I Don't Know Much

by Saxon Hart

Copyright© 2012 by Saxon Hart

Sex Story: How will I deal with my cheating slut spouse? My plan in in motion.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Cheating   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   .

Author's note. I want send out a big and whole hearted thank you to PapaGus. His editing prowess and valuable input undoubtedly improved this story by far. I know the chat session bugged the shit out of him, but I patterned one side of it like a good friend, except I made it readable, because if you don't know my buddy and chat with him often, you have no clue what he's saying. Enough of my rambling, here's I Don't Know Much.

"I don't know much, but I know I love you. And that may be all I need to know"

Aaron and Linda crooned on about what they did, or didn't know, but I didn't have time for their bullshit. I had plans to make. Canada was out, "Too damn cold."

"I could run to Mexico. No, they'd be looking for me at the border. Sure, many people have great luck in coming across this way illegally, but sure as shit I would get popped going the other way."

As I talked to myself about escape plans I guided my wife's Jag through the mid-day interstate traffic. I had her car because she taken my Suburban to park in the long term lot for her flight to Dallas.

Staying in the states might be an option if I could clean out our bank fast enough, and get some papers and plastic surgery before the authorities began looking for me, but with my pale complexion and blue eyes, becoming Juan Valdez was definitely out of the question.

I only had a couple of hours to figure it all out before I went to pick my wife, Stacey, up from the airport, drive her to some secluded spot, and shoot the cheating cunt in the face.

So, why am I, Freddy Brian Murphy, (mom was a Queen fan) a 35 year old software engineer from Littleton, Colorado, rushing toward the "'til death do we part" part? I'd like to say that this thought of splattering Stacey's pretty little face with high speed lead is a new thought that just struck me in the heat of the moment so that maybe you'll believe I'm just a bit nuts today. But that's not the case.

No, I've been preparing for her demise for the last three years. Well maybe not planning to kill her, per se, but I have been keeping pretty good tabs on her. This is not a snap decision, it's taken three years of tapping her cell, watching her PC, e mail, and IM's, and finally a meet with a PI to arrive at condemning the woman I love.

This is a second marriage for both of us. My first marriage was to my high school sweetheart, Trina. We married right out of high school and since we'd both gotten full ride scholarships, paying for room and board was never an issue. We lived together even through our freshman year when most students were restricted to the dorms.

After we graduated, we decided to rent a small apartment until we could buy a house outright. We figured that with tight belts and pay raises, we'd have our house in five years. It was the fairy tale marriage until the day I came home from work early and found her with our landlords cock buried balls deep in her ass.

I recall the Warrant song "I Saw Red," and remember debates, while stoned of course, about whether or not a person can actually get mad enough to "see" red. I am going to tell you that I did indeed see red. I stepped outside of myself for moment or two as my body just did what my subconscious brain told it to do without rational thought input from me. Then I saw red on my knuckles as I beat our landlord senseless. I never laid a hand on Trina though.

I got lucky and got a sympathetic cop, who instead of cuffing me and making me do a "perp walk" out of the apartment, instead let me ride in the front of the car like a ride along. I was booked quietly into jail and awaited an appointment with a judge.

The judge was sympathetic as well and sentenced me to one year on probation and anger management classes. Stanley, our landlord, refused to press charges and opted to tell everyone that he had fallen down some stairs.

Trina never begged me to take her back. I often wondered why she wouldn't at least fight to save the marriage. Then she was diagnosed with nymphomania and I understood. She knew I'd never be enough for her and that I would never allow her to explore on the side. She ended up moving down into Stanley's apartment. He didn't do anything other than collect rent and fix the occasional leak so he had all the time in the world to keep Trina sexed up.

During the divorce I talked to her twice. Once to let her know who my attorney was, the second time to tell her I fully expected every cent I contributed toward rent back. The divorce was easy since we owned no property and we each had the vehicles we'd had since high school. I got all of my money back and a rare and sympathetic judge ignored her cries for spousal support, telling her "Young lady, it seems you do pretty well supporting yourself already."

