The Average American Marriage (13 page)

chapter twenty-seven

Demands Are Made

A
lyna has invited me back to my own house for dinner. I'm looking forward to seeing the kids, but when I show up they're not home. Alyna says she left them with Isabelle for the night. I know it seems highly unlikely, but some part of me hopes she's going to initiate some crazy night of sex in order to win me back by proving to me that I don't need to be fucking people outside the relationship, that she's somehow transformed herself back into the insatiable woman she was when we met.

She says, “I made chicken. I hope that's okay.” She's being extremely civil. It's clearly forced. I don't know what the fuck's going on. It feels like she's purposely trying to trick me into letting my guard down, and then she's going to have some guy come out and club me on the head or something.

I say, “Yeah. I like your chicken.”

We walk into my dining room, which we used maybe once or twice before all of this shit happened. The table is set with the good plates, which we also only used once or twice before all this shit went down. I'm starting to think that maybe my raunchy fuckfest idea was dead on the money. I wonder if she'll let me fuck her in the ass. The only pussy I've gotten for a while now has been Holly's, and although she's clearly in better shape than Alyna, the allure of something different is always strong. My wife has become the something different. I imagine sliding my dick into her asshole and squeezing her fat ass. It appeals to me more than I ever thought it would.

Then I realize that I've totally forgotten about my vasectomy. It's only been six days. I decide that, if the shit starts going down, I'll throw caution to the wind. I haven't had any abnormal pain since the operation. Like Dr. Klein said, I'm young enough. I should be fine.

I sit down at one end of the dining room table and Alyna pours some wine for us both. We're definitely fucking. She only drinks wine when she wants to fuck. We take our glasses and she raises hers and says, “Cheers.”

I say, “To what?”

She says, “Uh . . . how about to figuring things out?”

I was hoping for something more along the lines of “To showing you I can still be the filthy cock-whore you married five years ago,” but at least it's a step toward that possibility. I say, “Cheers to figuring things out.”

We take a sip and she says, “Let me get dinner.”

She brings out two salads and two plates of chicken and vegetables. Before I take the first bite, a brief and insane thought flashes through my mind that she might be poisoning me. I wonder if I should tell her my fork is dirty and ask her to get me another one, and then switch our plates when she goes back into the kitchen. She cuts a piece of chicken. It's too late. She'd notice the whole chicken on her plate if I switched them. Fuck it. I take a bite. Tastes fine.

She says, “So, thanks for coming over.”

I say, “Thanks for having me.” It's weird. This forced politeness in my own fucking house is starting to get to me. I want to cut through the shit and just ask her why she invited me over, but I don't want to ruin whatever she's got going on in case it is the fuckfest.

We talk about innocuous shit—my job, how the kids are doing, fucking
American Idol
—as we polish off the first bottle of wine. I can tell she's a little buzzed, and this only strengthens my theory that she wants to get fucked tonight, that she's seen the error of her ways and maybe she hasn't forgiven me for anything that's happened but she recognizes her role in why it happened.

She says, “Should I open another bottle?”

I say, “I'm game.”

She gets another bottle and pours us two more glasses. She takes a big sip and says, “Okay, I think I'm drunk enough to do this now.” I can feel my dick starting to get a little hard at the prospect of fucking my wife again. I wonder if she shaved for tonight. I'm hoping she has if she's planning on us fucking. She says, “So, the reason I asked you over here tonight is . . .”

I'm ready for her to stand up, turn around, and hike her skirt up so I can see her ass or something equally enticing. Maybe she'll tell me she missed the taste of my cock or just needed to be fucked again.

She says, “ . . . I have some demands.”

This is not exactly what I was expecting, but I'm still thinking maybe they'll be filthy demands. Maybe she'll demand that I fuck her in the ass and cum on her face.

She says, “I have some demands, and I think that's okay given the situation. And I think the only way this is going to work is if you meet all of them.” It's sounding less and less like fucking to me.

She takes out a little piece of paper and unfolds it. She says, “I wrote these down so I could just go through them and not forget any and so I could get it all out, so just listen.”

This is definitely not about sex in any way. This is the worst dinner in my own home that I've ever had in my life.

She says, “Demand number one. You cannot have any contact with this girl ever again.”

I say, “I work with her.”

Alyna says, “Shut up. Demand number two. You can drive to and from work. That's it. All other times you have to be here, at home, with us. If you want to hang out with Todd and have beers or something, he has to come here.” She looks at me, waiting for a protest that I don't offer. She continues, “Demand number three. I will have full access to your cell phone and your Facebook and whatever else you use to talk to anyone that's not me. Demand number four. You will have exactly one minute to respond to any text message or phone call that you receive from me. If you don't respond within the minute, I'll assume you're cheating on me and this is all over. And the last one—demand number five. You will not even think about asking me for sex until I tell you I'm ready again.”

I say, “What did Roland say about all of this?”

She says, “He doesn't know. I stopped going to Roland because he didn't really help all that much, in case you haven't noticed. So . . .”

I say, “So what?”

She says, “So what do you think? Can you do this? Can you make this right and do what I need you to do here?” I have no idea what to say. I'm a fucking deer in the headlights. There's no way it's even possible for any human being to meet those demands. But I know I want to live in my house again. I want to see my kids again. I think I want my wife back again. At least I want my old wife back again, the one who used to fuck me. But after this I don't even know if that's ever going to be possible. I say, “Why'd you have the kids stay with Isabelle?”

She says, “Because I wanted us to be able to talk about this without interruption and without the kids influencing any of this.”

I say, “But they do influence it. How can they not?”

She says, “Okay, well then, how are they influencing it? What's your decision?”

I say, “Do I have to have one right now? This is a lot to take in.”

