Dishonor Thy Wife (4 page)

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.

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!

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.

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.