My exit was the next one off of the Interstate and I jockeyed the Jag into the exit lane. Trina had been my reason for existing through high school. As I turned onto the main thoroughfare that would take me home I reflected on my life just after the divorce.

I saw Trina a month or two ago in line at a movie theater with three kids in tow. They all looked like different fathers. I had seen her sometime after our split at a night club. She spent half of the night on the dance floor, and the other half was divided between sucking cock under a table, and fucking in the parking lot. She never noticed me that night, but I had no doubt I had made the right choice in divorcing the whore. I felt stupid for months after, wondering why I never picked up on any signs of her infidelity.

I've read hundreds of articles and stories about cheating. Each time one of them goes through the "tell tales" of a cheating spouse I can't recall ever seeing the behavior in Trina. The thought that I had missed some critical clue bothered me deeply. I was a very detail oriented person and I had missed one and possibly several crucial details. This thought was one that made me start drinking.

I spent three months getting hammered every night and then trying to function at work the next day. It all came to a head when my program manager called me into his office. My program manager had been a D.I. in the Marine Corps and at times ran our group as if we were a class of new recruits. "Fred, I called you in here today because I feel we need to have a frank discussion about your job performance, or lack thereof. Have you ever heard the term 'Worthless as tits on a boar'?"

"No Dennis, I can't say I've ever heard that one."

"Fred, can you think of anything more worthless than tits on a boar?" I shook my head. "Well son, you are rapidly approaching that level. Look; I know the divorce was hard on you, but it is way past time to snap the fuck out of it and carry on with life. You have two weeks' vacation in your bank. As of today, I am considering you on vacation. You will use the two weeks to either drink your liver to oblivion, or screw your ass back on straight."

"That's OK Dennis. I'll be fine."

"You will not be fine, numb nuts!" he yelled. I'm sure that fifteen heads out in the office suddenly swiveled our way. "You need to quit walking around here like a god damned love struck pussy and grow some balls! You will take your vacation; I've already gotten it approved through HR. Get the fuck out of here and use the two weeks wisely."

I was pissed off as I left the office that day. What did fucking Dennis know anyway? OK so I had fucked a couple of things up. So I was irritable. He'd be irritable too if he went through what I did. Part of me realized that Dennis was right. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and move along, but Trina had been the love of my life since we were freshmen. I got in my car and headed straight for Smitty's Tavern. It was in there that my life would take a turn for the better.

I was tipping my third beer since I had arrived at Smitty's when three guys that had gone to my school came in and grabbed a booth near where I sat. They had been two years ahead of me and didn't know me. They were talking amongst their selves and soon the topic of women came up.

"Do you know who I heard is moving back to town?" said one of them.

"No, who?"

"Stacey LaRusso, well she's Stacey Martin now but she stepped out on old Jerry one too many times I guess and is headed back here."

"That aint surprisin'," said the third, "In school it never mattered who she was dating, she would still be fucking Don Sanders every chance she got."

"I fucked her once." said the fourth. All three laughed at him.

"Sure ya did Eddy. Then you woke up and dried your jammies."

Stacey LaRusso was a senior when I was a freshman. She was the head cheerleader and prom queen. If her beauty wasn't enough to grab a teen age band geek's attention, the fact that she was known to put out did. One rumor had her doing a gang bang with six guys under the bleachers during halftime of the Homecoming game. I never heard it from anyone who saw it firsthand, or from anyone who was involved, but always someone who heard it from someone who knew someone who was there.

Take Carmen Electra without the fake tits and you have Stacey. If Trina was my reason for getting up each morning, Stacey was the reason my mom hated washing my stiff socks. I know most guys would think I was nuts for drooling over a serial cheater, but I look at it like a guy would look at his dream car. He'd take a model with some flaws just to own one, and work on those flaws. So in my head I saw myself making an honest woman out of Stacey.

Later that week I was at my mom's house for dinner. She is really good friends with Stacey's parents. They've all gone to the same church for the past ten years. "Any good Catholic is just fine in my book." is an all-time favorite quip of hers.

