Dishonor Thy Wife (6 page)

HUSBAND

The three of us sat down like a normal happy family and ate
breakfast together, scrambled eggs and pancakes. Well, anyway Traci was joyful.
Ronni acted suspicious, causing my stomach to ache more than usual. This
situation was giving me an ulcer.

Okay, lady, I snuck out of your room in the middle of the
night for your own protection. I’m trying to do the right thing here, what I
should have done since returning from Philly. I have had a pang of conscience.

“Since when can you cook?” She eyed the eggs with distrust.

“Since always.” I chomp on a piece of toast, smiling smugly.
A woman married a man and thought she knew everything about him.

“The last time you were near the stove, I had to put out a
fire because you tried boiling hot water. Ah, but then you are a braggart,
Brad, and believe you can do anything better than anyone else.”

She gave me an icy smile. Ronni was spoiling for a fight
because she surrendered sexually giving me all of her, well the strategic parts
below her waist. Ah, saved by the cell phone ring. “Yes?” I answered loudly to
shut Ronni up.

“Hi, sugar, it’s me,” a woman answered in a deep, sexy
voice.

“You have the wrong number,” I insisted.

“Why, sugar, I just wanted to thank you for this morning. It
was scrumptious. Absence does make the heart grow fonder.”

“This morning? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Best phone sex you’ve given me, Tiger,” the woman growled.

“Phone sex?!”

“What’s phone sex, Daddy?” Traci rubbed the sleep from her
eyes.

Ronni flung her napkin down.

I pushed the
End Call
button. “Wrong number,” I
muttered.

“And I thought you changed, Brad, else I never would have…No
wonder you snuck out of my room this morning, you lying cheat! And after we…” Her
lower lip trembled. She was going to say—fuc…had intercourse.

Please, spare me the dramatics!
Ronni had such a hurt
look in her eyes I felt like cutting off my finger to remove the tight gold
wedding ring. The woman had a gift for making me feel like the sneaky, tricky man
I had become. My voice rose in anger at having to explain. “It was just some
nut on the phone, Ronni. Don’t make a big deal out of a stupid phone call.”

She pushed her chair back from the table. “And in front of Traci,
Brad, you rinse out your dirty wash?”

Now the kid looked like she was about to cry. I had little
experience with children. What was I supposed to say to Traci, explain what
phone sex was or say that her mother was upset because I had intercourse with
her last night, and the act turned a woman into a jealous fishwife who thought
she owned a man?

Ronni seized the opportunity to ball me out in whispers. “A
tiger really can’t change its stripes.”

Jerk me off, floozy!

“You are a lying, cheating, conniving wolf, Brad.”

Yeah, well you are a stinking prostitute, stripper, pole-dancing
slut!

“Do you think you can pull the wool over my eyes?”

“Wool?” I squeaked guiltily. “I’m innocent, Ronni. I did not
have phone sex with that woman.”

Unfortunately, Ronni did not appreciate my poking fun at a
United States president. She hit me. Ronni beat my back with her fists.

I stormed out of the kitchen.

The woman was impossible. She had no sense of humor.

The drive to work was torture. It was like 98 degrees with
100% humidity. Shouldn’t it be raining when the humidity was 100%? My shirt
stuck to my back and my balls itched with sweat. I kicked off my shoes, peeled
my damp socks from my ankles, and drove barefoot with my hairy toes sliding off
the wet accelerator.

Halfway to work and I was driving in just my undershirt and
shorts, my soaking plaid shirt cooling my sticky hair like one of those towel
heads.

If only Ronni could have slipped into a coma last night, her
death would save me a lot of guilt.

I did not have phone sex with that woman.

I laughed at my own cleverness and about the wool thing,
too.

Do you think you can pull the wool over my eyes?

Uh, yes, I do.

HUSBAND

A bologna sandwich was kind of like my marriage, which was
full of baloney or maybe marriage to Ronni was Spam, a meat part clear gel so shaky
and see through. What was transparent—my so-called marriage would not end well.

My office door burst open and a peroxide blonde flung her purse
back and smacked me.

Bologna flew out of my mouth. My head flung against the back
of the chair, and the chair flew across the room, the wheels whining against
the wooden floor.

I cupped my bleeding nose tenderly. “You could have broken
my nose, you whore!”

“How dare you hang up on me, Brad O’Boyle,” she spit out.
Even with a tablespoon of saliva, Barbie’s Texas twang was itchy.

