Think of all the ways it might be possible to be incompatible with someone, and my wife and I are the poster children of such a list. Harken!
I'm five-six, and she's five-ten—and by the way she loves to wear high heels. Of late she's become a party animal, and I remain the prototypical bookworm. She, also of late, has become a dance aficionado while I'm more the organ-grinder's monkey. She likes TV and I hate the box. She's a beautiful woman, and I'm an average Joe in grave danger of losing my hair. All of the aforementioned being true, and as illogical as it seems, her liking parties and all, Desiree has been, again up till of late, a very insecure woman underneath.
Up until this past year or so, I had been her sole undisputed anchor. It was this latter that made it possible for a woman like my wife to love a guy like me, I guess. But, now things are different, a lot different.
About a year ago, I had the brilliant idea of trying to instill greater self-confidence and an increased measure of self-esteem in the love of my life. I succeeded beyond my wildest—nightmares! You thought I was going to say dreams didn't you. Well, as it turns out, nightmare fits a lot better. My wife no longer has any confidence issues, and her self-esteem now borders on arrogance. Okay, I have introduced you to the genesis of our situation more of which a little later. So who are we really.
Well, my name is Peyton Joseph Gillis, a direct descendant of one Lester Joseph Gillis and a prostitute. People knowledgeable of the 1930's might remember my notorious grandsire by his more common appellation—Baby Face Nelson. Not a chapter of the family history of which I am particularly proud. I mention him only because my grandma told me I looked like him, except for my being a few inches taller. I am a chemist, actually a chemical engineer: Ph.D. Cal Tech. I work for Metro-Tech a company dedicated to creating and producing products for the military, and, rumor has it, for certain unnamed clandestine black ops services.
Desiree Marie Gillis, my wife, is a sales agent for Sylvia Jordan cosmetics and women's accessories. In her teens her height worked against her and she became something of an introvert. It wasn't that she was completely unaware of her basic beauty, but too many boys wouldn't or couldn't see her as pretty, her being so tall. They'd talk dirty about her, but seldom asked her out on dates. Nevertheless her sandy brown hair was always a cascading around her shoulders. She had dark eyes and full lips that were so pink she almost didn't need lipstick. Her breasts were respectable B-cups. Still, her best feature was her butt; gawd her ass was prime cut! When a male, using his most disrespectful tone, calls a woman a broad, something like my wife's butt has to be on his mind.
As mentioned Desiree had had trouble with self-worth. She almost didn't get a date to her senior prom. I say almost; I asked her. She'd looked down at me, standing there in the quad that May afternoon, and thought for several moments before agreeing to go with little 'ole me. Oh, we both knew we were going to be looking a little strange as a couple, but I convinced her that what others thought was passé—I'm very good with words, a regular Winston Churchill. Convincing her of that, readers, got me the inside track to the altar with the girl of my dreams. After graduation I went directly to Cal Tech and she to USC. We graduated the same summer, four years later, with our B.A.'s. We married, and I continued on toward my doctorate completing it three very intense years later. During those three years, Des was our mainstay financially speaking: she worked and I studied.
At any rate, we got through the prom and our subsequent engagement and our wedding and the first nineteen years of married life with a minimum of problems. A major plus, two wonderful children, appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the game: Grace now 13 and Charlie 11.
We are now both aged 42 and more than merely healthy; we're in top physical shape. We got that way working out at Black Iron, a local gym owned and operated by an ex-Mr. America competitor, Jason Black. And Jason is black and Jason has lately been after my wife. Which brings me to one big ass problem, how can I get my wife back and Jason the hell outta the picture.
It was my idea for us to begin going to the gym together. I'd been going for years, and I knew what it could do for a person's mindset. It was part of my strategy to bring Desiree out of her introvertedness. And now it may have backfired on me. I mean how could I compete with a big shot body builder.