There used to be three Catholic churches in our area. Our Lady of Guadalupe served mostly Hispanic worshipers to the east of our neighborhood. St. Anthony's served the Italians northwest of us and St. Mary's served the mainly Irish population in the south. When two new churches were commissioned the attendance at all three churches dropped, so the Arch Diocese closed Our Lady of Guadalupe and St. Anthony's. Most of the Hispanics went north to St. Therese's Church while the Italians decided to come to St. Mary's.

That is how my mother became close friends with my dream girl's mother. Not that it had ever done me any good ... until now.

"Gwen LaRusso tells me that Stacey is back home Freddy. Do you remember Stacey?

I played dumb. "I think I kind of remember her. Didn't she graduate several years ahead of me?" Mom, however, has never been stupid.

"Don't play stupid Freddy. It's quite annoying. You know damn good and well who Stacey is. Lord only knows how many times I found your yearbook open to her cheerleader page, and a sticky sock or two nearby."

I started to protest and then thought better of it. "I saw Stacey and Jeannie at Father Nelson's two days ago. I told them of your divorce, and Jeannie and I agreed that Stacey and you should get together and help each other through your divorces."

Dream girl or not, there is nothing that kills a hard on quicker than mom intervention. Sure I had planned to have her intervene, but damn it, she didn't have to make it all her doing. I was about to protest when she thrust a sticky note into my hand.

"That's Stacey's phone number. She'll be expecting your call."

I knew the subject was closed for debate, so I just pocketed the number and dug into my plate of roast beef and cabbage. My dad just sat stoically at the end of the table poring through the latest Speedway catalog.

Two days and three phone calls later I found myself sitting in the bar at Chez Lorraine's waiting for my dream girl to make her entrance. Since that dinner at my mom's, all kinds of questions had played through my head.

Had Stacey put on three hundred pounds? Was this a pity date for the love struck geek that couldn't hold onto his woman? The thought had even occurred to me that she might meet a guy on her way here, and I'd either be stood up, or become a third wheel.

I didn't have to wait long. At precisely five minutes before our decided time she walked into the bar. Every guy in the place watched her walk in. Half the guys in there were definitely not getting laid that night. One girl slapped her guy and I saw two more mouthing hateful things at their guys.

She was just as beautiful as I had remembered. She had put on about ten pounds, but in all the right places. Her chest was a bit larger and her hips had a more womanly swell. Her face was perfect. She wore a denim skirt that came down to about mid-thigh and a turquoise tank top. A mid length denim jacket was tossed over her shoulder and she had on three inch heeled sandals. I was hoping that I wasn't sitting there slack-jawed or drooling.

"Fred? Oh my god you look amazing! I remembered you as a gawky freshman. Wow, how you have grown up!"

I felt my face turning red. I hadn't imagined her throwing herself at me screaming "Do me!" at the top of her lungs, but I didn't expect the "long time, no see" like an aunt I hadn't seen in a decade either. I took a hefty pull on my vodka and cranberry.

She sat down and ordered sangria and we chatted about mundane shit until the Maître D informed us that our table was ready. As we waited for dinner, we talked about our failed marriages. Yeah, it's a no-no on date one, but our moms had sent us here to talk about it so we did. You don't cross Italian or Irish moms. I told her about catching Trina and Stanley together. Then she began telling me about life in Tennessee with Jerry.

"For the first few years Jerry and I were great. But then I suppose every marriage is picture perfect for a while. Then when I started working, Jerry seemed to change. He got jealous and paranoid. He would show up at my office unexpectedly during the day. Every time I'd go out to lunch I'd see at least one of his creepy friends nearby watching my every move. As the years went by it got worse, then New Year's Eve was the last straw."

"We always had a big New Year's Eve party. Every one that Jerry worked with came as did all of our friends and neighbors. Memphis' best caterer was booked and we'd hire a live seven piece "Big" band. People would show up around six in the evening, men would go into the den to watch the college football games, and the women would sit around and gossip; mainly about the men."

