"For godssakes stop the silly crying, Oliver, and be a man. So Billy screwed me. So what? It isn't like it means a damn thing," said Emilie. "It made me feel good and didn't hurt you or us one little bit."
"I'm not crying. I've just got something in my eye. But, as for the rest of it, it means plenty to me, and in case you actually give a damn it did hurt me. And also in case you actually give a damn there is the indisputable fact that this marriage is over," I said.
"Oh, pooh," she said. "Talk about overreacting. Go out and get yourself a revenge fuck if you're so bothered by it," she said.
Who was this woman? I sure as hell didn't know. But, she was going to be history in short order. If and when, that is, I could swing the cost of a divorce lawyer. Oh, yeah, history for damn sure! But, I knew two other things, also for sure: one, I couldn't afford a lawyer at the moment; and two, there was no way any other woman was going to let me into her pants. There had been a time, but not now, not at my age fifty. My days of scoring were long past, and my wife knew it. She on the other hand was clearly by no means done as the sage might have averred.
All of the above said. I would not be sticking around so she could humiliate me anymore than she already had. No sirree, I was getting the hell outta Dodge. She might not believe it, but it was going to happen and happen immediately. I headed down the hall to the bedroom we'd shared for most of the past twenty some years we'd been married. I needed a couple of suitcases, and a box or two to pack up the stuff I'd need for work and to set up housekeeping in whatever new digs I could—well—dig up. She smirked as she watched me march off.
I was busy packing when she came into the room. "Oliver, you are wasting your time. You know it and I know it. You'll be back with your tail between your legs begging forgiveness, and you'll just have to be putting it all away again," she said. My turn to smirk.
"Think so," I said. "You're wrong!" She'd just put the final nail in the coffin of our marriage. Her look did change a little with my tone. She decided to soften her original stance.
"Look, I'm sorry. Okay? But, it was nothing but a little funnin' I swear it. It won't happen again. I promise," she said.
"What won't happen again, Emilie? You fucking other men or just not doing it in our bed!" I said. I went back to my packing.
"Jesus, you're making a federal case out of nothing whatsoever. You need to stop and we need to talk," I said.
"You still haven't answered me," I said. I continued to pack.
"Answered what?" she said. I stopped packing for a moment and looked her straight in the eyes.
"What is it you're not going to do anymore," I said. She looked away. Her look was pure frustration—no—disgust.
"Neither in our bed nor at all," she said. "How's that?" My eyes were hot from the acid of my tears, the tears I'd denied having but shortly before. She shook her head sympathetically.
I sat down heavily on the bed, the half packed bag I'd been loading up beside me. "How do I know you'd keep your word?" I said, and that not unreasonably. She came toward me, but stopped a few feet away.
"I don't know. I guess you'll just have to take a chance. But, I will not break my word. No more hurting you by screwing other men. I really do promise. And, I was serious about you going out and getting yourself a little strange on the side. A little revenge so to speak, like I said," she said.
I'd heard her, and I'd also heard something else. Her tone when she said she'd not be hurting me anymore by screwing other men. It, her tone, bothered me. It was like she was almost saying that she wouldn't hurt me because I would never know she was screwing other men. That she was just planning on being ultra-careful in the future. She'd not said that obviously, but she'd sure as hell "toned" it. Tone of voice is everything; boy did I know that for a fact. How did I know? Well, maybe it's time for me to introduce us.
My name is Oliver Wright, age fifty, short at five-six, spare at one-thirty-five, slightly balding, and perfectly average in the face. I'm a voice coach for wanna be actors. I know pretty much all there is to know about tone of voice; hence, my earlier remarks. The job—I work at Merlin Studios—pays well, and I meet lots of interesting people, that including any number of celebs.
Emilie Wright, nee Allen, is my wife of many years. Emilie is forty-six; also five-six, maybe one-fifteen, she won't say. Emilie has long flowing dark hair, a dazzling face, shoulda been a movie star herself; and a personality that's purely magnetic. Oh, and a figure that is but a trice short of amazing. Yeah, yeah, I know totally out of my league. Emilie is a hair dresser, a fairly talented one as it happens. She works at Merlin's too. In fact it was at a Merlin's New Year's Eve party those many years ago that we met. She gave me a tumble—in the hay—appreciated my enthusiasm if not exactly my more or less than average skills and tool; decided I'd do, and married me.