“Hang up? What in tarnation are you talking about?”

“You know perfectly well I’m talking about this morning. I
would have come over earlier to give you hell, but could not escape from Bubba,
that fat ass. God, I wish I’d never married that pig.”

Barbie was aptly named. She resembled the
Blonds Diamond
Barbie doll
with cat eyes, super-long fake feathery eyelashes, full red
lips, and long white-blonde hair. She even had a hot-pink leather jack draped
across one shoulder. Barbie was a real Texas beauty queen, according to the
patch on her jacket.

She cracked her gum and plumped down on my desk, jiggling
her boobs. “Quit acting like you don’t recognize my girls, Brad, and take that
stupid look off your face. I can recite the size and brand of your underwear. I
shop for you, remember? I have even measured you. We had fun that day with the
ruler. You betcha!” She blew a bubble and it popped. Barbie could chew gum and
scream like a banshee at the same time without choking. “You hung up on me
after professing to love me for the rest of your life when we had phone sex
this morning! And last Sunday morning instead of going to church you said you felt
like ear humping me again!”

“Was my number blocked when I called you this morning to
have phone sex?”

“Yes, your number was blocked but you can’t hide from me,
Brad O’Boyle. I have your cell phone number, your mama’s number, and your
private office number. Oh, and your mama said to call her. I had lunch with
Viola yesterday. She’s still upset at you.”

She pouted at the blood dripping from my nose to my fingers
and handed me a perfumed hanky. “Poor baby.”

Barbie was scarier in a purring mood than when she was
beating me up with a hefty purse. She shook her hips around the desk and groped
me a hard squeeze with her vampire-like fingernails.

“My balls,” I yelped and jumped from the chair.

“You have got be kidding me, Brad,” she snorted.

“I’m not in the mood to be jerked off.”

“You think I wanna give you a hand job like some hooker plying
her flesh on Congress Avenue?”

“I don’t need a blow job right now.”

“I want you to screw me. I am not going to suck you like a prostitute.
Give your poopsi whoopsi a slice of heaven. You
know phone sex makes me hornier for you. We have not been together since the
night before you went to Philly. I’m on fire for you, stud man.”

She ground her hips against me, turning me on. I shoved her
away and ran for the door. “There is an endoscopic procedure scheduled in a few
minutes,” I lied.

She lifted her skirt and fingered her crotchless panties,
grinning like a she-cat, knowing her nasty gesture was making me squirm.

“I, uh, have a problem, Barbie.”

She raised an eyebrow that said, this better be good or I am
going to beat the crap out of you, Brad O’Boyle.

“I, uh, caught something in Philly.”

“What did you catch, Brad?”

“The clap.”

A stapler hit me on the forehead.

There is a sharp letter opener next to the stapler!
I
jerked open the office door and ran for my life to the men’s bathroom.

I locked the door and sat with my back to the wood,
breathing heavily.

The building shook when Barbie slammed the door of the office.

I tiptoed back, ignoring daggers from Brandy’s eyes who sat
at the receptionist desk shredding papers.

“Bring me some ice for my nose, Brandy.”

She stuck her tongue out.

A pea-shaped lump erupted on my forehead surrounded by a
purplish bruise. Slowly, painfully, I removed a staple from my skin. Like most
doctors, I was a baby when it came to even the most minor injury.

I tapped my fingers against the desk, playing imaginary
drums like Ringo Starr. It was one of those afternoons when the moon was
visible, a full moon. I lifted my throat like a wolf and warbled the lyrics to
the song
Act Naturally
.

“All I have to do is act naturally. Well, I bet you I'm
gonna be a big star, might win an Oscar you can never tell. The movie's gonna
make me a big star, cause I can play the part so well.”

Too bad for the women in my current life, there were rules
set up in Philly. I was not allowed to confide in Barbie and tell her this was
all a game that she and Ronni were mixed up in. I especially did not want
Vanessa in on my scheme. Vanessa, the other woman who believed she was my
girlfriend, was often a jinx. She was a ditzy broad with a
Hooters
chest
and owl eyes.

I should call my new best friend from the Philly conference
to see how things were developing on his end.
Nah, I’ll call him later.

Instead, I popped open a bottle of champagne and toasted
myself, laughing hysterically.

The clap! Barbie believed it!

It was way too easy fooling the weaker-minded sex—kudos to
me.