"Of course, by dinnertime everyone had a pretty good buzz going. We had roasted leg of lamb as the main entrée of our seven course meal, as well as lots of drinks. By time dinner was over everyone was inebriated. About ten, the band started playing. There is nothing more entertaining than a bunch of drunks dancing to "Big Band" music."

I chuckled thinking of dozens of Colonel Sanders look-a-likes, dipping and dropping dozens of southern belles on their chiffon clad asses.

"It never took long for the dancing couples to start mixing. Many of the men sat down to drink, while the women danced with those men who didn't. Jerry was always a non-dancer, but he usually didn't mind if I danced, so I did."

"Charlie Welles was our closest neighbor and we were close friends with him and his wife Bunny. As most of the dancing crowd dwindled around eleven, Charlie and I danced together more and more. At ten to midnight, I looked around for Jerry but couldn't find him. As midnight got closer several people asked where Jerry was and nobody seemed to know where he was. So I rang in the New Year alone. An hour later all of our guests had departed and I went upstairs to go to bed."

"When I got to the top of the stairs I saw light coming out from under one of the guest room doors. I tried the door and it was locked. 'We'll talk in the morning Stacey.' said Jerry from the other side of the door. I had no clue what he was throwing a fit over this time, but I was getting used to going to bed alone."

"When I went down for coffee New Year's morning, the cleaning crew was already busy removing all traces of the party. I walked into the kitchen to find Jerry glowering at me over the morning paper. I cheerfully wished him a good morning and filled a mug with coffee."

"Since he never said word one to me, I took my coffee and a Danish out to the sun room to enjoy a glare free breakfast. I was half way done when he made his appearance. So much for peace and tranquility. 'So, ' he began, 'How long has this been going on between you and Charlie?' I was shocked! "We danced last night. Big deal. You never dance and up 'til now you have never seemed to have a problem with it."

"Then he flew off the handle and accused me of cheating on him again. He demanded to know everyone I had been sleeping with behind his back. We ended up in a screaming match that ended with me throwing my coffee in his face and going to my room."

"He moved into the guest room and I filed for divorce the following Monday. Within six months we were in court. He fought every settlement offer, saying I was a cheating whore and deserved nothing. We battled on and off for four months."

"In the end we sold our house at a loss and split the profit fifty-fifty. After all was said and done we each walked away with a little over forty thousand dollars and he got a drinking problem."

We chatted about happier subjects as we ate. Pity date or not I was enjoying myself. I hadn't even thought about this "date" going much beyond dinner. I thought maybe I'd ask her if she'd like to take a walk around a park or if she'd like to go down and walk the 16th Street Mall. Things changed when I ordered another scotch and soda.

"You know that is four of those you've had this evening." She said

"I haven't been counting, but I can afford them."

"I'm not worried about your wallet Freddy, I'm worried that you are going to suffer from whiskey dick and ruin this evening's more active phase."

I have seen many "spit takes" on TV, but this is the first time I had ever done one. I sprayed my drink all over the place, luckily missing my shirt and her. The candle bearing center piece didn't fare so well.

While she laughed at me, and I cleaned up, the waiter came by and asked if everything was all right. She looked at him with a smoldering look and said "Check please". As soon as I paid the check and left a hefty tip, she grabbed my hand and pulled me to the door.

We left her car at the restaurant and drove to my apartment. She was staying with her parents so it was the only option. Seconds after opening my door I found myself pushed into my easy chair while Stacey straddled me. I had never been kissed with so much passion.

I was afraid my fantasy come true was over when she pushed off of me and stood. She looked at me and I felt my soul would melt away. She pulled off her jacket and tossed it aside, then crossed her arms in front of her. She gripped the bottom edge of her top and her bra and lifted them straight up, revealing the most luscious set of tits I had ever laid my eyes on.

She took a step towards me and her skirt hit the floor. She wore a white lace thong that did nothing to disguise the fact that she kept her pussy shaved clean. I could make out the protrubance of her clit and the happy valley just beyond. I could see the wetness soaking through her thong. I suddenly felt like the room was too hot and stuffy. My mouth went dry and my tongue swelled. OK those things didn't really happen, but I felt I was close to hyperventilating.

