No sex. Sorry.

I’ve been told I have a nasty tongue when I’m upset. Don’t believe it! I’m a pussycat.

I waited impatiently as she showered.

When I walked into our house, I’d caught her lying on the settee alongside Assface, naked and covered in sweat and other bodily fluids, and an expression that said all too clearly “I’ve just had an orgasm!”

I’m not an ogre or a muscle-bound moron, but when I’d looped his tee-shirt over his head and twisted it at his throat, tightening it until he could only just breathe; I think he might have disagreed. He most certainly agreed that leaving my flat, with only the tee-shirt that was wound around his neck, was a good idea. When after five minutes he knocked and asked for his clothes, phone and car keys, the look on my face had made him agree to leave once again. Whimpering he asked if he could call a taxi. I gave him his phone and let him make the call, then took it back. For a moment I thought he was going to argue and I twisted the tee-shirt once more, as the idiot hadn’t even removed it from around his throat, which essentially meant he’d stood around in the passageway buck naked. It was then that he decided that running away was perhaps a better idea after all. He was learning. Maybe I looked more like an ogre than I remembered from shaving that morning. Either way, it was going to be fun thinking of him trying to get into a taxi dressed only in a tee-shirt that wouldn’t even cover the family jewels, and then explain how he had ‘forgotten’ his wallet. Not my problem. He’d probably sneak back the next day to get them. I didn’t care. I had his information.

The dining table showed the remnants of a meal and wine glasses with just dregs in them. It was obvious where the foreplay had started. More puzzling was the pizza box. I checked it and found a Meatilicious intact within it. My favourite. So Assface got wined and dined and I got a warmed up pizza. Nice classy touch, Susan! Second best in that as well.

I wandered through the lounge and kitchen, wondering how the hell she had thought I wouldn’t notice the remains of their feast.

I’m an actor, and I had a contract to play Iago in Othello for three weeks that summer. It was a local production and I was really enjoying playing up the villainous, lying schemer and plotter seven nights a week and a Saturday matinee. In the play, Iago is passed over for promotion by his captain, Othello – and schemes with his more successful rival Cassio – who in turn wants Othello’s wife, Desdemona. Iago engineers the murder of Cassio, by convincingly whispering to his boss that Cassio is cuckolding him with Desdemona, which then leads to further jealous rage and the murder of Othello’s blameless wife.

One of Shakespeare’s classics, it’s been done a million times, but I had enjoyed playing the villain rather than the lord who thought himself betrayed and cuckolded by his wife to the point of murdering her – mostly so that I wouldn’t have to spend an hour after the final curtain trying to get what looked like black boot polish off my face. I would leave that to the leading man.

Now I could have played the role of Othello without any need for acting. I too felt like murdering my wife. She knew all too well how I felt about being faithful, after she had held my hand after my long-term girlfriend, Eileen, had betrayed me in our last year at college. Susan had been my shoulder to lean on while I pissed and moaned about women in general and Eileen in particular. That had slowly morphed into being my constant companion, girlfriend and finally wife when we both got our first pay cheques.

I didn’t start out as an actor – actually getting a job as a bank clerk with dreams of becoming a financier – and in fact I had never even thought about it, until a friend convinced me to try amateur dramatics. I fell in love with it immediately. That led on to a bit part in a television series which led to further small parts and a mildly fond farewell to banking. Now, I was back on stage for a three week run before taking up a moderate role as a newly arrived detective in a long-running police drama.

I knew the whole of Othello backwards, so during the daytime, I’d been trying to get myself into the role of a detective for the police series instead. Therefore while Susan showered, I investigated the crime scene.

The dinner, obviously cooked and served by my wife for her lover, couldn’t have finished that long before – ascertained by dipping a little finger into the gravy boat and feeling the warmth. The pizza was still vaguely warm, so that probably arrived at about the same time. I wasn’t worried about the pizza itself, I’d lived on those during college, and still enjoyed one now and again at the theatre, on the television set, or at home.

So why would my wife of just eighteen months leave the detritus of their meal on the table and be lying naked with her lover when she knew I would be home at a certain time. Admittedly, I sometimes hung around for ten minutes to enjoy the buzz of a good performance with the other actors, but I was always home by ten o’clock. And even if I had stayed later at the theatre, those ten minutes weren’t really enough to get Assface out of the flat and clear up sufficiently that I wouldn’t at least suspect something.