I have begun to notice little things and some not so little things too. She's started going to the gym without me at least once a week; these are usually nights when I have to work late or Saturdays when I have something I have to do or have planned. So far, no clear problem, right? But, add to that that her sex drive seems to have lessened, in terms of me. We still make love a few times each week, but not like in the past, and afterwards she's begun just rolling over and calling it a night after I cum; this, whether she cums or not; bottom line, she doesn't seem to care if she gets off! Finally, there have been the phone calls and the hang-ups before the speaker identifies himself or herself. I'm not a stupid man. Something bad is going on and it is all too clear to me what it is. I have to do something.
I stood at the door waving goodbye to Grace and Charlie. They waved back. They were excited to be going to grandma and grandpa's for the weekend. The promise of a picnic and a trip to the zoo had made their stay over at the grams something they'd looked forward to all week. I went back in and headed upstairs to the bedroom where my wife was again getting ready to go out without me. Entering the room she laid into me again.
"Peyton, it's no big deal. I'm just going to the gym with Megan and then we're going out for a bite to eat. I should be back by 10:00. Okay?"
"No it's not okay, Des. It's Friday night. We should be doing stuff together. What about us. That's the third time in a row you have shined me on for someone else, I mean as far as going to the gym. Hell, you wouldn't even be going if I hadn't forced the issue last year," I said. I was making sure she knew I was pissed.
"Yes, I know. And I am glad that you did. But you are smothering me. It's like I can't do anything without you or you get mad at me," she said. "Anyway, I'm going. Get over it."
"Get over it! Did you say get over it!" She didn't answer. She just picked up her gym bag, headed down the stairs and left. I stood there with my mouth open and fuming. I decided to do what I usually did when we argued; I got my wallet and headed for the Rusty Nail, our—my—favorite watering hole.
I sat at the bar staring into a half empty shot glass. "You look kinda down," said a voice from behind me.
I turned. "Oh, hi Sonia. How are yuh? Yeah, I am a little. Des has been dumping on me lately, and tonight it may have come to a head. I don't know; maybe it's time to move on."
"Wow, you are down. I'm sorry, Peyton. Really. You deserve better," she said.
"Thanks Sonia, I really appreciate your concern. Can I buy you a drink?" I was feeling like company, preferably female company.
"Damn straight," she said. "I never turn down a freebie."
I should explain that Sonia is a retired prostitute, and no I have never had her. I have a long held rule to never pay for something that I can get for free, and besides, she was taken—sort of. I motioned to Mel, the barkeep, to load one up for her. He delivered her usual white wine, and she took the bar stool next to me.
Mel owned the Rusty Nail and was Sonia's only squeeze now; they'd been an item off and on since she'd retired some fifteen years ago. I should note here, that at aged 45 Sonia is still a classy looking gal. Anyway, Mel and Sonia apparently never had the urge to get married, though I kinda suspect that Sonia would have said yes real quick if offered the opportunity.
"Wanna talk about it?" she asked.
"Yeah, trouble is, I have no idea what to say. I think she's cheating on me, and if I find out she is, it's over."
"For someone who doesn't know what to say you sure have a lot to say," giggled Sonia.
I smiled for the first time since Des had run out the door two hours before. It was 8:00. If Des was going to be back by 10:00, I had two more hours. I could think of worse ways to spend my time than with a pro like Sonia. She did have the knack of making a guy feel better.
"Whaddya thinking about doing?" she said. "I mean you got any ideas?"
"No, it's too new. I'm kinda down, as you observed, and a little numb," I said.
"You know who she might be doing it with?" said Sonia.
"Yeah, I think so. Jason Black. "Owns the Black Iron gym. I've mentioned him to you."
"Wow, Mr. America himself, huh," said Sonia.
"He was never a Mr. America. He was just a contestant one year, like twenty-five years ago," I said. I think my jealousy was showing through.
"Yeah, just a contestant. Let's see, what else: six-five, two-twenty or so, shiny black, probably got a foot long dick, and handsome as hell. Yeah, I can see why you'd not have to worry about him," she said laughing.
"What the hell!" I said. "I thought you were on my side."
"I am, but be realistic. If you're going to fight for your rights to Desiree you have to see things in perspective and deal with them using your strengths" said Sonia. "To do that, you have to know his strengths, and also his limitations; then, use the latter against him."
.... There is more of this story ...