"Freddy, you seem to be a tad overdressed now. Let me remedy that." She started unbuckling my belt and opening my Dockers. "Oh Freddy, I didn't know tuba players were built like this

"Actually I was a drummer. I uh Oh god..." I didn't get to finish before she had my cock fished out of my shorts and had it in her mouth. My mind went immediately to pondering the various compression ratios of the race engines my father had built over the years. It was a trick I'd used to sustain longer with Trina over the years. I had made it no further than his third motor, a 440 Mopar, when I felt my balls tighten. Stacey must have sensed it too and stopped sucking.

"Oh no Freddy boy. Not yet. Ladies first!"

With that, she stripped off her thong and climbed up on the chair planting her hot wet snatch in my face. It looked like I was giving her a reverse piggy-back ride while sitting. When she screamed, "Eat my pussy Freddy!" who was I to refuse? I put both hands on her ass and began licking her slit, pausing just before I get to her joy button and then going back the other way. I was trying to time my attack on her clit perfectly. If not perfect it was close enough.

"Freddy, come on. Stop teasing meeeee ... Oh my fucking God!!!!!"

She almost crushed my skull when she came. I could feel her juices running down my chin and pooling on my chest. I had never been with a girl who got so wet.

She then slid back down my body, leaving a wet trail and practically ripped my shorts off of me.

"I need you Freddy. Oh my God, you can't eat a girl like that and not fuck her brains out."

I never intended to abstain from fucking her brains out, so I don't know where she got that idea. My cock was pointed at the sky and she moved up and hovered over it. She lowered herself down and it felt like I was pushing into hot un-melted butter.

It's crazy what crosses your mind at times. As she slid down the length of my shaft, I remembered and incident from my early teen years; The Crisco incident.

It was during my 12th summer that the Crisco incident occurred. I spent the summer running around with three guys from school. Jason, Chris, Ray and I were inseparable that year. One night we were camped out in a tent in Chris' back yard. Jason had snuck a couple of his dad's nudie books out and we were looking at them with flashlights.

"Hey!" Jason said, "Don't stick my dad's pages together. He'll get pissed."

"How would we stick the pages together?" Ray asked.

"Yeah," I said, "Kinda hard to see the titties if the pages are stuck."

Chris and Jason laughed like they knew some big universal secret. "He means don't be jacking off and fucking up his books." said Chris.

I wasn't sure what jacking off was and I'm not sure Ray did either. I wasn't about to ask either and make myself the source of ridicule for the night. I'd ask my 15 year old cousin Sherman when I saw him next about it. Soon the conversation turned to what chicks we'd all like to fuck. Every super model had her name tossed into the hat and several girls from school.

After a bit Jason said, "I bet you guys have never had pussy."

We all claimed we had and accused him of never even seeing a pussy. "Shit boys, I'll tell you what a pussy feels like. Grab a can of Crisco and force your pud into it. That's exactly what a pussy feels like."

"Exactly what a pussy feels like." That thought was in my brain for the next three weeks. I couldn't even go through the baking aisle at the store without sporting wood. Sherman had explained to me the finer points of jacking off so I was becoming a walking hormone.

One day while my mom was at my grandma's and my dad was at work, I finally decided to try it out. I walked into the kitchen and got mom's brand new can of Crisco. I never thought she'd notice I had done anything to it so I peeled the foil seal and dropped my shorts. I remember the gooey feeling as I pressed my cock into the shortening.

I was so busy concentrating that I didn't hear my mom come in until she hit the kitchen ... with Mrs. Beals from across the street in tow. "Sure Kitty. I have a dozen or ... FREDDY BRIAN MURPHY!!!!! WHAT IN GOD'S NAME ARE YOU DOING?!?!"

The hardest part of all of it was coming up with a viable excuse for my buddies as to why I was grounded for the week. To this day my mom looks at me funny when she has a can of Crisco out when I'm around.

Stacey's pussy was about as hot and tight as anything I'd ever felt and she knew how to work it. She was pumping up and down and swirling her hips, this girl definitely knew how to fuck. After twenty minutes I picked her up and laid her on the ottoman. Once on my knees in front of her, I pushed into her pussy and began pounding her. She came three times before I finally unleashed my load into her.