She says, “If you don't want to make this right badly enough to know the answer now, immediately, then you don't want to make it right.”

I say, “Alyna, that's not it. This is just a lot to deal with. And some of those demands don't even seem remotely possible to meet.”

She says, “Which ones?”

I say, “Like the one about texting you back within a minute. What if I'm in a meeting or something, or I leave my phone in my office when I go to lunch?”

She loses her forced politeness and she loses the rest of her composure, too. She starts crying. “You just want to fuck that little whore some more, don't you? And then, once you think you've gotten it all out of your system, you'll come crawling back. Well, that's not how it works. I'm willing to extend this olive branch right now. You take it or it disappears. That's it.”

I say, “Alyna, can I have a day to process this?” That sounds like something Roland would say.

She says, “Get the fuck out. I knew this was a stupid idea. You're an asshole and you ruined our family. Get the fuck out of this house.”

I don't argue. I don't take another bite of food or another sip of wine. I stand up and walk out the front door. She doesn't follow me so I lock the door to my own house behind me.

some chapter

First Load

I
wake up with a hard-on that feels like a roll of quarters. Per my doctor's orders I haven't jerked off in six days. This is day seven. I don't know if I'm supposed to wait until day eight to blow a load or if the week officially ends on day seven. I decide to take a chance. Before I even get out of bed or take a piss, I start going to town.

I'm on my back, imagining that Holly is straddling me with my cock in her ass. It only takes me a minute or so of solid jerking until I can tell I'm about to blow my load. So far nothing feels strange or painful, but I still have a general unease about what might happen next. I slow my stroke for a second, unable to help thinking about my balls exploding in my scrotum and ejaculating blood. I'm reminded of the scene in
Antichrist
when Willem Dafoe gets his cock smashed while he's unconscious but his wife still jerks him off to completion and he blows a load of blood. I don't want this to happen to me. I purge these thoughts from my mind and reason that I need to get this out of the way. Sooner or later I have to blow a load, and it's going to be now.

I picture Holly's asshole when she's sitting on my face, and I get back to work. When I'm about to cum, I power through the momentary apprehension and blow a load all over my hands and stomach. The orgasm itself doesn't feel any better or worse than normal. I let it settle and wait for any tinge of pain to set in my balls or dick or abdomen. There is none. I look at the load. It's white—completely normal. It's actually a little bigger than normal, but I assume this has to do with not cumming for a week.

I wipe my hands off on the sheets and use a pillowcase to clean the cum off my stomach. The best thing about living in a hotel is you can blow loads all over the sheets if you want and they'll be clean and changed by the time you're back from work. I could never count on that with Alyna.

chapter twenty-eight

Old Man on Campus

I
t's Saturday. I haven't talked to Alyna or my kids in a few days. I wonder when I'll see them next and I wonder what they think of me being gone. I try to put it out of my mind as I drive to CSUN. Holly is involved in a charity fundraiser to get credit for some class. She's running a booth selling cupcakes at a fair on campus, and she's asked me to show up and buy a few cupcakes. This will obviously lead to fucking, so I decide to oblige.

I ask the guy at the parking structure for directions, then park my car and start walking toward the fair. For some reason I expected there to be more of a family presence at the fair, but everyone involved—the people running the booths and the people buying things there—are all students. I'm the oldest person there by fifteen or so years. I assume they'll all think I'm a professor.

I meander around through the booths for a minute before zeroing in on Holly's. She's wearing a skin-tight skirt and a shirt that pushes her tits up and out. Even though I think about fucking almost every other female student I see walking around the place, it's clear that Holly is the hottest of them all—and I personally know she can fuck like a maniac, so my fantasies involving her are much less fantasy than actual memory. I wonder if the other girls on campus fuck like her. I assume they probably do, given that they were all raised on porn.

I go up to Holly's booth and say, “I'll take a cupcake, please.”

She smiles and says, “Hey, you made it.”

I say, “I told you I'd be here.”

She says, “Well, thanks for coming,” hands me a cupcake, then says, “That'll be five dollars, please, sir.”

I hand her the cash and take the cupcake, then say, “When are you relieved of your duties here?”

She looks at her phone and says, “In about an hour. If you want to hang around, check out some of the other things. We can hang out after.”

Knowing there's a high probability of me getting my dick sucked if I hang around, I say, “Cool. Just text me when you get done.”

I lean in to kiss her on the cheek. She pulls back a little but allows it. Her inability to return physical affection is strange to me. I try not to question it too much. I say, “See you later,” then take my cupcake and walk around a little bit.

I look at all the booths raising money for various charities. I have no interest in any of them, so I walk a little farther away from the charity fair and take a seat near a fountain and start eating my cupcake. As I eat it I watch the students walk around me and try to remember what it was like to be that young, what it was like to be in college and not really know about bills or a mortgage or having kids or any of it. I can't. I remember specific things about my college experience—professors I had, chicks I fucked, a few parties I went to—but I can't remember what it felt like. I can't remember what my attitude about life was. I can't remember what I thought my life would be like when I became the age I currently am. I'm pretty sure I didn't think it would be what it has become, though. I wonder if any of the kids I see walking around think about what their lives will be like when they're my age and I wonder if any of them are accurate in their expectations.

I finish the cupcake and walk around campus. The girls all walk around staring intently at their phones, oblivious to anything around them, which makes it very easy to stare at their tits and asses and imagine fucking them in their dorm rooms, which I assume are all like Holly's.

Later I get a text from Holly asking me to meet up with her at her cupcake stand. I do, and then we head back to her dorm room and I fuck her in the ass, then she sucks my dick until I cum down her throat. I wonder if I'll remember how I felt on this exact day in another fifteen years, or if I'll just remember the event.