WIFE

For the Fourth of July, Brad bought sparklers and fireworks
for Traci. He lit a few black snakes on the sidewalk, and as the snakes began
to unwind, there was no longer any resemblance between the snakes and Brad. I
am having second thoughts about my husband and judged him too harshly,
punishing him unfairly this week for his past sins. Maybe, just maybe the phone
sex was a wrong number.

Brad
is
a changed man—he strolls into the house
carrying a stack of pizzas and whistling some old Beatles song about acting
naturally.

“Daddy brought pizza!” Traci squeals. She wraps her arms
around his legs, and the new Brad does not kick Traci for clinging to him.

He is clueless about pizza giving me heartburn, and I eat
two pieces because he went to so much trouble. It is as if Brad and I are
getting to know each other, newlyweds just returned from our honeymoon. We
actually spent our honeymoon opening wedding gifts.

It is too cute when your husband has no idea what kind of
pizza you like so he splurges on every type of pie. A spicy pepperoni shoved
down my throat and Brad pulling out
a chair for me
like
a gentleman, melts me like mozzarella.

A couple of glasses of red wine while watching Brad clean up
the kitchen fries me into hot wings.

The humane Brad gives me heartburn. I am falling for my
husband and there is no antacid to stop this yearning for his bed again.

And the horse he is building for Traci! Who knew that Brad
is so good with wood? There is nothing sexier than a man holding a saw and
wearing a tool belt. A sharp pair of scissors and a heavy hammer is such a turn
on. Sawdust does make me sneeze until my nose bleeds but then few marriages are
perfect.

Brad tucks Traci into bed and leans against the doorjamb of
my bedroom.

I smile softly at him, invitingly.

He whispers in my ear in a husky voice, “From the moment I came
from Philly, I wanted you, Ronni. I fought against passion, lust, desire, and
especially my conscience. I imagined what you would feel like, silk, satin, or
so rough you peel my skin off.”

I gasp, unable to catch my breath. My skin has so many nerve
endings, everywhere he touches, my skin cackles as though struck by lightning.

“What do you want?” he asks.

I shake my head, not knowing how to phrase it, but my body
is compelled to bang against him.
I want…I want what you gave me in the
garage, the leather seat of the car sticking to my back, rough denim grinding
against my panties, your bulge circling, pushing into me…causing me to…

Brad pushes my knees open and shoves his head—
there.

“I wondered what you’d smell like, musk or roses. Roses, my
sweet,” he says in a husky voice shaking with passion.

He rubs his mouth against me—
there. There. There.
I
may die from the ecstasy of
there
and
spread my legs wider.

His tongue flutters against silk and I clutch his head gyrating
my hips against his mouth.

Don’t stop. Please, I beg you. Please.

I try to say the words aloud but I am so hot for him I cannot
speak. My heart is between my collarbones, choking me. I can understand now how
people confuse sex with love. When he screwed me with his jeans
on, the feeling was
so good I thought I would die from the sensation. But this. This.

This
makes me float up to the ceiling, my eyes
drowning in a cloud of lust.

Oh, God, he is peeling off my panties
and I lift my
rump to aid him.

His head…his head is…between my legs and he places his
lips directly on me. I never knew this existed.
My body takes on a life of
its own and my hips rock wildly trying to reach new heights.

I scream with passion and his tongue moves wildly against me
while his finger is inside me. My hips gyrate against his head and his finger,
needing to be filled...with more. More. More.

“No. No,” I moan but mean
yes, yes. Don’t stop. Please,
for the love of God, do not stop!

My fear of losing myself, surrenders completely to the pleasure
he is giving me. I may faint with pleasure, as wave after wave hits me.

I grab his hair and shove myself against his lips.
More!
I lunge against him and cry out as passion sweeps me away and shudders rack my
body. The most beautiful feeling I have ever experienced engulfs my entire body
until I just might die from such ecstasy.

I gasp, moan, scream, and grow weak, my bones turning to
liquid.

Finally, I quit shuddering.

He smashes his lips against my lips, and the sensation of
tasting myself on his lips is odd.

“Thank you,” I shyly whisper into his ear. “That
was...magnificent. I never felt...”

He laughs and kisses my ear. “How polite you are. And do
your manners extend to birth control?”

I answer, “No,” and with stinging eyes watch as he jerks a
rubber from his pocket. His hands are shaking as he slides the rubber on, from
fear of getting me pregnant. We are married for heaven’s sake!

 “I expect payment in like kind.” He grins, not in tune to
my hurt feelings.