"Wow Freddy. Please tell me you don't have to be anywhere tomorrow."

"Nope. I am off work for another week and don't do weekends anyway."

"Shall we see what fun we can have on a proper bed?"

The next forty eight hours were a blur. We fucked, we napped, we showered and then fucked some more. We went to sleep coupled and awoke in a fucking frenzy. We did manage to eat a time or two. The kid who delivered our pizza on Saturday night was treated to Stacey answering the door in my bath robe, fresh from our second shower that day. The poor kid who brought our Chinese food on Sunday evening was treated to me in boxers fresh from our up-teenth fuck session that day.

We actually slept most of Sunday night and showered together Monday morning. She had a job interview a little after noon so I drove Stacey back to the restaurant to get her car. We sat in the empty lot for a few minutes before she got out.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" she asked me.

"Bettering myself, or making life hard on someone else. Why do you ask?"

"Oh I just wanted to see if you'd like to go hiking with me. We could have a picnic and enjoy the day."

Enjoy the day we did. As a matter of fact we have been enjoying days and nights almost non-stop ever since.

"DIRTY ROTTEN FILTHY CUM GUZZELING FUCKING SCUMBAG WHORE!!!" I yelled as I sat at a traffic light. I looked to me left to see a horrified soccer mom/housewife staring at me from her SUV. "Not you," I said to her, "Some other whore." I tried to laugh it off. She just continued to look at me like I had neon horns growing out of my skull. The light turned green and soccer mama laid rubber trying to make distance between herself and the Tourette's Jag driver.

I couldn't believe that she was really cheating on ME. Our relationship started out hot and heavy and had not slowed down for five years. Maybe we had only mellowed out recently, but only slightly. We are still known to spend an entire weekend fucking and sucking. We even took a week off of work a few years ago and never got dressed. I needed to go back to work to recover.

We got married seven months after that first weekend. The wedding was a spectacle. Italian Catholics and Irish Catholics in the same venue meant it was more of a bash than a wedding. Stacey's mom and dad, as tradition requires, paid for the whole wedding. I offered to help with the booze at the reception only to be handed a wad of cash to help pay for my bachelor party.

Not to be outdone, my parents paid for out honeymoon. Of course all of the aunts and uncles, who felt they needed to contribute, gave us spending money for our trip. Mom had planned on sending us to Europe to see Ireland, and Italy, but a passport mix-up that was going to take three months to straighten out left us on the North American continent.

Two weeks touring Mexico Starting in Cabo San Lucas. Three days and we never saw the beach. On one of my nightly calls to mom she suggested we find other things to do on our honeymoon like see some sights.

She made the same comment when I called her from Puerto Vallarta, Acapulco, and Mexico City. We did see some of these places; we just spent the majority of our time in our room. We saw more of Acapulco since we often fucked on the balcony outside of our room.

When we got to Teotihuacan, we actually did tour the pyramids there. We saw all the tours had to offer there. When I told my mom this she said, "Oh? So I take it your room wasn't ready when you got to town."

I had to admit she was right, but we did enjoy the beaches at Cozumel and Cancun. Some were nude beaches that offered private areas, and on some we just relaxed in the Mexican sun. On our return flight to Denver, Stacey and I joined the mile high club.

Our early years together were pure bliss. There weren't many nights that we went without sex. Even during her monthly visit from "Aunt Flo" she would offer me her ass or a blow job.

Stacey also started what would become my biggest hobby. In her job as an insurance adjuster, she comes across many different kinds of people. Once she was going through a client's car that was to be scrapped and she came across a box of auto parts. She went to throw the box in the trash when the client called for her to stop.

"I thought I had lost those." He told her.

"They look like junk parts." She said "Whatever do you want them for?"

"These aren't just junk parts. These are collectables."

Stacey scoffed and went back to her task. "No, really." He said. Holding up a part, Stacey didn't know a carburetor from a key ring, "This is from Dale Earnhardt's Daytona winning car. It's worth $5000. This is from Richard Petty's last race. It's worth $12,000."

