I suffered a cataclysmic event at exactly 5:21 P.M. on Wednesday, April 17, 1993. Cataclysmic events are indelibly stamped on the human brain to be recalled consciously or erupt from the subconscious at the strangest times.
I was under my old Chevy changing the oil when I heard the click-clack of Elaine's high heels on the cement garage floor.
"Jeff," she barked.
From my view at floor level, I saw her black high heel pumps and stockings. I stuck my head from under the car to see her, with her legs spread and her hands on her hips, dressed in clothes I'd never seen. Her short and tight skirt wrapped under her bottom. She wore a black garter belt that held up her stockings, and black thong panties. Her blouse showcased her substantially endowed breasts. How strange! Elaine always dressed modestly.
"Hi, honey," I said.
"Jeff, I'm having an affair with Art. I'm thinking of leaving you for him."
Her face was hard and cold, and her voice equally foreboding. She took two steps back and snapped her legs shut. Her hands were clenched into fists.
"I'm going to Denver to be with him. I'll be gone about ten days. I'll tell you my decision when I get back."
She turned on her heel. I remember the way her ass twitched and the sound of her heels as she walked away. I checked my watch. It was 5:21.
I remember the garage perfectly. Where each thing was. How it looked. How it smelled. Each speck of dirt. Every shading of color. There was a spider in its web in the far corner above the door. I wondered if she had devoured her mate. I finished changing the oil, cleaned up my mess, and went inside to bathe.
I couldn't remember not knowing Elaine. We'd dated since the seventh grade and married when she was seventeen and legal. We'd been married twenty-two years. She was the only woman in my life. She was my life. Like a demonic video designed for my torture, that life played back in my mind. I'd see a happy time, like our honeymoon or the trip to the Cayman Islands. Then those few explosive moments in the garage would play again.
My emotional roller-coaster ranged from rage to extreme depression and back again, with numerous stops at self-pity. When I told Jeremy, our twenty-one-year-old college student son, about his mother's adultery and potential abandonment, he was almost as distraught as I was.
I stumbled through the next week, even painting the house to help me fall into bed at night exhausted as well as alone. By Wednesday of the following week, my emotions no longer roller-coastered. They ping- ponged from anger to self pity, but anger was winning the game.
I was expecting Elaine to be home when I got there Friday after work. Instead, I found two messages on the answering machine. One was from Jeremy, who said he was going to a concert with Speedy and he might not get home at all that night. I had no idea who Speedy was or where they were. The other message was from Elaine. Her voice on the answering machine seemed cold.
"Jeff, I've reached a decision about us. I'll be home late Sunday to discuss it with you. I'll see you then."
I'm not a drinker. If I were, I'd have drunk myself to sleep each night, particularly that Friday. Instead, I put on my pajama bottoms and retired to my bed with a bowl of ice cream to let the mindless drivel of television flush away my thoughts. Leno was over and I had started to doze off when I heard the back door open with a crash. Someone groaned, and then something heavy landed with a thud. I jumped off my bed and ran to the kitchen.
Jeremy was on his back on the floor. A small, thin, girl was kneeling beside him. When she looked up at me, she smiled and big dimples appeared on each side of her sweet, innocent, thirteen-year-old looking face.
"Hi. I'm Monica," she said. "You know. Speedy."
"Oh, hi, Speedy. How are you?"
"I'm good, but Jeremy's not so hot. He's got the brown flu."
"Looks like a bad case," I replied.
"Jack Daniels won tonight's fight, that's for sure."
Jeremy groaned and tried to sit up. He mumbled something.
"You're on your own kitchen floor. Go to sleep," Speedy said to him.
He fell back with a thunk. His mouth gaped open, he gasped, and began snoring. Speedy shook her head in disgust.
"When do boys grow up, Mr. King?" she asked.
"I wouldn't be too hard on Jeremy. He's had some traumatic news," I said.
"He told me about it, but I'm disappointed anyway. I was looking forward to tonight," she said.
"He told you?"
A wave of embarrassment made me blush. "It's bad enough to be a cuckold without every one knowing," I thought. That was silly of me. Everyone would know soon enough if Elaine filed for divorce.
"He's real shook up about it and needed someone to talk to, Mr. King. He told Mom and me. We've spent a few nights talking to him about it."
