I'm George, mwm, 52 Page 2

  Just to make sure things are clear at this point. Abby and DefuckerWayne are porking each other, according to Kimberly who is Dewayne's wife.

  I am sitting there thinking that someone must be somewhat concerned with my feelings at this point, but I'm not feeling it. It also seems like I should be exhibiting some form of anger or resentment or jealousy or something that a man who has some pride or backbone would feel. But I'm not. And since I've switched into my observing/analyzing mode, I am trying to penetrate the alcoholic fog I've slipped into and understand what I am feeling. Surprisingly, I am getting a little sexually turned on by all of this.

  As Kimberly rages on, I am checking out Abby's face for any hint of guilt or remorse or anything that I can recognize. One thing she sure isn't doing is looking at me. Old Dewain is just sitting there with his head in his hands. Suddenly Kimberly sits down and bursts into tears. I have no clue what to do. Abby doesn't dare make a move to comfort her. That is smart, I think. Da motherfucker Wayne looks like a deer in the headlights. So this is my moment. I am clearly the one who needs to say or do something. Something profound. Something very wise and enlightened. Something to make everyone know I am in charge. Above the fray. So I say, no I slur, "Does anyone want a drink?"

  Normally Abby would glare at me for making such an inappropriate comment. God, how many times have I embarrassed her? Like the time at a party when I asked a very hot woman if she wanted to have anal sex. Just flat out asked her. Good damn thing she was alone because any self respecting hubby or boyfriend would have punched out my lights. Abby is a saint for putting up with me for so long. But in my defense, I haven't done anything like that for years. Maybe decades. So when she doesn't glare at me this time, for asking a really stupid question, I know she is guilty and I wonder how long she had been fucking or sucking, or both, the sleaze ball Dwayne.

  After my question, and after no one answers or reacts, I get up and head to the kitchen to refresh my glass. Then, in quick succession, Abby says "get me one too," Kimberly says "me too" and old motherfucker Dwayne, says "I'll help you." So in comes Dewayne and I try to be civil and also I'm thinking that this whole situation just got a lot more interesting, and potentially erotic.

  Dwayne says "What can I do to help?" and I feel like saying, "Stop fucking my wife to start with," but I don't simply because I am starting to like the idea of him fucking her for a lot of reasons, not to mention the obvious that maybe in this twisted scenario, Kimberly might be spreading her legs for me. I pour the cheap wine for the two ladies and reach deep into the refrigerator to get the oldest and stalest beer I can find for the d-man.

  Now back to the living room and we all have our drinks. I have the good chardonnay, Abby and Kimberly have the cheap stuff, and Defucker has the stale beer. He's probably too stupid to even realize it. And I'm not feeling one bit guilty about that. It is one of those very awkward silences. Kimberly had the floor and she has apparently given it up, but nobody in their right mind is going to claim it now. Not me, that's for sure. And what the fuck are Abby or her asshole boyfriend going to do or say?

  We all sit there drinking our drinks. All of us except Kimberly. How she has managed to finish that full glass, in so short a period, was beyond me.

  After a brief silence, Kimberly tries to start ranting again, but she's clearly had too much to drink and she seems to realize that she is no longer capable of bashing shithole Dewayne in a manner befitting his crime, so she gets up and says "I'm going home."

  Dwayne gets up and tries to steady her by grabbing her arm, but we all know that's a big mistake. Kimberly yanks her arm away from him and, of course, falls back on the couch, her glass of wine with what little is left in it, ends up in Abby's lap. Good, I think, and too bad it's not red wine to stain her perfect white shorts. Kimberly issues what was clearly an insincere apology to Abby about the wine, struggles to get back up, and heads for the door, swaying like a drunken sailor. Fucker Dewayne follows and they let themselves out without any further conversation.