Later she did some on line research into motorsports memorabilia. She found a lot of things that were worth a lot of money to the right person. She had little interest in racing, but knew I followed drag racing religiously.

I wondered why she suddenly started questioning me about different drag racers and asking to look through my stores of old magazines. She was religious about it for a few weeks then I didn't hear much more about it and though she'd lost interest.

Our mom's threw us an anniversary party that year. There was a lot of drinking and a lot of eating and a lot of drunk Irish and Italians before all was said and done. After dinner our moms suggested we exchange our gifts.

I had saved for three months and used all of my bonuses to buy Stacey a diamond necklace with matching ear rings, bracelet, and an anklet. She teared up and hugged me fiercely after she opened it.

"Oh Freddy, It's so beautiful."

Then she handed me my box. I opened it to find two spark plugs wrapped in tissue paper. I saw that the plugs would fit nothing I owned and was wondering why she would give me spark plugs to begin with.

Then I saw the certificate in the box certifying that these plugs had been in the #4 cylinder of Kenny Bernstein's Bud King when he became the first driver to go faster than 300 miles per hour in 1992. That was how my collecting began.

Along with King Kenny's spark plugs, I also have the valves from the #3 cylinder of Joe Amato's first 280 mile an hour run, the blower belt from Chuck Etchells' first four second funny car run, as well as the #2 piston from Jim Epler's first 300 mile an hour funny car pass. I also have several other items that either Stacey or I have found and bought over thy years, but my most prized, or coveted mementos come from the same car.

In 1988 Eddie Hill did something no one else had ever done. He became the first driver to go quicker than 5 seconds in a quarter mile. In 1987, Gene Snow drove a quarter mile in 5 seconds flat at Indianapolis. I have three of his spark plug wires from that run. The following year in Dallas at an IHRA event Eddie Hill ran the first ever 4.99 pass in history. Later at an NHRA event in Houston he ran 4.93 to become the first in both sanctioning bodies to do this.

Eddie's crew chief, Fuzzy Carter took the pistons from both historic runs and tuned them into clocks. Of the sixteen clocks I own one. It is the #2 piston from the Dallas run. Stacey and I have searched high and low and have found only four of the clocks from the Houston run. Two owners won't sell but two others might. One guy was from Ottumwa Iowa, the other from Abilene Texas.

Stacey was always an outdoor type. She always had us out skiing or swimming on the weekends. Not that I objected, but it made it hard for me to reciprocate the fabulous collectables she got me. After a few years, I was on a first name basis with every outfitter and raft guide in the state and a few out of state. We also had success at our jobs.

Stacey beat me home one evening, and when I walked into the house and found a bottle of champagne chilling and a roast duck being prepared for dinner, I knew something was up. "Hey babe, what's the occasion?" I was a tad bit worried that I forgotten some anniversary.

I knew she wasn't pregnant; we had discovered two years before that she was barren. Her uterus had never formed so she was incapable of bearing a child. We had considered adopting and then just decided we'd be DINKs. Duel Income, No Kids.

"I got promoted! Rex called me to his main office this afternoon and told me I was being made the manager of our whole office. No more watching people pick through wreckage and crying about it when I get home. I will send others to do that part."

Needless to say I had to call off of work the next two days as we still celebrated. Dennis was quite used to me having sudden illnesses since I had hooked up with Stacey. He always told me that I was more productive than before so he was inclined to look the other way. Two months later Allen Bradley called me into his office.

Allen was the head of our company, and I was sure I was going to be fired for excessive absences. Dennis may have looked the other way but Linda "McButtface" McCarthy-Butler; the HR manager had likely caught us in the act.

"Ah Fred. Have you ever thought about the job of the project managers?"

"In what terms? How bad they suck? How hard it must be taking credit for fifteen other people's work? Taking your sac to the chin?" I thought but did not say. I was wondering if he was trying a guilt trip on me and was going to fire Dennis. "No sir. I just do what Dennis asks of me. I don't truly give much thought to his tasks."