Was she deliberately trying to flaunt her disloyalty in front of me? Was this an exit affair before she moved on, trying out someone new she could move in with? What else could it be? What the hell was she telling me by rubbing it in my face?

Inside, I felt destroyed. She, of all people, knew how Eileen’s betrayal had completely wrecked me. I had loved her so desperately, so completely, that seeing my first love’s face become a mask of horror as she peered up at me over Cassidy’s shoulder in the back of his car, his bare arse jogging up and down over her like it was on springs, had destroyed me completely. Susan had been so reluctant to alert me to that betrayal, but she did know how in the end it had almost caused me to give up college altogether. And now she did this to me in turn? Bitch! Spiteful, nasty, lying, cheating bitch!

My stomach was boiling, and I cast around for something to fix on besides my horror and despair at her actions. I saw the microwave flicking at me and realised she had flipped the power switch on the wall. Desperate for something ... anything to think of, I reprogrammed the correct time into it. It wouldn’t make any difference; we never pre-programmed it to start at a certain time, but it was something to do.

How could the two most important women in my life both betray me the way they had? Was it me? Was I so worthless that I wasn’t deserving of loyalty, fidelity, the least respect from any woman? Any woman at all? Was I such a loser, a bad lover, a poor provider? I had to know!

I got a tot of brandy, and forced myself to settle into the sole armchair. She could sit on the couch – the sludgy mess on it was her responsibility and she would have to face me while sitting on it, or knowing that both of us recognized it was right there next to her.

It took quite a while before the shower finally shut off, and I spent the time trying to settle into a role. I didn’t want her to see how successful her attempt to destroy me had been.

She entered with her white towelling robe wrapped around her, and a towel-turban on her head. She hesitated when she looked at the sofa before sitting down, but then ignored the streaks of pale fluid and sat down on top of it. Perhaps she hoped I hadn’t noticed it. Good luck with that!

“How long?” I had decided on the role of a sophisticated, urbane country gentleman confronting his wife after some sort of ball. Surprising myself, I sniggered inwardly at the appropriateness of the last part of that.

“Honey, it was just the once, I promise you. It was just a silly mistake that I made. I’d had a little too much wine, or perhaps he slipped something into it. I wasn’t myself...”

“So who were you? Because it certainly looked like you were a cheating slut. Was that the part you were playing?”

She flushed. It wasn’t pretty. It made her face look blotchy, which surprised me. I had always thought her effortlessly pretty under every circumstance. But then I’d never called her a cheat or a slut before.

“Please don’t call me a slut. I’m not one of those.”

“Perhaps you could convince me.” I remembered the pizza and something popped into my mind. “After all, this is the third time you’ve ordered pizza for me in the last two weeks. And always served them reheated. I could tell.”

“I, er ... pizza?” she stammered.

“Oh do keep up, dear.” Urbane gentleman. Remember the role! “Yes, pizza. It’s glaringly obvious that you order pizza for me when you want to cook for your gentleman callers. Care to tell me why they get cooked for while I get takeaways?”

“Not callers!” she protested. “Just one. Just this once.”

“And we’re back to the pizzas.”

“No, it wasn’t-”

“Yes it was. Don’t be a silly goose, my dear.” Urbane, I thought. Be urbane! “And don’t think I’m some idiot. You may have got away with your carnal affairs during our marriage until now. But the clues are all there.”

“Honey, it was just a mistake...”

“No, you meant ‘it was just mistakes.’ You forgot the ‘s’ on that word.”

She sighed dramatically, and for a moment I was whisked back to my time on stage. Was I in one of those overacted dramas of amateur theatre?

“He had pictures. He was going to show them to you, unless I...”

She broke off as I laughed. I don’t think she expected that.

“He took incriminating pictures? Which time?”

“The first time,” she said and covered her eyes, weeping.

“He brought a camera, took pictures and you didn’t worry that someone might see them?”

“His phone,” she gasped. “He used his phone. I didn’t know he had done it.”

“And how many times after that?” I demanded. Urbane largely disappeared as the role slipped into something else. “Confess, you whore! The truth this time! I know more than you think. You underestimated me, harlot!”

