The Average American Marriage (12 page)

some chapter

Repairs

M
y cell phone freezes. I take the battery out and restart it. It works for a second, but when I open the text application it freezes again. I do this five more times and get the same result each time. I stop at a Sprint store on my way to work and speak with Gus, a customer service representative who obviously hates his job and everyone on planet Earth.

He says, “What's the problem?” in a tone that makes me think he'll probably kill himself by the end of the day.

I say, “Every time I try to read or send a text, the phone freezes.”

He says, “Did you try taking the battery out and restarting it?”

I say, “Several times.”

He takes the battery out and restarts it. He opens the text application and it freezes. He says, “Yeah, that didn't work. So we'll just reset it. That should fix the problem.”

“Won't that erase everything I have on the phone?”

“Your contacts are saved to your Google account.”

“Right, but all of my text messages, my pictures, all of that's gone if you reset it, right?”

“Did you save that stuff to the phone or to the memory card?”

“Some is saved to the phone and some to the memory card. Can you just back up everything and put it all back on the phone after the reset to be sure I get everything?”

“It takes a little more time, but I guess.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I wait while Gus goes into a back room and backs up everything on my phone. I'm positive this process will involve him getting to look at every photo Holly sent me of her ass and tits, as well as every filthy text message she sent me explaining what she was going to do to my cock. I'm also positive that Gus and all of the other assholes who work here see so much of this shit every day that it probably doesn't faze them in the least. Unless they come across something extremely out of the ordinary, like a picture of a guy with a peanut butter jar up his ass or something, they probably don't even take the time to show the other guys in the back room. I imagine a wall of pictures they've printed out that are kind of a hall of fame of the weirdest shit they've ever seen on customers' phones. I convince myself that this photo hall of fame must exist in every cell-phone store in America.

I watch a woman with a baby in a stroller looking at phones while she's waiting for hers to be fixed. She's not attractive. I think about fucking her and blowing my load on her ample tits. I imagine a scenario in which she's actually here to get her husband's phone fixed and Gus and the guys in the back see all of the naked pictures of all of the chicks that her husband is cheating on her with but they don't tell her. I wonder how many times that happens. I wonder how many times the wife does find out about her husband cheating through some discovery of a text message or Facebook post. I can't decide if we're better off or worse. It seems like all of this shit makes it much easier to fuck chicks, but it makes it much harder to keep any of it a secret.

chapter twenty-five

The Meet

A
lyna left a message on my newly repaired cell phone that said, “Meet me at the Baker for lunch tomorrow. 1
P.M.
Don't be late.” She didn't actually call me. She just recorded and sent the message to meet her at her favorite café. I imagine three scenarios as I drive to the Baker.

I imagine her showing up with divorce papers and demanding that I sign them or never see my kids again. I imagine her telling me that she forgives me and she'll take me back as long as I never talk to Holly again, which I don't know if I'm prepared to do just yet. And I imagine her not showing up at all but, instead, a hired killer who slits my throat and pisses on my corpse. I realize the first two scenarios are much more likely, but still, the third is possible.

When I walk in she's already there. She doesn't smile. She doesn't even get out of her chair. She just looks at me. She doesn't seem angry or even upset. She just seems to be there. I sit down and I say, “Hey.”

She says, “Hey.”

I say, “So, what's . . . I mean . . . I don't know what to say here, really. Do you want to know where I'm staying?”

Alyna says, “I don't give a fuck where you're staying.”

I say, “Okay. How are the kids? What'd you tell them?”

She says, “I told them there was something extremely important at work and you might have to be gone for a little while.”

This gives me some hope that she sees a possible reconciliation. I reason that she would have outright told the kids I was a cheating pile of shit, or maybe told them that I died, or something far more final than that I might have to be gone for a little while, if she thought there was no chance of ever repairing things between us. I say, “Okay. So why did you want to meet?”

