning in a thong, her saggy tanned skin rolling in waves across her bones.
I jerk my head back to avoid her long cigarette holder, which resembles those from old glamour movies. Viola has the look of a decrepit Gloria Swanson from the film Sunset Boulevard. The hag would love to burn my eyes out and her cigarette stalks my every move.