Okay, that was a bit over the top. I needed to get back to television acting, not high school drama. If I carried on like this, I’d soon be twisting a non-existent moustache and laughing a deep, hollow laugh. From that point it would be an inevitable descent to tying her on the train tracks while mugging at the audience.

“Three, four ... no, five times.”

“Jesus wept. So fucking him six times before I find out, is better than fucking him once and admitting it so we could work it out together? Wow, he must be good, so much better than me!”

“No, honey. It was never like the love you and I share. It was just sex for the fun of it. It didn’t mean anything to me.”

I clapped enthusiastically. Every word of this conversation was breaking my heart, but I was not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing it. “Well done, you get a four out of five for clichés that cheats bleat out when they’re caught. You must have studied the cheating sluts’ handbook.”

“Stop calling me a slut!” she shouted.

“Okay, you give me a better word to describe you.”

I waited in silence.

“I’m your wife, not a slut,” she said finally.

“No, that wouldn’t get past trade’s description. A wife doesn’t fuck other men, ever! That’s what we agreed to in front of our families and friends. You broke that agreement, so you are no longer a wife. That just leaves slut. Unless he paid you, and then whore would be the correct term.

“Let’s take a look at his phone,” I said, after the silence extended into inanity. I’d pocketed it after encouraging Assface out of the flat, but hadn’t thought of it since. Why not? I put it down to being upset and not thinking.

Susan’s expression became even more miserable.

I opened his photo album and swiped through them. Assface and his buddies; Assface at work; Assface with a woman and three snotty kids?

“He’s married?

“No,” she said.

“So who is that?” I showed her the phone. She leaned forward and peered. Assface did look very comfortable with the other four in the photo.

“Maybe it’s his sister,” she offered. She looked a little pissed off, which was faintly enjoyable.

I swiped to the next picture and sniggered. “Oh dear, he really shouldn’t be doing that with his sister. I’m sure that’s against the law. His tongue has to be way past her tonsils. And his hand should most definitely not be doing that!”

I didn’t show her the picture and kept swiping. He hadn’t actually been playing tonsil hockey, he’d just been holding a beer while taking a selfie. But now she had something more to worry about. Either he was married or, if she really thought he wasn’t, then she would at least have the germ of a suspicion that he was cheating on her. Or was he actually fucking his sister? Good! If she was planning to leave me then they could share those suspicions. If they were cheating on me, why wouldn’t they do that to each other? It would create confusion and nasty thoughts.

I swiped all the way through while she worried at a thumbnail with her teeth.

“Nothing. He’s not much of a blackmailer.”

“He promised he would delete them.”

“When?”

“What?”

“When did he promise? He couldn’t have blackmailed you the first time; he didn’t have the photos – so when did he promise to do that.”

“The second time, I think,” she muttered, looking thoughtful.

“So why was there a third time?”

“It must have been the fourth then.”

“So why was there a fifth? At some stage you must have checked that he hadn’t deleted them before allowing yourself to be blackmailed further. I mean, surely you wouldn’t simply accept the word of someone prepared to blackmail and rape you. Compelled sex is rape, no matter what type of compulsion is used.”

She stared at me, her eyes huge. I sighed.

“Okay, I believe you. I’m calling the police to report a rape. They’ll find the ones he deleted. Anything stored in memory is always recoverable, you know that.”

Actually, I was bluffing and didn’t have any idea whether they could or not. Besides, I didn’t believe a word she was saying. It was all tired out and overused clichés; diversionary excuses that were really pathetic little lies. I just didn’t understand why she was telling them.

I picked up the phone. “What’s his name?”

“I’m not sure,” she started.

I raised one eyebrow. She surely didn’t think I’d believe that. Besides, I didn’t really need to know. I had his wallet.

She continued blithely, “And I don’t really want the police involved. I’d have to testify and I don’t think I’d be able to take that.”

“You’d prefer to leave a rapist out on the street, free to rape some other woman? You’re such a strong woman, already a survivor of an assault. I have no doubt that you’d get all the support you needed, and possibly even be allowed to testify on camera so you wouldn’t have to see him. That’s what they do for children who have suffered assaults. You’re stronger than a child, surely.”

That was a low blow. I knew that women were sometimes reluctant to testify against someone who had assaulted them, and they had all my sympathies. But I knew that my wife was lying and if I got the police involved things would get way out of her control. She was never going to allow that. She was trying to control me and my reactions were worrying her – which was what I wanted. I wanted truth and understanding. I needed to know.

