The Average American Marriage (7 page)

some chapter

The Romance Is Gone

I
wake up. I get out of bed to take a piss, and when I get to the bathroom I look down and discover a giant log of shit nestled in a wad of brown-and-yellow-streaked toilet paper in our toilet. I know I didn't give birth to this fucking thing, and the kids never use this bathroom, nor could anything this size come out of one of their assholes. It had to be Alyna. She's still asleep.

I stare this thing down and it's peeking out of the water almost like it has a head, like it's staring back at me daring me to flush it, like it knows there's no way my toilet is strong enough to break it in half and suck it down, because it sure as fuck isn't going down in one piece. Something deep inside me doesn't want to flush it, anyway. Some greater sense of human justice keeps reminding me that it was Alyna, the same woman who bitched at me for jerking off, who brought this abomination into the world. This transgression cannot go without reprimand.

Before I issue a false accusation, I bend down and really look the thing over to make sure there's absolutely no way it could have been produced in one of my kids' colons, to make sure the blame for this inhumane act of disgusting bathroom etiquette could only lie with a fully grown adult human being. I know Jane can't even wipe her ass by herself, and Andy isn't great at it. There's no way the toilet paper that's with the turd would be that neatly wadded. It must be the work of an adult.

Is it possible that it was some other person? Is this evidence of a stranger in my bedroom? The cable man? Did Alyna fuck some other guy while I was at work, and did he fuck her so hard that he worked up a shit he chose to leave unflushed in my toilet to mark his territory? This seems pretty unlikely to me. I finally conclude that my initial instinct was correct. Alyna pushed out a burrito-size turd and just left it in the toilet without thinking about it, or perhaps left it there on purpose in some kind of passive-aggressive protest to something I've done. Either way, this must be addressed.

I wake her up. I say, “Alyna,” and nudge her.

She wakes up and says, “What? Are the kids okay?”

“Yeah. Can you come look at something, though?”

“What?”

“Just come here.”

“It's Saturday.” She's clearly not happy about getting out of bed before she's ready to as I lead her into the bathroom and get her to stand directly in front of the toilet with the lid up.

She looks in the bowl and says, “So?”

I've worked this line up. I'm sure it'll get my point across. I say, “So . . . if you have to do that, can you at least flush?” putting as much effort as I can into mocking the tone she used with me when she caught me jerking off.

Either she doesn't remember saying the same thing to me, or she chooses to ignore my inflection. She flushes the toilet and says, “Sorry. Now can I get thirty more minutes of sleep, please,” then walks back into the bedroom. I have to flush the toilet again to get the turd all the way down after she leaves, then I piss with the seat down and purposely splash some on the seat.

chapter twelve

Team Building

L
onnie walks into my office without knocking and says, “Gonna need you to knock out a little busywork.”

I say, “Okay,” assuming he wants me to reorganize some meaningless database that no one ever uses or something similar.

He says, “HR approved an interoffice team-building mixer this Friday. Applebee's. Need some flyers made up with Photoshop or something. Remember you being pretty good with those types of things.”

I say, “Why wouldn't we just send out a company-wide e-mail?”

He says, “Nah. Flyer makes it seem more like a party, less like a work thing. Good to go?”

I say, “Yeah. Flyers. I'll take care of it.”

Lonnie leaves and I look out my office doorway at Holly. I can tell she's on Facebook by how intently she's looking at her computer screen and how quickly she's typing.

It takes me about half an hour to make the flyer and to print out fifty copies, which I put up in various locations around the office. I make sure to save one to hand-deliver to Holly, who is indeed on Facebook when I walk up to her desk. She takes the flyer and says, “Ooh, Applebee's. Awesome.” She's definitely being sarcastic.

I say, “I know. This company can be lame, but you get two free drinks.”

She says, “Are you going?”

I say, “Are you?”

She smiles and says, “I might be persuaded into going if someone I know is going to be there.”

“Well, then, I guess I'll have to go.”

That night at dinner I tell Alyna that I have a mandatory team-building mixer for work on Friday night and I don't know how late it's going to go. She says, “They've been keeping you late more and more lately, and now they're making you do some seminar or whatever on a Friday night? You should ask for a raise or something.”

I say, “It's not exactly a seminar, but yeah,” just as Jane hits Andy in the head with a miniature carrot and laughs.

chapter thirteen

Professional Help

I
'm sitting in my chair in the living room with Jane in my lap. We're watching an
Oddities
marathon. Alyna comes in with Andy, who's just had a bath, and initiates the following conversation in a whisper, which I can only assume has something to do with her not wanting the kids to hear even though they're in the room with us.