  You might wonder what I was thinking through all of this. You would be quite right if you think that I was much more amused and aroused than angry. Truth be known, I had even been trying to conjure up some anger since I thought that was what any self respecting husband should have given that his wife was, most likely, I hoped, getting it in all three holes from her new boyfriend. But the anger just wasn't there.

  It's really no use to try and anticipate how you are going to react in a particular situation, because I can guarantee you that you will surprise yourself. My advice is to just go with the flow and switch to your observation mode. Most likely, no one is going to really give a shit what you are doing or thinking anyway. They are only going to be so concerned and consumed trying to follow the script that they think they have to follow.

  Take DebonerW for example. He's trying to walk that thin line between being involved in the discussion and being sorry. He's also trying to make sure his defenses are on red alert just in case I'm of the notion to get up quickly and kick his sorry ass. He doesn't really know me well enough to realize that that's not going to happen. He is bigger than I am for one. And I'm basically not inclined to start a physical altercation. Also, in reality, I suddenly realize, he is opening a door in Abby and my marriage that I have wanted to open for a long time. He's doing me a huge favor.

  And, by the way, I'll stop with the name calling. It's out of my system now. From now on he'll be Dewayne or the boyfriend.

  Chapter 3: Alone with Abby, Post Encounter

  Now, I'm alone with Abby. Since you don't know her, you might be thinking that she might start crying and beg my forgiveness, as many women or men might do in a similar situation. Clearly you have no clue. She is just taking a moment to work on her defense, which, as I know quite well, is going to be a brutal and efficient offense. At this point, I need some more wine and I get up and move toward the kitchen. I briefly consider asking her if she wants some more too, but I trash that idea. I know she will take that as a sign of weakness. And I'm clearly the one in the position of power, here at this moment in time, even if for a brief and fleeting moment. At least I hope so.

  I take my time in the kitchen. Well, not too much time really, because I don't want to give her much of an opening. I saunter back in the living room, trying to conjure up just the right face. A lot of anger, a huge amount of disappointment, a dash of stoicism. But I know deep down that it's not going to work. Abby sees into my soul.

  This is an aside because I just realized that I said something in chapter one that probably offended some people. I know it offended some fags. Hold the self righteousness for a bit, though. Let me tell you about Frank, my fag friend. Frank and I met over twenty years ago. He is hands down my best friend. Many years ago we used to get together on weekends when Abby was away with the kids. We used to smoke a lot of really good locally grown pot. By today's standards it might not have been that great, but by the standards of the day, it was amazing.

  Abby and I lived in a really big house then. It was also pretty isolated on a few acres down a long drive way that no one ventured down. So Frank and I would get some beer and start drinking and then start smoking the pot and pretty soon we were smashed. Frank had this interesting habit of always calling his mom when he was going to spend the night away from home. Yes, he still lived at home at thirty. It was actually a pretty thoughtful thing to do, calling his mom, that is. But that's not the point. The point is that Frank is a very highly evolved human. Not only is he whip smart, but he is amazingly perceptive. It's almost as though he knows what people are thinking. He definitely knows what I'm thinking most of the time. And he usually knows what I am thinking, before I know it.

  Frank and I always use words like fag and cunt and a whole lot of racial slurs with total abandon. We both know that there is very little, if any, racism or misogyny or meanness in either of our souls. So when we call someone a cunt, it's simply a statement about how our current society labels people. Same thing with fag. Fra
nk calls himself a dick sucking fag, which, indeed, he is. Abby is a cunt sometimes, and I tell her so. And you guessed it, I'm a dick at times, and she lets me know about it.

  Now back to Abby and me on the couch. Well, she's on her couch and I'm on mine. She has a better view of the TV, but my couch is longer. I'd be glad to trade couches anytime, but she isn't about to give up her view, and I'm not about to waste the energy arguing. A lot of our marriage is that way, just trying to avoid arguments.

  At this point, I'd just like to avoid another argument, about her and Dewane exchanging fluids. I consider the options, and then I just say that maybe we should discuss this situation later, if at all. Actually I left off if at all. Abby didn't say anything, but she was thinking "whatever," in a very condescending way, I am certain.

