Husband Dot Com (7 page)

I have a strong sex drive and I have struggled to find a real life, balance. I am sure that is in part the reason why I have inadvertently chosen “hot to trot” men like Trent in the first place. With all things considered, I do have a decidedly saucy side that runs amply through my veins. While I have embraced my sexuality and go after what I want in bed, to some degree, there is still always room for fantastic inspiration. I am certainly not a wilting wallflower by any stretch of the imagination—being with Trent certainly capitalized on my inner sex tussle. I am more open minded than many of my friends. Yet, I still do have a few chains on me—thank goodness. As open sexually as I was at the time, I still could not mentally move beyond Trent's sexual past, as hard as I tried.
Even though I had an erotica list that I enjoyed daydreaming of, Trent and I never discussed them. A piece of me was afraid if I let him into my secluded mental sanctuary; he may have perceived my fantasies as a green light and would want to act them out. Those fantasies of mine were the private property of my brain and not the shared property of our marriage. I was not about to split any of that funky shit 50-50! I instinctually knew that Trent’s human nature would get the best of him. Historically speaking, nature always wins, and being acutely aware of that fact, I knew that I would ultimately lose. Trent’s sexual addictions were his master, and I simply his mistress.

The only time we seemed to get along was when we were in different zip codes or neighborhood dildo boutiques. Trent planned for us to take a last-minute trip to New Jersey. We had a great time together walking around the chilly city and sightseeing. We laughed for hours in the monumental hotel bed like slap-happy teenagers.

Talking about the future seemed natural as we lingered around with our bodies twisted in a knot. We truly connected on a deep level and had significant lif
e conversations. The cold-weather sex was better than our warm-weather sex back home. We acted like wild horndogs on the loose in our historic hotel. The trip was starting to seal our fate as a committed married couple. I caught a glimmer of hope that maybe our love thing had a slight forever-after shot in the dark. At dinner we found ourselves falling back into artificial infatuation all over again. We were all over each other like a couple of love-sick doves. It was dripping in pathetic cupid-goo for any outsiders who witnessed our frenzy of flesh. Trent and I always had to have some part of our bodies touching at all times.

On the way back to the hot
el, Trent took me to this super-creepy old house on the side of the road. It was a little shop of sex. That was the only name I could muster up for that place. The theme was an old-school sex store with a twist. The building was wooden, decrepit and a dirty white color. When we first walked in, it appeared to be only a porn and toy store, so it was nothing too scary. Then we walked down a narrow, dark hall and it became a real-life human sex store. The atmosphere reminded me of an old-fashioned county fair, except this fun house had a triple-x theme. When I was a kid and entered a carnival fun house for the first time it felt sort of enjoyable. That was, until I walked down an unlit hall and the not-so fun-house turned into scary-as-hell house. The sensation throttled me that I could not turn around, but going forward may have been certain death. So, I held onto the person in front of me as if they could save me. Twenty years later, there I was, frozen stiff and clenching onto to Trent's arm for dear life. I must have looked like a lifeless mannequin in the window of a nickel-and-dime store—just waiting to be brought back to life. The only thing I wanted was to get out of there with my lady biscuit still intact.

Bad things happen in that building when the sun goes down and the local people never even whisper of it. I just knew it to my core. In the back of the building there were live nude girls. It smelled like old house and it was musty and dark. That was the kind of experience that nightmares are made of. Of course, Trent
with a twisted sense of male pride, wanted to show me his old stomping ground. Like, as if the experience would help us bond on a deeper level. What the heck kind of run-down, honky-tonk place was this anyway, was all I could think of! The teenager inside of me was screaming,
I am on a roller coaster, and it's going too fast—please get me off now!
The reality was that I was freaked out that he even took me there in the first place—what was he thinking? I kept saying to myself,
I pray tomorrow night we can just go to Atlantic City like normal, degenerate people and devour the all-you-can-eat snow crab with a heaping pound of melted butter.
 

The over-the-
top sex stuff was starting to send chills up and down my spine—like an evil porcupine was sitting on my back. Being scared of a sex shop was a tall feat for a tough South Florida girl like me. If I was from a small town in the Midwest, I would have probably called the police on Trent and reported the sex store to the FBI. No joke, that hardcore place was not for the faint of heart! I had been to some “whiskey-tango” strip clubs in Ft. Lauderdale back in the day—trashy would be considered a compliment inside those establishments. However, that eerie sex house in New Jersey made the Florida strip clubs look like friendly ice cream parlors. Knowing that I was in over my head and way out of my freak league by the end of the trip was a strange sensation for sure.

The arcane weekend was starting to spook me right out of my wicked black boots! Why I did not run out of the scary place screaming and cryin
g—I will never know to this day. There was a voice in my head that kept repeating, “
Not okay, not okay”
over and over again. I never acted on my feelings of flight, I simply stood there quietly buckled in for a wild ride.
We walked toward the back of the building, and there was a nude dancer in a room surrounded by glass. She introduced herself as Misty. Miss Misty weighed about ninety pounds and had fried bleached-blond hair. She had breast implants that looked like triple-f balloons. Her boobs looked like skin colored inflatables on her chest that were about to pop. Misty was the poster stripper for what not to ask for at your local plastic surgeon’s office. We had to pay with coins to have her dance for us. I don't think that those women ever had a chance of graduating to the velour couches of the champagne room. Trent had to keep putting quarters in the slot to keep the shield from coming up and blocking our view. It was chilling. It may sound naïve, but I never thought anything like that antiquated contraption actually existed in real life.
The scene we were in felt like a macabre movie and the killer with the chain saw was going jump out at us any minute. Then my parents would find out I was in that devious place. I could just see the newspaper headlines scrolling across my mind: “The totally inappropriate vacationers were murdered in our local sin store!” I did not want to be alive in there—much less dead! Yuck, the whole outing was too much for one woman to take during an evening, or even a lifetime—for that matter.
The topless dancer seemed helpless, as her legs slowly dragged across the dusty floor. Part of me wanted to bang on the glass and yell at her to get out of there. I wanted to dump out my purse and give her the bus money she needed to go back to Montana. My maternal side was kicking in overdrive.
She was someone’s daughter, and I am sure somebody, someplace loved her,
kept flooding downstream in my horrified mind. The dark store had such a heavy air of despair.