Oh, I knew it likely had more to do with my six figure income—she makes a third of what I do— than either my wonderful good looks or my aforementioned bedroom skills; but what the hey, I wanted her body. Oh yeah, I wanted it real bad. Pussywhipped? Me? Damn straight. She knew it, and she used it. She's gotten everything she's wanted from me over the years, but not this. Not my willingness to be her cuckold. Not in this life nor any other: no way in hell I was going for that.
I looked her askance. Trust her now? That was the question. A moment before I had one foot out the door. But, did I really want to dump her. The short answer was no. This despite the fact that she had thoroughly humiliated me, and that with a man we both knew well and considered a friend. I decided to go for it.
"Call Billy's wife now. You're going to tell her all of it over the phone," I said. She actually smiled.
"She already knows. Mavis and Billy have an open marriage," said my wife. My lower jaw dropped a yard and bounced off the floor.
"Mavis Walcott's into other men!" I said.
"Yes," she said.
I decided to test the waters. "Call her anyway. Tell her to come over. I'm going to screw her. You told me to go out and get some strange, so okay, I'm ready. After all you did her husband; I'm going to do her," I said. Now it was time for my wife's jaw to bounce off of the floor. And, hell, Mavis was a dazzler.
"I can't do that," she said.
"If you and her Billy can cuckold me, I can cuckold him. That's fair," I said.
"What if she says no?" she said.
"Then she says no, and you get one of your other friends in here to do me," I said. But, I really do want her. And put it on speaker phone; I want to hear it all," I said.
"Ollie, let's talk this through a little more, okay?" said Emilie.
"No, call her. Call her now," I said. She shook her head.
"Okay, then, I'll do it," I said. I headed for the hall and the little phone stand that was there with our personal phone book beside it. I looked up the Walcott's. I dialed as she watched me.
"Hi Mavis, this is Ollie, Ollie Wright ... yes-yes you too ... uh huh ... Look Mavis my wife just got done doing your hubby ... right, right ... really ... so you really do have an open marriage? ... Really ... Well okay, that's cool, but now I have a request ... yes a request ... I need you to come over here so I can do you ... Huh! ... but..."
"She laughed at me, hung up on me. Guess you were wrong about me having something to offer another woman. Hell if I'm not enough for my own wife, what could I expect," I said with a sneer. "No problem though, now I go after the two of them—and you." I continued my packing.
"Ollie, wait. You and I need to talk things out. This is not good," said Emilie.
"No it's not good, not at all," I said. Five minutes later I was out the door.
I hadn't known a bit ago where I was going to go, or really, what I was going to do, but now I did. I knew just where to find what I was looking for, at least in terms of a place to stay. It was but four blocks from my shop at the studio; it was called the Coronado: my new place was a fourth floor three bedroom that was more than tastefully furnished. It was a bit pricey, but what the hey, I did make the big bucks.
I'd picked up a bottle Old Overholt at the liquor outlet near our house on my way to the apartment building. I liked rye better than bourbon when I could get it; it was hotter than bourbon and maybe a tad less sweet. At any rate it, Old-O, was my friend. I sipped it now as I looked out at the city lights spread out before me. I wondered what she was doing, who she was calling. It was going to be a busy next few days; I was sure of that. Tomorrow? Tomorrow I would have to be doing some thinking, planning. Oh yeah. But tonight, tonight I would be kicking back and brooding, maybe feeling a little bit sorry for myself. And—getting blasted. Hell, I was entitled.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. And, you were right, but we were in a hurry. Billy had an appointment or something. He told me..." started Emilie.
"Yes, he had an appointment all right—with Jessica hardass McCoy," said Mavis.
"You're kidding me!" said Emilie.
"Nope. Anyway, whaddya gonna do about Oliver?"
"I don't know. I don't even know where he is, and his cell is turned off," said Emilie. "But to answer your question more directly, find somebody he can get revenge with. You could have been a bit more helpful there, Mavis! I mean would it have killed you?"
.... There is more of this story ...