She whispers, “We need to talk about something.”

I say in a normal volume, “Okay.”

She keeps whispering. “I think,” she says, taking a deep breath, “I think we should see a counselor,” as she opens a bucket of Legos for Andy and dumps them on the ground.

I say, “What?”

Andy says, “I need wheels.” She helps Andy sort through the mound of loose Legos for wheels and whispers, “I think we're having some issues right now. And I think a counselor might help.”

I say, “Why are you whispering?”

She whispers, “Because the kids don't need to be involved in this.”

Andy says, “Involved in what, Mommy?”

She says, “Nothing, baby. Here's your wheels,” and hands him a few Lego wheels. Then she looks at me and whispers again, “So . . .”

I say, “So . . .”

She whispers, “Will you go?”

I say, “What issues are you talking about?”

She whispers, “You know.”

I say, “No, I really don't.”

She whispers, “Well, like me catching you doing you-know-what the other day.”

I say, “I'm a guy. That's not an issue.”

She whispers, “Yes it is. You shouldn't need to do that.”

I feel like she's blaming me for jerking off even though she refuses to fuck me and I lose my shit. I say, “You're right. I have a wife. I shouldn't need to do that.” This is the wrong thing to say.

She says, “Oh. So just because I'm your wife, I should be your personal sex slave?”

I say, “No, but maybe more than twice a month would be nice.”

She says, “Well, it's hard with the kids. The whole world doesn't revolve around your crotch.”

Andy says, “Mommy, do I have a crotch?”

Alyna says, “Not now, baby, play with your wheels.” He does as instructed. I hope my son doesn't have to have a conversation like this one day with his wife in front of his kids—my grandkids.

I say, “Look, if you're not in the mood as often as I am, then you have to cut me some slack. I mean, it's my only fucking outlet.”

She gasps in shock. She says, “Watch your mouth around them.”

I say, “Sorry. But I didn't do anything wrong.”

She says, “If you can't see anything wrong with what you did, then I'm scheduling an appointment for us to see someone soon.”

I say, “Fine. Whatever.”

She picks Andy up and takes him off to his room as he says, “Wait, my Legos!” She comes back and scoops up the Legos into the bucket and takes it with them into his room, where they stay for the rest of the night. As Jane watches TV with me, I wonder what Holly is doing, and I wish I were back on her bed in her dorm room, high and happy.

chapter fourteen

First Taste

I
'm sitting on a bar stool at the Applebee's in Woodland Hills, hoping Holly actually shows up to this shitty mixer. She wasn't at her desk when I left the office, so I didn't get a chance for any final confirmation. If she doesn't show, I'm going to pound my two free drinks and get the fuck out of here as soon as I can.

Most people blow these HR-sanctioned events off, but the usual crew that shows up to all of them is in attendance. Jim Treadwell from Accounting is sitting a few stools down from me. He's probably fifty, hates his wife, hates his kids, works late every night, drinks at Applebee's, Chili's, or Cheesecake Factory every night with anyone who'll join him. Stacey Primm from Legal is doing a shot and screaming, “Whooo!” like it's spring break and she's still in her twenties. She's probably forty, has one of those weird long asses, and just seems like she'd be terrible in the sack. I wonder if anyone at work has fucked her and would be willing to fill me in. Randy Burke, also from Legal, is trying his hardest to be funny by yelling, “Next round's on me, guys,” and holding up a drink ticket. No one laughs. He got caught chatting with a cam girl in his office last year, but it was after hours, and it was on his iPad instead of company property so he just had to take sensitivity training. He didn't get fired, but everyone knows he was jerking off at work, which might be worse than getting fired. And Wendy Brills from HR walks up to me with her three chins and hands me my two drink tickets as she says, “Nice turnout. Thanks for making the flyers. I'd love to give you an extra drink ticket, but rules are rules.”

I take my drink tickets and use them to order two double J&Bs on the rocks from a cute waitress. I imagine fucking her in some back room or office that must exist somewhere in the Applebee's. When she brings the drinks back, I pound the first one and plan on doing the same to the second when I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear Holly say, “Slow down, cowboy.”

