Copyright© 2005 by Alfie Higgins
We were married young; too young. That's it in a nutshell, I guess. She got knocked up. I always thought it was just bad luck. But I don't know, now I'm kinda wondering if she didn't set me up. She's capable of it. I sure learned that over time.
We were twenty; we were pregnant; we got married. That's what you did back then, no questions asked. I should have asked some questions, I know that now. But we loved each other. I always figured we'd be married eventually. It's just that eventually came along a lot sooner than I'd planned.
We were double dating at a drive-in movie, we in the back seat, they in the front. Between flicks the other couple went to the snack bar to get something to eat. Helen was already drunk. As soon as the door closed, she was on me like flies on shit. I was young, dumb, and horny. I have no other excuses.
"Come on, baby. Let me get that zipper down. Oh, yeah! I really need to get fucked tonight, baby."
"Helen, I don't have any rubbers! You're right in the middle of your cycle. We can't do it tonight."
"Donnie, please. You can pull out. I just want to feel you inside me for a bit."
How does one argue with that logic? I wanted to get laid too. But I wanted to be responsible. Okay, we would do it a bit, then pull out. Helen whipped out my dick, pulled down her jeans and panties, and then just climbed on board.
She started humping me with a vengeance. I was trapped underneath her. Any pullin' out to be done would have to be her decision.
My disclaimer: this was early enough in our relationship that I had never seen her truly drunk before. At that time I had no idea that she transformed into a mindless maniac after downing a few. That's my excuse, take it for what it's worth.
So I was sitting in the back seat of this '72 Chevy Impala, getting boffed by my girlfriend. I learned over the years that being on top was her favorite position. She always got off when she was on top. And that night, she wasn't getting off (of me) until she got off.
The speaker on the window had just announced "Five minutes till show time!" when Helen and I were ready to make a baby. I knew what was happening. I had some presence of mind, still.
"Helen, pull off! I'm going to cum! Please, get off of me."
"Oh, Donnie, just a few more strokes! Just a little more, baby. Oh, yeah, FUCK ME!"
She started cumming like a banshee and she dragged me with her. I spurted a full load of 'fuck up the rest of your life' into her extremely fertile pussy. Helen hopped off, zipped me up, and more or less had it together when the other couple returned with sodas and popcorn.
But I knew. I knew that we had just rolled the dice. I just hoped that they wouldn't come up snake eyes. As if.
So that's how it went. We had two kids right off the bat. I hung around and finished college, even with a wife and kid. Our second one was born just after graduation. Alright, it isn't what I expected out of life, but all in all it wasn't bad.
The kids were great. The marriage seemed solid. I loved my wife. We started building what looked like a future. It was the American dream. It just started a little earlier than I expected.
So there were a couple of things about my wife that I knew about right from the get-go. You take the bitter with the batter. No one is perfect. I knew she had her faults, I just didn't think her faults were fatal.
First and foremost was the drinking. My wife straight: a sweet, funny, smart little girl. Cute. No one would ever call her beautiful. She was cute on her good days. Her shape wasn't something to write home about. She was chunky, that's the word: chunky.
She did have tits, I'll give her that: big, soft, round, responsive tits. They kinda grew up with the first baby and never left her. They were her best features.
Anyway, I was talking about drinking. Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde time. One minute she was this sweet innocent lumpy little thing. Then she would down a few drinks - she preferred Manhattans - and suddenly she was this vicious attack shrew on the make. And every sentence she spoke contained some variant of the word 'fuck'.
Strangely she was only a shrew to me. To everyone else she was Ms. Available.
She only got really drunk at parties - at least in the beginning. Since she only went to parties with me - at least in the beginning - I was her protector when she got really, really drunk. But she looked at me as her jailer.
She would sock down three or four of those whiskey and vermouth concoctions and suddenly she hated my guts. I was a '"fuckin' mother fuckin' son of a bitch". The later into the evening it got, the more variations of 'fuck' got into her sentences describing me.