"Well Fred; you might want to. As of Monday next, you are one."

My mind dropped out for a moment leaving me with an obviously stupid expression on my face. "If you don't want the job I am sure I can find someone who does." he said.

"No, I'll gladly take the job Mr. Bradley, but what about Dennis?"

"Dennis will still do his job Fred. You will be getting your own group. It's secret stuff so we'll have to pick your group wisely, but you'll have a ton of say in who gets on board."

I spent the next two hours poring through personnel files and resumes with Allen and finally we had six solid people to put on my team. I also had to sign a non-disclosure statement. It turned out that NSA and a few other shady organizations were paying for the software my team would develop.

Officially my team and I were changing divisions in the company. Only the team would know I was the manager and the other managers would only know the folk on my team reported to an outside manager.

Allen gave me the rest of the week off, and a prepared script for sharing the news with Stacey. I made reservations to one of the ritziest restaurants in Denver and got us a hotel room for a night. Let's just say that Stacey took the rest of the week off as well and we both needed to go to work Monday to recover.

Up until three months after our promotions we had the perfect marriage. It's funny how a few hours can change the outlook for someone. A few exchanged words with another person can make you look at the world, and your significant other quite differently.

"Hey, yeah, you don't know what it's like. Baby, you don't know what it's like to love somebody. To love somebody, the way I love you"

"Barry, Maurice, I sure do know what it's like. You don't know what it's like when that fucking somebody can't keep their mother fucking legs closed."

I probably looked stupid chastising the brothers Gibb on the radio, but I didn't care. I was only one left turn and five blocks from home and still didn't fully know my exact plan of action. I wanted to splatter her face all over a rock, but I didn't want to spend the rest of my life getting my asshole stretched out in the pen.

The green arrow lit up and I made my turn. I realized I was quite possibly making this turn for the last time. Maybe I was stupid for ever thinking a guy like me could hold onto a girl like Stacey. I remember exactly when the first seeds of doubt were planted about the faithfulness of my wife.

Traditionally during Homecoming weekend some classes held impromptu class reunions. My class was no different, but I never liked many of the alumni who would likely show up. Nor did I care which chick got fat, which jock lost his hair or who had so many brats that their uterus prolapsed.

Stacey however lived for Homecoming weekend. We attended the game even though this year looked to be a waste of time. Our team was one loss from being eliminated from play-off contention and we were playing our biggest rival. They were undefeated and lead the state in every category.

There were at least a dozen tailgate parties by Stacey's class alone. She and I traditionally went to a local Italian place and then went to the stadium. We went a little earlier and had a few beers with her old cheerleader squad. I had to admit most of them were still hot. I say most, because the three bitches that Stacey always had problems with all gained at least a hundred pounds and looked like trailer trash.

The other team jumped out to a 14 point lead early and our crowd became subdued. Stacey had even hinted about maybe leaving around half time to beat the traffic. Then with five minutes left to go in the first quarter we intercepted a pass and scored, and the first quarter ended at 14 to 7.

We never looked back. At the end of the game our team walked off, more like danced off the field 45 to 14 victors. The alumni went nuts and the student section almost got tear gassed. We knew the banquet the next evening was going to be a joyful one.

Jim Taft, Stacey's class president always reserved the Grand Ballroom at the Creste de Everest Hotel. I never knew how they afforded to do this. As far as I knew, Stacey had never been asked for a contribution.

Most years, the turnout is quite small. Since Stacey and I have been married I have never seen the ballroom even half full. Whether it was a big rival game, or a full moon or planet alignment, I don't know; but almost all of Stacey's graduating class showed up that year.

We arrived and found a table with her cheer squad and their husbands. I had met a few of the guys before so we mostly got re-acquainted. Most talk was about the game the night before and some of the college games that day. Stacey and the girls reminisced over old times and then dinner started.

The meal was as wonderful as always. A green salad with bleu cheese crumbles, and oyster bisque, followed by prime rib and a baked potato. The meal was to die for and the Baked Alaska served for dessert was most likely the best I have ever eaten.

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