"Your Mother knows, too?"
"She won't tell anyone and neither will I. You're not the first man whose wife played around, you know."
"Somehow that doesn't make it any easier, Speedy," I replied dejectedly.
"You need to get over it and go on with your life," she said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. "Have you screwed anyone else since it happened?"
I was shocked by her frank question and the directness in her expression.
"Not since or before," I said. "I've never screwed anyone else."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No. Elaine's the only woman I've, well, been intimate with."
"To each his own," she answered. Her eyes were studying me.
"Thanks for bringing Jeremy home, Speedy."
"You're welcome. His car's at Bobo's house so it'll be all right."
I extended a hand to help her stand. She was at least a foot shorter than my six one. When she smiled, her cherub cheeks made her brown eyes narrow on each side of a button nose. She was inches from me and her expression made me tingle. "She's coming on to me," I thought, but I knew that couldn't be right. I had to be misreading her.
"I'll see you to your car," I said.
"Uh, Mr. King, if you don't mind, I'd like to spend the night here."
She stared directly at me and hesitated, which made me feel guilty I'd asked. "My Mom has a guy spending the night. She suggested I not come home until tomorrow."
She wasn't embarrassed by her revelation. Rather, she was searching for my response although I tried to hide it. I was envious of the guy. He was getting laid and I wasn't.
"Oh. You can sleep in Jeremy's room. It looks like he's on the floor for the night."
"Mr. King, do you know why they call me Speedy?" she asked. Her eyes twinkled and dimples sparkled as she smiled. I had the eerie feeling I was walking into a trap.
"No," I replied.
"You like to run?" I asked stupidly.
"No, Mr. King. Think about it. What do guys mean when they say a girl's fast?"
"Oh, no. She can't mean what I think she means," I thought. Her innocent child's face didn't look so innocent at that moment. I shook my head.
"I'm fast as in 'fast woman.' Quick to say yes. Fast to strip. Speedy to spread my legs. I like to fuck. I wanted to fuck Jeremy tonight, but he's too drunk." The fly to my pajamas moved and she wrapped her fingers around my flaccid cock. She squeezed and tugged. "I'm horny and I don't want to sleep alone. How about you?" she asked.
"I can't. I'm married," I said automatically.
"Your wife's married, too, but she's spreading 'em wide for old Art. She's probably humping his eyes out right now."
"I've never cheated."
"It's time to start, Mr. King. It's time to have some fun."
My cock started to stir. That was no surprise. She was tugging and squeezing on it like she was milking a cow.
"Now, be honest. Wouldn't you like to ride my bones?"
My mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
"Why don't you cover Jeremy while I brush my teeth," she said.
"No," I said. Instantly, I regretted it.
She squeezed my cock hard before releasing it. Her eyes were intent, but her lips curled in that delightful smile.
"I'm going to fuck you, Mr. King. Come on. It won't hurt. You might even like it."
She walked toward my bedroom with her tight, little-girl, ass swaying invitingly. I put an old quilt over my drunken son and turned out the kitchen lights. Speedy was in the bathroom in the master suite when I sat on the bed. In a moment, she came out wearing a smile and nothing else. She saw my expression, grinned lewdly, and turned around slowly so I could enjoy all of her.
She looked like a typical thirteen year old, or what I imagined a thirteen year old to be since I'd never seen one. Her breasts were high, small, and firm, with small nipples. Her stomach was flat and smooth, her hips narrow and boyish, her legs long and coltish. And her pubis was bare except for a tattoo, a simple yellow rose.
"What do you think?" she asked.
"How old are you?"
"I'll be twenty in three months. Want to see my driver's license?"
"You look so young."
"It's the hairless pussy that does the trick. I had electrolysis because the guys like it smooth. Anyway, the damn thing was hairy as a bear and I had to shave all the time so I could wear a bikini. Nice, isn't it?"
She put my hand where her pubic hair used to be.
"I like it," I said. "Did the tattoo hurt?"
"Not really, but I had a few drinks before he did it. The hard part was deciding what tattoo I wanted. I like what I got."
"Me, too," I replied.
She crawled over me. Goose bumps erupted where her body rubbed against mine. She flopped down by me on the bed. I didn't move.
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