When she finally agreed to go home with me, she wanted to fuck. So I always got laid on those party nights. I went with the flow during the party, trying to keep her calm, trying to minimize her damage.
Some people might think of me as a spineless wimp. Maybe so. But I got pissed at her. I told her the hell off. It's just that I recognized this 'Jekyll/Hyde' thing going on and knew that tomorrow (after the hang over) she would return to Dr. Jekyll: sweet, loving, funny. Since these Hyde episodes only occurred a few times a year, I just looked at them as a cross I had to bear.
She was young. She had never sewed any wild oats. She never was with anyone else sexually. I told myself she was just letting off steam. I told myself that eventually she was going to screw around on me. If she got drunk and I wasn't there to protect her, she would be easy pickings. Easy pickings? If I weren't there she would probably take on every man available. I knew deep down that she had no inhibitions when drunk. I had come to realize that I had married a potential slut.
I told myself that I was mature enough to handle it. I would forgive her indiscretions, mostly because I thought she was basically immature and poorly raised, but still good in her heart of hearts. I told myself that she would grow out of this phase and then we would have a mature marriage. I told myself.
You sit around contemplating these eventualities, knowing that someday you were going to have to deal with them. It never crossed my mind that my little wifey would remain faithful to me. And yet I never considered being unfaithful to her. It was another indication to me that I was the mature one. I would have to be the one to pick up the pieces once her infidelity finally occurred.
I was suspicious rather early in our marriage that she had slipped. There were several occasions when I couldn't totally verify what had happened one way or another. All I knew was: she got drunk; there was an available man around other than myself; I wasn't there; she couldn't remember what happened.
That was Helen's fallback position. When she really fucked up, when she really got out of hand and acted up, that's when she just couldn't remember what happened. It was her version of 'no harm/no foul'. If she couldn't remember what happened, then nothing happened.
It sounds ridiculous, but she believed it. It baffled her when I complained about her behavior at the party the night before, calling me 'mother fucker', trying to humiliate me in front of our friends or business associates. She just didn't understand why I was so upset. She couldn't remember doing it, so she didn't do it. Simple as that, case closed.
Yes, the bitch was seriously flawed. Why did I stick with her? Well ninety-eight percent of my life was absolutely perfect, that's why. Except for those few days a year when she lost control, Helen was a wonderful wife. Affectionate, good in bed, fun to be with. My children were like Campbell soup kids, dark-haired and beautiful. My daughter was a sweet little princess, my son a hell-raising athletic little boy. They were perfect.
We had bought a really neat old house in a picturesque storybook village, the kind of place where everyone is your friend. I had what remains in my memory as the best job of my life. The work was challenging but doable. I was the fair-haired boy in the company. Eventually I could see myself running the place. My future looked great.
So I knew Helen was going to screw around on me. I just knew it. I'm supposed to ditch all the rest of the good stuff because of that? I'm supposed to throw the baby out with the bath water?
It was a question of balance. Didn't the 98% good outweigh the 2% potentially awful? I was determined to try to understand her motivation. I was going to deal with it, when it happened, in a mature intelligent way. I wasn't going to let it destroy my life. That was the plan.
And then it started. She took a job outside the house. It was a nighttime job as a banquet waitress at a local resort. She wanted to 'get out of the house'. I guess we could use the money. So suddenly two, three, four nights a week she was out working.
She was usually home before midnight. But then it started to get later. She came home smelling of alcohol. Somehow I wasn't surprised.
I asked her about it. She gave me the old line: "the gang just wanted to get together for a few drinks after work." Yeah, I'm sure they did.
Sometimes she would come home from work way too late and then want to rape me. I would be asleep only to be woken up by Helen pulling my dick, getting it hard so she could climb on board. Suspicious? Who me?
I was trying to remain rational about the whole thing. Okay, said I, let her sew some of her wild oats. Is it going to kill me? I'm not a wimp, and I'm not a cuckold. I'm a rational Homo sapien who is trying to understand a difficult situation. That's what I told myself.
.... There is more of this story ...