The walls had a story to tell and I could sense the heaviness of the drywall wanting so badly to spill its veiled secrets. As soon as my big toe entered the building, I realized I was in a place that I shouldn't be. I can only imagine the darkness that falls on that establishment on as soon as the sun fades into the horizon. I felt dirty for being in there for the short time spent inside those doors. I wanted to jump into a bottle
of hand sanitizer and scrub all of the shame off of me! I had to consider what could have happened to the women working in the sex shop. How could a desolate place like that become a destination for them? I am sure those women working in there were thinking the identical thing of me as well, "Why was that nice woman in here with that perverted guy?” The view is always different depending on what side of the window you are peeking out of.

I realize that my saucy
side attracted the wrong types—like flies to a key lime pie sitting in the middle of a picnic table. I was born crushing on the wrong type of guys. In the first grade, I had my very first crush. Jimmy was his name, and he was a wild boy with frizziest blond hair. Jimmy was the first bad boy I had ever laid eyes on. He raked his metal lunch box across the chain link fences all the way to school—so badass to me back in the day. I would follow behind him, hoping that he would notice me. He never did. That only made me want him more. Even back then I had a thing for the hard-to-get, rotten ones!

All
I really ever wanted was a man with a pinch of a naughty side and a heaping helping of overflowing goodness. I wished for an edgy guy who was a “salt of the earth” type. I would uncover “over the span of a few decades” that the man I wished for was an extinct mythical creature that only lived in my imagination—either that or he’s already married.

Trent turned up the heat early on in our relationship and what I failed to do was beware and tread lightly. Of course, that’s not programmed in my genetic code. So, I rapidly leaped forward. Trent experienced situations outside of what is considered sexually mainstream
, and because of that, he ultimately opened a Pandora's Box of forbidden pleasure. He sure cracked that funk-box wide open! Therefore, it was hard for him to be satisfied with only one person entertaining him in the middle of the box spring.
A traditional married sex life may have never been enough to satisfy Trent’s desires. The thrills need to keep getting bigger and better for people who are into a multicolored cornucopia of skin spread out on a sexual smorgasbord. The kinky price tag just kept getting more expensive. For me personally, it’s impossible to love someone with my whole soul and get my “funky girl” on with someone else. I could never see myself looking at the man I love with stars in my eyes and knocking boots with some random, hot, young buck at the same time—looks good on paper though.  Sure, in fantasy lane it's all fun and games, but no man is pinning the tail on my donkey with other people watching!

I suppose there must have been a mental separation that Trent embodied to be able to play sex games in such a way that
it altered his sexual appetite. I can't imagine saying to my husband, “As soon as I finish up with him sweetie, you’re next.” “And, by the way, while you are down in my taffy-town, would you mind wiping that hot dude’s cooties off me?” I’m just saying—it’s not my thing. My mental capacity does not have the ability to emotionally de-compartmentalize that type of arrangement. My heart is way too sensitive for the "lifestyle" that so many horny lovers relish in.

As it turns out, I am definitely more bark than bite. I honestly can't fault Trent for turning his fantasies into reality. I just knew he never lived in my reality, and I would never live in his fantasy. Trent wanted to be a one woman kind of guy in the worst way. I just don't think that was possible for him. He loved the idea of being smack dab in the middle of some obscene sexual
limelight. Part of the trouble was that he had crossed the coital line enough times that it had changed the hardwiring in his brain. Walking back into the normal procreative light may have been too mundane a task for a man who had sped down route sixty-nine ways too many times.

10). Hooker Lady

I awoke one morning after a terrible dream warned me that something wicked was
headed my way. In it, I had a vision of me finding an upsetting yellow letter in our mailbox. The nightmare left me with a very real and lingering feeling of dread that I could not shake. It was one of those dreams that I have experienced early in the morning right before I wake up. The vision haunted me in my waking hours. I felt a heavy sense that evil was blowing right into our lives. I had no clue as to what was coming or why.

A few day
s later, I woke up in the middle of the night and did not find Trent sleeping next to me. I snuck quietly downstairs and caught him in the office with his pants down. He had disgusting massage oil all over him and was deeply entrenched in some type of sex website. He was doing something majorly icky with strangers. We ended up in an explosive fight that blew the shutters off the house.

From that point on, I constantly found myself snooping around Trent's computer every chance I got. I just knew he had to be hiding more nastiness from me. Unfortunately, I found that Trent had emailed a naked picture of his beige boner to a woman who lived in our city. I wanted to vomit all over his desk and take a shredder to al
l of his belongings. The trashy-looking woman had a tacky, yellow sex website. So there it was, precisely in front of me—the yellow piece of my dream actually materialized before me on Trent's crusty computer screen.
In a panic, I confronted Trent over my disgusting discovery. He told me it was no big deal and to get over myself. Trent said the woman pissed him off. So, he sent over a picture of his low-ranking pencil to mess with her. That was such bullshit! Really, it's not like I would send strange men pictures of my shaved buttercup if I got ticked off at them! A married man did not deserve a wife if he was pulling those types of outlandish stunts.