I picked up the landline phone and pressed the buttons. Her finger came down on the disconnect bar.

“Why would you do that?” I asked.

“He didn’t blackmail me,” she admitted.

“I didn’t think so. When I saw you lying there, covered with his cum, you looked all too pleased with yourself.”

She sat down again and covered her face with her hands.

“Truth time?” I asked. “Or shall we play ring-a-roses with lies some more. Lies are not actually helping you in this situation. You have to know that.”

“Yes, I had a fling with someone at work. But I’m not a slut. I was lonely. You are out every evening and...”

“Whoa! Hold on there!” I shouted. “I have a three week contract which means I’m out of the house for four hours every evening, and that’s only been going for just over a fortnight. Are you telling me you got so lonely that in just two weeks that you had to bang someone on six different occasions? When you could have asked me for sex anytime apart from those four hours a day? I’m sure that’s almost the definition of a slut.”

“Will you stop calling me a slut!” she yelled.

“Hey, if it walks like a slut and acts like a slut...”

“Stop it!” she screamed.

I found myself suddenly bereft of all energy, as if someone had pulled the plug out.

“Look Sue, why are you bothering to lie to me? You set this up so that I’d catch you. So you want out of this marriage. Why not-”

“What are you talking about? It’s not my fault you came home early!”

I stared at her, and then looked at my watch. It was almost eleven, so I hadn’t come home early.

“Nope, normal time. Just like always. Which means you planned for me to see you.”

She shook her head, glancing at her bare wrist. She must have left it off after her shower. Then she glanced to one side. I followed the look and realised for the first time that our bedroom clock was on the sideboard. It showed the correct time and her eyes widened.

I strode over and pressed the alarm button. Large, bright white figures showed 09:00. I laughed.

“You set the alarm for nine in the morning, not nine at night. You silly cow.”

That’s why I’d caught them. She’d brought the clock downstairs to give her fair warning of when to call her cheating a day for the night – if you see what I mean. Then she’d set it wrong on the 24 hour clock, thinking it would go off and give her an hour to get everything squared away. So she hadn’t been planning to leave me. Now it all made sense, in its own perverted way. I had wondered more and more why she would keep lying to me if she wanted to get out of the marriage. Instead, she had simply wanted to cheat on me, while keeping the marriage going. Hence all the lying now.

For some reason that made me even madder. I was there to support her while she sucked and fucked some strange cock belonging to Assface. Or were there others out there. Was there an Asswipe, an Asscrack and an Asshole also banging her daily at my expense? Who knew?

She did, but she wasn’t going to tell me. It didn’t matter either way. One was enough for me.

“Enough lies. I’m tired of this whole thing. I think you should pack your stuff and find somewhere else to stay.”

Her pretty eyes shot wide open. “No, baby. Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I made a bad mistake but we can get past it. I know we can. I know you don’t trust me right now, but I promise to make it up to you...”

Sitting in that armchair, warmed by the brandy, I zoned out as she trotted out even more tired and worn-out clichés at me. Then something she said caught my attention.

“What did you just say?”

She looked startled, but a little pleased, no doubt thinking that I was starting to come around to her pleading. Or at least hearing her.

“I said I love you and want only you. I’ve always wanted you.”

“Since when?” I asked.

“Since forever,” she replied. “Ever since the moment I first saw you on campus. I saw you in the canteen, and I knew right at that moment that we were fated to be a couple forever.”

I shuddered theatrically at the thought. “But we weren’t a couple, I was with Eileen. You knew that. You were in the same crowd as us. You saw us together.”

“Ah but I knew she was a slut, so it wouldn’t last. And I don’t mean the same way you’re thinking wrongly of me.”

“How was she a slut?” I was genuinely puzzled. When would Eileen have had enough time away from me to be a slut?

“She fucked Cassidy. I was with you when you saw her. You know that.”

“Who else?”

“Oh, to my knowledge, possibly a hundred guys. She was always sneaking off behind your back.”

I started to get a really bad feeling in my gut.

“So why didn’t you tell me of them, if Cassidy was what ... the hundred and first?”

“Baby, I just didn’t want to hurt you. You know I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You did a shit job tonight then. You tore my fucking heart out.”