She takes a deep breath and says, “I guess I just . . . in that moment when I found your phone, I obviously couldn't think straight. I saw Roland and he said that I should at least hear your side of the story. Whether I believe anything you say at this point is up in the air, but he said I should at least hear you out. He said that I owed it to you and to me to listen.”

Roland continues to impress me. I say, “Okay. Well, what do you want to know?”

She says, “Everything, I guess. I read the texts. I know you've been fucking this girl.” She's starting to get pissed again. “And I do mean
girl
. What is she, eighteen? Is she
even
eighteen? Are you a fucking statutory rapist on top of being a cheating piece of shit?”

I don't want to say any of the shit I'm about to say, but I figure at this point lying will only make everything that happens in the next few months worse than it has to be. It seems to me that all of the lies will get uncovered anyway, so I say, “She's twenty-one. She's an intern at my office. It hasn't been going on that long.”

Alyna says, “And what do you see in her? I mean, why her?”

I want to say that it's because she's hot as fuck and her ass is as tight as a trampoline, but I just say, “Honestly, she paid attention to me. That was it.”

Alyna says, “And I don't?”

I say, “No. Not anymore.”

Alyna says, “Don't you fucking turn this around and try to make it about how I neglected poor little you.”

I say, “I'm not. You asked me ‘Why her?' That's why.”

Alyna says, “We have two fucking children. How could you do this to them?”

This one hurts a little more than I expected. I say, “I don't know. It just happened.”

Alyna says, “But then it happened again and again, right?”

I say, “Yeah.”

Alyna says, “Not that I'd be any better with it just happening one time, but I'd at least understand that more. This is . . . seriously, are you planning on dating this girl, this fucking child?”

I say, “No. Come on.”

Alyna says, “Well, what am I supposed to think?”

I say, “I don't know,” and I realize that I don't even really know the answer to her question. I haven't thought of the possibility of dating Holly, of trying to have something more with her than fucking and flirting at the office, until this moment, until my wife brought it up. For a fleeting second, I can see us together. It doesn't seem that strange to me. But then I imagine getting to see Andy and Jane only every other weekend, and being the dad who was never around for them. I say, “I guess you're supposed to think that I fucked up.”

Alyna says, “No shit.”

I say, “And that I'm an asshole.”

Alyna says, “No shit.”

I say, “And that I'm still the father of our children and that I still love them and you very much. I just made a mistake.”

Alyna says, “Is that an apology?”

I say, “Well, yeah.”

Alyna says, “Well, it's not accepted. You didn't just make a mistake. You're having an affair.”

I say, “Come on. It's not an affair.”

Alyna says, “You're fucking the same girl multiple times outside of your marriage. That's the definition of an affair, you stupid fucking asshole.” In this moment I start to wonder why she wanted to do this in a public place. Maybe she thought it would keep her from crying, but I think her unbridled anger is serving that function. She says, “There was a time when I would have done anything for you, when I trusted you beyond anyone I ever thought I could trust. We had something really good.”

I say, “Then why—”

Alyna says, “Shut up. We had something really good. And you fucking ruined it. How can I ever trust you again? If you thought we weren't having enough sex before this, how did you think this would make it better? Now, when I look at you, all I see are those pictures that girl sent you. How am I supposed to get over that, to move on from that?”

I say, “I don't know.”

Alyna says, “Neither do I. I really just wanted to see you today to see if I could find anything in myself that's able to forgive this. And I'm not saying I can't find it, but I can't find it right now.”

I say, “I understand.”

Alyna says, “No, you don't. I've thought a lot about this, about us, about what we were like when we were younger, when we first met, how good everything was, and I know things have changed. But they never changed so much for me that I needed to fuck somebody else. I'm here right now for the kids, and anything that happens between us after this is because of them.”

I say, “Okay,” and we sit there in silence for a few seconds.

Alyna eventually says, “Where are you staying?”

some chapter

The Thing I Miss Most

I
haven't talked to Alyna in a few days. I don't really know what's going to happen with us, but I've decided to fuck Holly as many times as I can until something does happen to resolve things with Alyna. Holly told me she likes fucking in a hotel room because it makes her feel dirty. I see no reason to waste this opportunity.