  Chapter 4: Some Reflections on Abby

  Abby is beautiful in my eyes. Physically and emotionally. I like all of her physical defects, but there aren't really many of them. I'm convinced that people in love are in love because they primarily see the soul of the person they are in love with. The physical body is just a manifestation of that soul. I don't just love Abby, I like her too. I once made a huge mistake by saying that she was simple. It was meant as a compliment. I didn't just one day sit there and say, "Abby, you are simple." If I had said that, I could understand why she might have been insulted.

  The real context was a note I wrote to her one Valentine's Day. It was more like a love letter. I was tired of giving her one of those funny cards. I can't stand buying the serious ones because it makes me think I am too lazy to conjure up the thoughts and emotions myself. So I sat down and thought about why I liked her. I wrote that one of the things I liked best about her was that she said "it's ok." That is usually in response to my apology for fucking something up or saying something stupid or totally inappropriate. Like that time I asked that lady if she wanted to have backdoor sex. Don't get me wrong. Abby was plenty pissed about that. But when she calmed down, a few months later, and when I apologized, sincerely, she said "it's ok." It's not like it was really ok in her mind. Not in the least. But what she was actually saying is that she forgives me. And I need a lot of forgiving.

  So back to the point about calling her simple. I said in the note that she was sophisticated and simple. She liked the sophisticated part. Not so much the simple part. What I was trying to get across, obviously poorly, was that she is simple in ways that are important. Not simple minded. Simple to me is a good thing. It allows you to make choices and get on with it. You go to the grocery store to buy chocolate and coffee ice cream. You know you want only Breyer's. You know they don't put any crap in their ice cream. Just some milk or cream and sugar and natural flavors. None of those bullshit things you can't even pronounce and that you know in your heart are really bad for you. Then you find yourself faced with all the other brands and you ignore them. Then you see even Breyers making things confusing with low fat and ½ fat and a million other flavors. So you become the lion that has picked out the wildebeest that is going to be dinner and you ignore the one that just ran in front of you and you could have killed in an instant. Instead, you have set your mind on that one brand and flavor and you know you have to have it.

  That's simplicity in its best form. That's Abby. Too bad Abby doesn't seem to get my wildebeest analogy.

  Speaking of analogies, I have another one. I haven't told Abby this one. For obvious reasons. First off, it's kind of negative. Negative toward Abby. Secondly, she doesn't like when I ramble on. She wants me to just get the thought or emotion on the table. No dancing around the issue. Just spit the fucking thing out. Listening to one of my analogies is painful to her. And she's not a particularly patient person. She would make a terrible politician. Thankfully.

  I'll give you the short version of the analogy. A couple moves into a town and finds a restaurant they both like. It has just what they need. Good food, good prices, nice atmosphere, close to where they live. So they go a lot. Every week. They feel very strongly that they need to keep up their end of the bargain. They tip well. If the meal isn't perfect, they don't complain, and they would never consider sending it back, for any reason. They always cancel reservations if they can't make it.

  Anyway, one day they go to the restaurant and it's closed. No sign on the door as to why. Just locked. They go away confused. However they are not going to give up on a good thing. They come back the next week and it's open and all is well. For a few months. Then the same thing happens again; it's closed one random day. They try and figure out if there is any pattern to the closings. Like maybe closed on Thursdays, or Fridays? But there is no pattern, and the frequency of closing is increasing, making in somewhat inconvenient for them. They ask the waitress and she is clueless. They ask the manager/owner and he just says, "We close sometimes," which they take as a sort of a snub, which is not what they are used to. Now they are miffed and angry.

  At first they decide to boycott the restaurant for a while, which they do. After a while, they decide that they were acting silly. They devise a new strategy and here is what it is. If they are in the neighborhood, if they are hungry, if they are in the mood, they go there. And they generally enjoy it. But they feel no obligation to support the restaurant, no obligation to cancel their reservation, no obligation to tip if service is shitty, and if the meal is bad, they send it back.

