It was a large project and it had been occupying all my time for almost a year and when I say all my time I mean just that. I worked until late at night and I brought work home with me to do on weekends. The survival of the company I worked for, and by extension, my survival, depended on the project being finished on time and on or under budget.
My wife was not happy.
The thing I heard most was "Bullshit. You can find a job anywhere else you want to" and that was probably true, but it would also have meant starting over at sixty percent less pay and benefits and throwing away the sixteen years that I had invested in my job. To me that would not have been a rational decision, but then rational decisions and my wife Marty cannot coexist in the same room.
It did not matter to Marty that I was busting my ass for our future financial security. All that mattered to her was:
- You never take me anywhere any more.
- You never spend any time with me.
- I'm tired of being here with nothing to do except watch TV.
- All you ever think about is that stupid job.
- When you are home you are always too tired to do anything with me.
- You like what is in your briefcase more than what is in this dress.
Finally, after several months of her harping I lost it. It had been a very bad day. A couple of deliveries not made on time; one delivery came in not to specs and had to be refused, one man lost for at least two weeks to an occupational injury and one of my best men had quit. I walked in the door and hadn't even set my briefcase down before Marty started in on me. It was the final straw.
"Shut the fuck up Marty. If your life is so fucking bad just pack up and get out. Go find yourself some twit that can't even come close to making his salary match your spending habits. You didn't mind my job when it made the money that got you this house and everything in it. Now I'm working the same job trying to make sure we keep all of it and I don't want to hear another fucking word from you about it."
Marty just stared at me for a minute and then she said, "Okay Bill, if that's the way you want it, but I'm going to take the last word here. Last weekend you told me that you were too busy to go to John's party and you told me to go by myself if I needed to get out of the house and so I did. You know who else was at the party Bill? Ron Holbrook, Harry Short and their wives. The names ring a bell Bill? Ron is your supervisor I believe and the last I heard Harry still owned the company you work for. They can relax and take their wives to parties and have a good time and you can't? There is something wrong with that picture Bill. Either something is going on that you are not telling me or they are playing you for a chump."
"No one is playing me for a chump, and..." Marty held up her hand to stop me.
"Here's the deal Bill. You go ahead and be their slave, but I'm not going to stay cooped up in this house while you do it. Get used to me not being here in the evening because I'm going to have a life. Dinner will always be ready, the house will always be clean and the laundry will be done. But while you are in your home office or working late at the job site I'm going to be out enjoying myself."
Then she turned away from me and walked into the kitchen. I didn't waste my time trying to explain to her that Ron had already announced he was retiring at the end of the project whether it succeeded or not. And that Harry was a multi-millionaire and that the company's closing its doors only meant more time available for him to jet to Aspen or wherever. She wouldn't, or couldn't, understand that I was working for my future, not some one else's.
The next day was Friday and when I got home I found Marty getting dressed to go out. She already had her heels and hose on and was just slipping into her dress when I came into the bedroom. I watched for a bit and then said, "Going out?"
"I don't know yet. Mary and Robin are going to pick me up and then we are going some place where we can dance and have a good time."
"Do you really think that's a good idea?"
"I don't see a problem."
"Are you considering the message that you will be sending out? A married woman out by herself and letting men come on to her."
"I won't be alone. Mary and Robin will be with me and you are more than welcome to join us, but I'm not staying home again and watching TV while you go into your home office and work. As far as the message that the wedding rings will send, I can always take them off and leave them here on the dresser if it will make you feel better. How about it?"
"No, leave them on."
"Not that silly, I would never take them off and you should know that. I meant would you like to join us?"
"I can't. I have to revise a couple of sets of specs so I can Fed-Ex them to the supplier."
"Okay. I have no idea how the night is going to go so don't bother to wait up. The bars close at two so I should be home by three unless the evening is a dud."
She was just touching up her makeup when a horn honked outside. "That's them, got to go" and she kissed me on the cheek and hurried out of the house.
I worked on my specifications until around eleven, caught CNN for a bit and then went to bed. I woke up needing to pee around four and Marty was sleeping soundly on the bed next to me. I went into the bathroom and took my whiz and was halfway back to the bed when one of the worst parts of human nature grabbed me. I went back into the bathroom and pulled the clothes that Marty had worn that night out of the dirty clothes hamper and checked them out. I even went so far as to sniff the crotch of her thong, but I found nothing suspicious. Had I really expected to? I told myself no, but something had made me look, hadn't it?
The next morning over coffee and toast I looked Marty over as closely as I dared without being obvious looking for a hickey or some sign that she might have done more than had a few drinks and danced, but I saw nothing.
That night set the pattern for the next three months. Marty would go out two or three nights a week with her friends and I would look for signs that she was straying, but I never found a thing. The only thing that changed was the frequency of our sex life. For the past year it had been two, sometimes three times a week, but after Marty began going out by herself it increased. Some nights she would wake me up when she got home and sometimes she would wake me up in the morning after one of her outings. One morning I asked her about it.
"I'm a good looking woman Bill and I get hit on a lot when I'm out. I get felt up on the dance floor and I get a lot of cock poked into my leg and tummy when I'm out there dancing. It makes me horny and when I'm horny I want to make love. Since I assume you don't want me having some one else take care of the problem I bring it home to you."
That bit of information, instead of putting my mind at ease, made my imagination go into overdrive as I imagined all the things that men could be doing to my wife on the dance floor or sitting in a booth. The more I thought about it the more certain I was that something was going on. It just wasn't natural, to me anyway, to think that a married woman could go out bar hoping two and three nights a week and have nothing sexual happen. The more I thought about it the more irritated it made me and finally that irritation drove me to have a confrontation with Marty over what she was doing.
She came home on a Saturday night and woke me up by sucking on my cock. When I was awake she swung herself over me to mount me and I twisted away.
"Leave me alone Marty, I don't want sloppy seconds."
She froze and for several seconds she didn't move and then, without a word, she got off the bed and left the room and I rolled over and went back to sleep. She wasn't in bed with me when I got up in the morning and she wasn't on the couch. I looked around for her and saw that she was out on the patio sipping coffee. I poured myself a cup and headed for my den to try and get some work done.
Half an hour later Marty came into the den and sat down. She watched me work for about five minutes without saying a word and then she said, "Is that what you really think? That I'm out there whoring around?"
"Why else would a married woman spend as many nights a week as you do out running the bars? I know what you told me when you started doing this shit, but two, three and sometimes four times a week? I don't think so. That isn't just a night out with the girls, not by a long shot."
"That's what you really think and you don't care enough about me to try and stop it?"
"We've had this conversation Marty and we've done it to death. You know where my head is until this project is over. You are a grown woman and you get to make your own choices. That you can't see that what I'm doing is for us, for our future security, is something that I can't help. When the project is over and I know where I stand financially I'll step back and take a look of what you have left of our marriage and decide whether or not it is worth trying to save."
"That's it? You have just automatically assumed that I'm a slut and that I'm out there just happily fucking any man who buys me a drink or dances with me and wants some pussy in exchange?"
"Yeah Marty, I would say that just about covers it."
"How can you say that — think that- about someone you profess to love?"
"How can some one who professes to love me go out bar hoping three or four nights a week?"
.... There is more of this story ...