Holly comes over and we fuck for an hour or so, then get room service and watch some TV before passing out. I wake up in the middle of the night and Holly's asleep next to me in my bed. I look over at her. She's rolled to the other side of the bed and turned away from me, curled up in a little ball, lightly snoring. That's how she sleeps. She can fuck, but she clearly has issues with affection and any kind of physical intimacy that isn't X-rated. I wonder if it's just her or if it's generational. I miss having someone to sleep with who actually sleeps with me, sleeps next to me, actually shares the experience of sleeping instead of just being unconscious in the same bed. I start thinking about Alyna, specifically about her fat ass, and get surprisingly horny. I think about waking up Holly for a second round of fucking, but I don't.

Instead I creep out of bed, get my laptop, and sneak into the bathroom. I bring up NudeVista.com on the hotel Wi-Fi and search “fat ass POV.” Most of the results are actually chicks with giant fat asses, cellulite everywhere. These women are beasts. But on the second page of results near the bottom is a beautiful brunette with the exact kind of ass I was looking for. It's just like Alyna's, the same exact shape, but younger and with less cellulite. This girl's name is Brooke Lee Adams. I make a mental note of it and then jerk off to a video of her getting fucked doggy-style. If I concentrate hard enough, I can remember fucking Alyna doggy-style when her ass looked more like Brooke Lee Adams's than it does now.

I cum into the toilet, flush, wipe off a glob of semen that didn't go down with a wad of toilet paper, flush again, make sure it goes down so that Holly doesn't see it when she gets up to take a piss, shut my computer down, and slide back into bed wondering if I'll ever fuck Alyna again.

chapter twenty-six

Snip

I
had kind of forgotten about my vasectomy due to the complete fucking nightmare I've been living for the past week where my marriage is concerned. So when the urologist's office calls to confirm my appointment, I initially think it's pointless to go through with it, and I tell them I have to cancel. But after a few minutes of staring at Holly's ass as she sits in the chair outside my office, and wondering what it would feel like to fuck her without a rubber, I call them back to cancel my initial cancellation.

I opt for the non-scalpel vasectomy. My doctor and the urologist he recommended both seem to think it's the best option, the quickest healing and the least painful.

I'm sitting in the urologist's office after filling out my paperwork when a nurse comes out and says, “Okay, we're all ready for you.” I stand up and take my last steps as a fully functioning reproductive male.

In the doctor's office, the nurse tells me to take off my clothes and put on a surgical gown. Then she tells me to sit on the table and gets out a little sponge, a razor, and some kind of disinfecting solution. She then proceeds to clean and shave the front of my ball bag. No other part, just the front of my ball bag. I imagine her sucking my dick while she's down there. I wonder if she has some sexual fetish that can only be satisfied by swallowing guys' last loads that contain sperm. After she finishes shaving the front of my ball bag she says, “Okay, looks good. The doctor will be in in a minute,” then she leaves. She does not suck my dick.

I lift my surgical gown and look at her handiwork. I've never actually seen my balls without hair on them. I've shaved my ball hairs down before, but always just a trim, never down to the skin this way. It looks weird. My ball bag is shriveled and loose. It looks like chewed bubble gum. I try to remember the last time I really inspected my balls or dick. I can't.

The door opens and the nurse comes back in with the urologist. They catch me looking at my balls. The urologist says, “Saying your good-byes? Just kidding. I'm Dr. Klein. It's nice to meet you. I think we can have you out of here in about half an hour.”

I say, “Sounds good.”

He says, “Just lie back on the table,” and I do. Then he goes over to the counter and puts on some rubber gloves. I've never had a dude handle my dick or balls for more than just a routine hernia check. This seems like it will require more intimacy. I wonder if he's ever had a guy get a hard-on while he was cutting on their ball bag. I assume this will not happen to me.

He comes over to the table I'm lying on and says, “Everyone approaches this differently, and I want to make this as comfortable as possible for you. So would you like warnings as I'm about to do things, or would you like me to just do it as quickly as possible?”