I leave the second drink on the bar and turn to look at her with a smile on my face, but she's not looking at me. She's looking down at her phone, texting or updating her Facebook status or something. My smile fades away during the ten awkward seconds it takes her to finish whatever she's doing on her phone. Finally she looks up and I put the smile back on. So does she. When she hugs me, when she presses those hard titties against my chest and rubs my lower back with more pressure than a casual work acquaintance should, I don't give a fuck about the ten seconds she ignored me. I say, “Hey. Glad you showed up.”

She says, “I told you I was going to if you were going to.”

“Yeah, I know. I just didn't see you before I left the office, so I didn't know.”

“I'm a woman of my word.”

“Fair enough.”

“So how would I go about getting some of those drink tickets?”

Wendy is still a few feet away. I say, “Wendy, can Holly here get a few drink tickets?”

Wendy turns around and says, “Oh, sorry, we're only authorized to give tickets to full-time employees. Interns don't count.”

Holly looks at me with an exaggerated pouty frown and sad eyes. I say, “Here,” and slide her my other double J&B. She pounds it without batting an eye and says, “Okay, I'll get the next round if you get the one after.”

“I'm game.”

For the next three hours we talk about a lot of things, none of which is my wife and children. She never leaves my side to talk to anyone else, nor does she stop texting or checking her Facebook for more than a minute. Nonetheless, we drink, we order appetizers, we get to know each other. Even though I'm positive she must know I'm married, it feels like a date.

As the Applebee's staff initiates last call just before midnight, I look around and see that everyone from work has left, except for Jim Treadwell, who is polishing off what has to be his seventh or eighth screwdriver. Out of obligation I say, “Hey, man, you need a cab or a ride or something?” He looks at me and says, “Nah. My drive home is the last time I'll have alone,” pounds his drink, unenthusiastically tosses a few bills on the counter without even waiting for his tab, and leaves. I can see myself becoming Jim Treadwell in fifteen or twenty years.

I say to Holly, “Last call. You want another one?”

She says, “No, I'm seriously hammered as it is. One more and I'll be puking.”

“Do you need a cab or a ride or something?”

She looks up from her phone, smiles, and I think I detect some flirtation in the way she says, “Mmm, a ride home sounds like it could be fun.” I pay our tab and we walk out into the parking lot. She doesn't seem that drunk to me until she stumbles and almost falls near my car. I put my arm out to help her get her balance. She laughs and says, “Almost ate shit. That would have been embarrassing.”

I open the passenger's-side door for her and she gets in. As I walk around to the other side, all I can think about is what her ass must look like naked. I get in the car, start it, and reach for my seatbelt. Before I can click it into place, Holly says, “Hang on before you do that.” Then she leans over and kisses me.

My brain is on fucking fire. Her lips are so wet and young and she tastes like fucking Life Savers and bubble gum and booze. It's a hundred times better than every time I've imagined it. Once I get past the initial lobotomy her kiss delivers to me I start remembering things. I have a wife. I have kids. That wife and those kids are at home, expecting me to be in that same home in the next thirty minutes to an hour. I pull back from her.

She says, “What's wrong?”

I say, “I don't think I can do this.”

“Yeah, you can.”

“Really, I don't think I can.”

She takes my hand and slides it up her leg under her skirt, straight to her pussy. Her legs are smooth and tight and she's not wearing any underwear and her pussy is wet. She says, “See how wet you're making me? You can't just leave me like this.”

The hard-on I get from this could dent a beer keg. She says, “So . . .” as she pushes my index finger into her pussy. It feels like a Chinese finger trap. Alyna is in my head telling me we need to go to therapy. My kids are in my head asking me why I came home so late. And ultimately Todd is in my head reminding me about Maria Reynaldi. I try to project myself into the future. If I don't fuck Holly, will she become my Maria Reynaldi? Will I become Jim Treadwell at the end of the bar, doing anything I can not to have to go back home to my shitty family? Does Jim Treadwell have a Maria Reynaldi? Is that why he's so fucking miserable?

Fuck it. I lean in and kiss her hard, pulling her mouth to mine. I rub her clit a little and whisper, “Is your roommate gone?”

She says, “Let's just fuck here.”

I say, “In my car?”

“Yeah, let's steam up these windows.”

It's a terrible idea. I haven't fucked in a car since college. I say, “Okay.”

We climb into the back and lay the seats down as far as they'll go. It's cramped, but it doesn't matter. Without wasting any time, she unzips my pants and starts sucking my cock with an urgency that makes it seem like the world's going to end if she doesn't have my dick down her throat. She's not great at sucking cock, but she does it like a porno movie. She spits on it, strokes it, then crams it down the back of her throat until she gags and her eyes water. It could feel better, but the enthusiasm is hot as fuck to me. I grab her hair and pull it just a little as she sucks my dick. She says, “Yeah, fuck my mouth.” I do.