  At this point, I'm pretty sure you're in Abby's camp about listening to my drawn out monologues. I admit, it is long. Even worse, it's not over yet. I've got to tell you what it all means and what is analogous.

  Basically the couple is me, George. And the restaurant is Abby. And all the shit about the good and bad service and obligations and lack thereof, is about our intimacy, or lack thereof. I want her intimacy and I try to do all I can to get it, and when it's not forthcoming or totally unpredictable, I have to devise a new strategy. Reluctantly.

  I'm making myself out as the good guy in this scenario. I've tried to have respect for her and meet her needs and make sure she is happy. But since I keep getting the short straw, I've had to change my way of dealing with her. One thing I'm almost certain of is that she doesn't see any of this my way. Marriage is a hard proposition.

  Chapter 5: Lara

  Let's leave that scene on the back burner for a while so I can tell you about Lara. It seems fitting that since I just found out about Abby and Drano man, that I should come clean about my own affair. However if we are going to be accurate here, it really can't be called an affair since it was never consummated in the physical sphere. It definitely was an emotional affair, but it was all electronic. Abby has been exposed as the cheater that she is, but who am I to talk about cheaters, I hear you cry. And you're right. She may have been penetrated, physically, but I fell in love. Which is worse? Or in my demented mind, which is better?

  In electronic affairs, such as mine with Lara, there is always the possibility of fraud. This thought has been swimming around in my brain for the past three months; What if Lara, as I knew her, never existed? I have pored over her emails, in great detail. Could I have been duped? Was she a he? Some demented fag who gets his rocks off getting men to fall for them?

  I've got to be brutally honest here. I think, on some days at least, that I'm smart. Not incapable of being duped, but almost. I have pretty much dismissed the possibility of being duped. We lasted 37 days. From June 1 until July 7 when she disappeared. There is virtually no possibility that anyone was conning me. There was too much shared emotion. There were too many things she said that corresponded to actual events occurring in the same time/space. And no gay guy is that good in tapping into the lustful emotions of a woman and reflecting those back to her lover. I hope.

  When Lara left me, and when I was convinced she wasn't coming back, I started reading chick-lit books. I'd never heard that term before, but somehow I needed to read something written by a woman. Many women actually. I was craving the perspective that Lara gave me. Also the eroticism. Those books helped, in a strange way. An ointment for
my wounded soul, you might say. I devoured them. Then I emailed the authors telling them how much I enjoyed the lust. A few wrote back. That was awesome. I felt wonderfully in touch with them. Sick, I hear you say.

  You look back sometimes and ask yourself simple questions. Why didn't I get Lara's phone number? Or even her last name? It just didn't play out that way. We were caught up in an amazingly intense and erotic emotional affair that was more than an affair. So when she left, I had nothing but her email address. And eventually that stopped accepting my emails. I kept a journal for about a month after she vanished. A lot of my thoughts and emotions. It was cathartic. It probably was also stupid and pathetic. She was gone, and I was talking to myself.

  I used to like Craig's List. Until I met Lara. Actually I met her there. She answered my ad. It was a disingenuous ad. Nothing new there. I suspect a good percentage of the ads are disingenuous. Mine said something to the effect "older couple seeks coed."We live in a college town. I figured that with thousands of coeds walking around, there had to be at least a few who liked older men and/or older women. My ad was disingenuous in the sense that I was implying that Abby was involved in the search. She wasn't. It was mine alone. Somehow I was hoping that if I found an intelligent, beautiful bi-sexual lady who was interested in an older couple, i.e. us, we could work out the details later. I got the usual responses. Nobody really reads those ads very carefully. Some old man sent a picture of himself in front of a waterfall. He said, "I'm your man." At least the waterfall was nice.