I say, “I'd actually like you do it as accurately as possible, if that's an option.”

He laughs and says, “Yes, of course.”

I say, “And I guess I'd like warnings.”

He says, “Okay, here's your first one. You're going to feel a little pinch,” then he jabs a needle into my fucking ball bag. It's surprisingly not that painful. I've had tetanus shots that were worse. After a few seconds he starts fucking around with my nuts, but they're numb. Whatever he's doing gives me only a general idea that he's doing anything at all. He says, “Can you feel that?”

I say, “I don't think so.”

He says, “Okay, I think we're ready.” I start to get a little nauseated.

The nurse hands him a little instrument that looks almost like a screwdriver. He goes back to work in my crotch. He says, “You might feel a little pressure now.” I can feel a vague pulling on my ball bag and then a pop, like a hole being punched in rubber. He says, “Okay, step one all done. You okay?”

I say, “Yeah.”

He hands the screwdriver thing back to the nurse and she hands him another screwdriver-looking thing with what I think is a curved hook at the end. This thing looks medieval. This is a thing you do not want near your fucking balls. He goes back into my crotch with it and says, “Okay, now you might feel a little pulling sensation,” and that's exactly what I feel. It feels like he's pulling one of my nuts out through the hole he poked in my ball bag. I know this isn't the case, but that's what it fucking feels like. I start to get a little more queasy just thinking about it. Then he hands the hook thing back to the nurse and she gives him this little wand-looking thing.

He says, “Almost done with the first one,” then moves the wand thing close to my ball bag and for a brief second I smell burning flesh. I think he just cauterized the tube that goes from my balls to my dick. I'm getting a little more nauseated. He says, “Okay, one down,” then hands the wand thing back to the nurse and gets the hook thing from her again. By the time he finishes the same thing on the other nut, and puts a little Band-Aid on the hole he made in my nut sack, I'm almost positive I'm going to puke. But then it's over and I power through my last few minutes on the table with the front of my ball bag shaved and both my nuts separated from my dick.

Dr. Klein says, “Easy enough, right?”

I say, “I guess so.”

He says, “Okay. I'm going to prescribe you something for the pain, if you should have any, and you should stay off your feet for the next few days if you can.”

I say, “Oh, I thought I could go back to work.”

He says, “Look, honestly, you're pretty young. You'll be fine. Just try to keep your feet elevated, so we don't get any hematomas or anything. Believe me, you don't want to see that. And call me if you notice any pain that might be abnormal.” I wonder what kind of pain would be considered normal where having your balls separated from your dick is concerned.

He says, “And you should lay off any sexual activity for the next week or so and continue to use condoms for the next month or so until we can get you back in here to collect a semen sample and make sure you're firing blanks.”

I say, “All right.”

He says, “Do you have someone giving you a ride home?”

I say, “No, should I?”

He says, “Did we not recommend that you have a ride?”

I say, “You did, but I don't really have one. Is that terrible?”

He says, “Again, you'll probably be fine. Just ice it if there's any swelling and wear tight briefs for the next week or so.”

I say, “Okay.”

He writes something in my file and hands it to the nurse, then says, “Well, that's all I've got. Do you have any other questions?”

I say, “No. I don't think so.”

He says, “Okay. It was nice meeting you. And, again, call me if there are any complications, but I think it went perfectly.” Then he leaves.

The nurse says, “Okay, get dressed and meet me out front when you're ready. Take your time.”

I get up off the table and look at the Band-Aid on my shaved ball bag. It's strange. I know it's not true, but I picture my balls free-floating in my scrotum, attached to nothing in my body, having no actual purpose anymore. I put on my clothes, walk out front, schedule a time to come in and jerk off to have my semen analyzed, then drop off my pain-med prescription on my way back to work.

In my office I put my feet up on my desk and look at Holly. I imagine fucking her without a rubber. And then I realize that, without the ability to even jerk off, the next week is going to be a living hell.