Brad is the last man I want another child with so just get
over it! Enjoy the moment. Pleasure the man. Zip.

My touchiness turns to boldness, and I reach out and stroke Brad,
causing him to groan. “I’ll pay you back with interest,” I purr.

And I do.

Brad must be happy with my performance because for the first
time in our marriage, we spend the
entire
night together. Sleeping all
night with a man is safer than a screwdriver under the pillow. It is a novelty
waking up in the morning next to Brad. The sun is peeking through the blinds.
I sit up and the blanket rolls off my body, which
tingles with remembrance of last night.

Brad looks so young sleeping on his side with his hair
mussed like a little boy. I will let him sleep a bit longer.

 I tiptoe to the bathroom so as not to wake my sleeping
prince.

His cell phone rings and I open the door slightly to
eavesdrop.

Brad is garbling his words with choking and coughing.

I push and strain to finish my business.

The noise in the bedroom sounds as if Brad is
gathering his clothes.

I quickly wipe.

There is a running on the stairs, a sliding across the
carpet, and a slamming of a door.

The bedroom is empty. My husband has fled.

He could at least have said good morning.

I stretch and yawn, feeling warm all over and cozy because
everything is right with the world. Brad did not snore last night and disturb my
rest leaving me refreshed after great sex, like a new woman, a better marriage,
and a happy future.

Mm. Maybe Brad scurried to cook breakfast. All these years
married, and I never suspected that the man knows his way around an egg.

I shower, dress, and hurry to the kitchen. “Good morning,
sweetheart,” I sing.

Traci is eating alone.

The black Mercedes has vanished from the garage, along with
his black heart. Bastard couldn’t even say good morning, good-bye, or how about
spending the day with me. Have a good day, Ronni, would have been nice.

Brad is soon forgiven, however, because four vases of roses are
delivered a couple hours later with a dozen roses in each vase.

Red roses of the heart blooms from one vase.

White roses, like my bed, grow from the second vase.

Yellow roses are for sunshine.

The fourth vase is filled with black roses of the murky
depths.

The note with the red roses reads,
For taking advantage
of me
.

The note with the black roses reads,
For giving me what I
wanted
.

The note with the yellow roses reads,
You light up my
life.

The note with the white roses reads,
Because I am sorry
.

None of the notes is signed
Love Brad
or
Lust Brad
or
Your Brad
, or
Your Husband Brad
, or just plain old
Brad
.
The notes have no signature whatsoever and the name of the sender is blank, but
of course, my husband sent the roses. Who else but my husband would take
advantage of me or be sorry?

These are the first roses Brad has ever sent me, and I shove
my nose into the murky depths of the black roses, inhaling the rosy scent. He
said last night, “I wondered what you’d smell like, musk or roses? Roses, my
sweet.” My eyes moisten like the dew of a rose. The sweet scent, my sweet scent
according to Brad, is reminiscent of the Sleeping Beauty Sculpture Brad bought
for Traci. A quote from the fairy tale states,
And from this slumber shall
you wake when true love's kiss, the spell shall break
. My face grows warm at
the memory of all the pleasurable things Brad did to me last night and all the
bold things I did to Brad. A couple must be in love to share such intimacies.

I tenderly fill the vases with fresh water.

“Ouch!” The thorn of a black rose scratches my thumb and I
suck on it, thinking of Brad. How odd that the flowers are from the Austin
airport. Brad must have been in a hurry to get to the hospital for an emergency,
and phoned a flower shop at the airport by mistake. Or perhaps he’s playing
golf? I don’t recall a golf course near the airport.

Brad has not been in one of his nasty moods since Philly. He
once threw the lounger from the patio into the pool when I suggested he might
be bipolar. Seven weeks after Philly and a month of wedded bliss has changed
everything, well nearly a month if you do not count the sex phone mix-up.

There should be trust in marriage. Brad must never think I
am checking up on him.

I nervously bite my lip, giggling, wondering if I dare. Thanking
Brad for the roses is a good excuse to hear his voice, and I cannot wait for
him to come home. He is nicer than before. Perhaps he will not scream at me
about bothering him at work unless it is a true emergency.

His phone rings twice. “Brad? Brad? Are you there?”

There is heavy breathing at his end.

His phone disconnects from my phone.

I ring again and this time the phone rings until it goes
dead.

After one more attempt, I give up.

My husband is a very busy man.

Only…only, the heavy breathing sounded a bit high-pitched,
like a woman.