After a few minutes, she comes up for air and says, “Fuck me.” I realize I haven't even thought about rubbers. I know I don't have any but I don't care. I've already committed. If I have to fuck her without a rubber, I'll just pull out and hope she doesn't have herpes or AIDS.

She straddles me and hikes her skirt up a little, then reaches over to her purse and fishes around until she finds a rubber. This both relieves and alarms me. She's clearly a slut if she's carrying around rubbers in her purse just in case, but at least she's a safe slut. She unwraps the rubber and rolls it onto my dick, then she moves her hips around and slides my cock into herself. Even with the rubber, I can tell her pussy is the tightest one I've probably ever had my dick in. I immediately wonder if this could possibly be true. How could it be tighter than my high school girlfriend, who was a virgin? I reason that it's just in comparison to Alyna's pussy, which has had two kids stretch it out beyond repair.

I reach around and grab her perfect ass as she rides my dick. She pulls the front of her shirt down so one of her tits is exposed, then reaches around the back of my head and pulls my mouth onto her nipple. She moans when I start sucking on it.

We fuck like this for about five minutes before she says, “Give me your finger.” I extend an index finger toward her. She takes my hand and sucks my finger, coating it in her saliva, then says, “I'm about to cum—stick it in my asshole.”

I say, “My finger?”

She says, “Yes.”

I slide my finger into her asshole. It makes her pussy even tighter. I think I can even feel my dick with my finger through her asshole. She says, “Yeah, that's it. Now fuck me hard.”

I fuck her as hard as I can in the confines of my car. A minute later she moans louder than she has before and says, “I'm cumming. Oh god, I'm cumming.” Her whole body starts shaking. The realization of what's happening starts sinking in. I have my finger in a twenty-one-year-old's perfect asshole, my dick in her perfect pussy, and she's cumming all over it. I blow my load instantaneously. We cum together.

She falls down on top of me, breathing heavy. She's sweaty. Her hair smells great. I kiss her on the neck. She's salty. I look at the ceiling of my car, and for a second I don't think about Alyna and my kids. For a second I'm just happy.

Holly sits up and gets off my cock. She says, “That was seriously hot.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Wow. I thought you would probably be good at fucking. I was right.”

“What made you think that?”

“The way you're always looking at me like you want to fuck me.”

“You've noticed that?”

“Yeah, it's hot. So glad I was right about you being able to fuck.”

“Well, you're not too bad yourself.”

“Really? Did you like it?”

“Uh, yeah . . . were you not here?”

“Yeah, I obviously was, I just want to make sure you liked it.”

“I did. A lot.”

I look down at my shrinking dick in a rubber full of cum. I don't really know what to do with it, so I roll down my window and fling it out into the parking lot. I've seen dozens of used rubbers in parking lots, and I always wondered what kind of animal would just toss a used rubber on the ground, what kind of a scenario would warrant such an action. I now have my answer.

I wipe my dick off with a blanket I have in the backseat and then toss it under the driver's seat. We get out of my car, and Holly starts heading toward her car. I say, “Hey, don't you still need a ride?”

She says, “No, I'm fine. I'm not even drunk. I just wanted to fuck you.”

My ego couldn't be any bigger. I say, “Oh, well, oh. Okay.”

“So, I'll see you at work tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

She gets into her car and drives away. I sit in the parking lot of Applebee's for a few minutes, mentally preparing myself for dealing with Alyna. I reason that it's doubtful she'll suspect that this kind of thing could have happened, so she won't ask any direct questions. She'll probably be asleep, so I won't have to deal with her at all, which would be the best-case scenario. But if she is awake, I'll have to do some tap dancing to be able to get into the shower without suspicion. I contemplate calling Todd and asking him if I can shower at his place, but that would double my drive time back home. I decide to take my chances.

As I drive out of the parking lot, I think that, even if Alyna catches me, it was worth it, because I got to feel what it was like to be truly alive one more time.

When I get home, everyone's asleep. I put my clothes in the washer and start a load. I take a shower. I sniff my fingers one last time before washing off the smell of Holly's pussy and asshole. I crawl into bed next to Alyna without waking her up. I feel guilty, but the memory of Holly licking my finger before asking me to put it in her asshole makes me feel much better.