I am Julia Kovacss. I married a bastard.
Does that make me a fool? Maybe. But — as they say in court - there were mitigating circumstances. I married John Cerutti when I didn't know he was a bastard yet. Or an unfeeling, rude and cheating asshole.
Talking about court, yes, that is where I should have taken my case, shouldn't I? I should have gotten me a nice and clean little divorce, you'd say. Make him pay, clean him out. There are laws in this country protecting wives against bastards. And especially against rude and cheating assholes.
But then again, he is also a rich asshole.
You see, I am not stupid. Unfortunately, neither is he. If this is God's own country, why did He let the rich bastards invent the pre-nuptials?
I am John Cerutti. From the old country, yes.
I know, I know. Machismo, Mafioso and Mussolini. As far as the Duce goes: half my family got robbed blind by him. Some died. As for the Mob, yes, we eat the same spaghetti as Tony Soprano.
Leaves the Macho part. I plead guilty. I love men to be men and women to wear skirts. I love a woman to depend on me. And I hate to see her in slacks.
Julia knew me when she said "yes" and accepted the oversized diamond on her finger. She didn't say "yes", by the way. She said "YES!YES!YES!! And rather loud."
I thought she said that because she loved me. Machos can be silly romantics too. And maybe she even did. But now I tend to think she said it because she thought I was rich.
John Cerutti is a mean 53 year old man.
He is kind of a honcho in a big company. Don't ask me what he does, but he must make heaps. He owns a huge Victorian house with a two-acre yard and a swimming pool. He also owns a Mercedes Cayenne. But he never gave me a credit card.
I was not allowed to work and make my own money. Not that I ever wanted to, but just to show you the kind of man he is. I always had to ask him when I wanted something. I must admit that he almost always said yes, but it just goes to show you how un-emancipated he is.
He didn't want me to work in the house. Not that I either wanted or needed to; we had a cook and a cleaner. But just to show you again how he always decided for me.
I was a trophy wife. I was the blonde bimbo on his arm who smiled radiantly in her new Dolce&Gabana dress and knew how to shut up.
I am not even blonde.
I guess John Cerutti thought he owned me. Maybe he was right. But I ached to prove him wrong.
I knew Julia was running around on me.
That was quite foolish of her. The funny thing is she knew what would happen if I caught her. I had her talk with my ex-wife before we got married. Annabel Gardner was a 1992 runner up Miss America. She was in Playboy. And she was in Hollywood, though not in your typical family movies.
And then she was in my arms.
Annabel is great. She never tires in bed. She even has a sense of humor. And a brain. Her body made it a feast to buy her clothes and lingerie. Her wit made her a brilliant table partner. Her curiosity made me want to travel the world with her. And her stupidity threw it all away.
I caught her fucking room service in Florence, Italy. The divorce was quick and painless.
I thought the experience had turned me into a cured man.
But I still think it had been a good idea to have Julia talk to her.
John was away half the time.
Don't ask me why. I never asked either. He traveled and staid away two or three nights, four times a month. He called me all the time. He told me where he was, what he was doing. As if I cared. I guess he wanted to check on me.
He always brought me a present. Everything he bought for me was high fashion. And deliciously expensive. Even the perfumes were right on. His secretary must be perfect. He probably screws her.
John was gone all the time. He no doubt knew how to keep from being bored, So why shouldn't I have looked after myself too? Be reasonable. Should I have been sitting there polishing my nails while he was a thousand miles away polishing his cock?
Problem was: it was too easy.
It was like shooting fish in a barrel. After I had myself fucked by the pool boy and the black gardener, I knew it wouldn't work. There was no excitement. I could as well have masturbated; less sweat. The pool boy had a nice enough cock, but it got off even before it went in.
Something essential was missing. There was no risk of being caught.
I should have cameras installed. Nice tiny state of the art little eyes that cover each room. Or at least tiny microphones. But I won't have it.
If Julia'd wanted to cheat on me, she would have anyway.
She would have been more careful if I'd had the devices, sure. And true, I might have found out sooner. But I won't do it. I won't live in a house that is owned by Big Brother. People are entitled to their little secrets. If I scratch my balls, I don't want to see it on film. If the cook picks her nose she is allowed her privacy, as long as she washes her hands. If Julia needed release when I was away, she might have used her little humming friend without me sneaking in on her.
Call me a stupid fool. I won't budge.
For, you know, if she would really have wanted to cheat on me, it would have been revealed sooner or later. She'd have gotten reckless. She would have needed the danger. The risk is 90% of the fun, you know. Without that she might as well have stuck with what she got from me. Or from her own fingers.
If she'd slide into that spiral of excitement, I'd catch her. One day I would.
Ah, but what if... , you say. What if she'd fall in love? What if she were not a thrill seeking slut, but a faithful wife who seriously fell in love with someone else? She wouldn't take risks then. She'd shield her love from you. And then she'd divorce you.
Yes, you might be right.
But how would little electronics guard me against that? If she'd really have fallen in love, I'd have lost her. And rightly so. I might have it on film, but how would that keep her away from true love?
Never mind, though. Julia wasn't looking for love. She'd already found that. In my wallet.
So why should I make myself live in a self-created prison for the rest of my marriage? There was no need if she were faithful. And if she were a slut?
She'd be one anyway.
John called from the airport. He said he'd be home any minute. And I was close to my second thunderous orgasm. Angelo was a sweetheart. He was only nineteen, so cute. And so very nervous.
I had ordered pizza.
I hate pizza. But I like the boy who brings them. Just to watch him get off his pretty scooter is a treat. To see him walk to the front door sure is a sight. Six foot two, I'd say. Tight jeans, well packed. Wide shoulders, biceps to bite in.
I guess he liked my attire.