Unfaithful Ties

PROLOGUE             

June 2012

It was a beautiful morning and the sun was blazing through the thick glass. From Jason’s seated position he peered out of the wrap around window located in the waiting area of an upscale building that showcased a typical crowded day of downtown New York City.  This was his first visit and he couldn’t believe that he was actually about to confide his hurtful past and personal mishaps to a complete stranger, Dr. Thompson, the psychiatrist he’d found through Google. Impatiently he sat on a bright orange chaise waiting for the secretary to call his name.

As he glanced at his watch for the hundredth time in twenty minutes he
finally heard a feminine voice announce his name. “I’m right here” he responded getting to his feet.

“Dr. Thompson is ready for you, follow me.”

The woman trailed them to an office at the very end of an extensive hallway. Jason walked inside the dim room. Impressionable, Jason thought as an attractive woman greeted him. Her skin reminded Jason of chocolate. Her slanted eyes were darker than coffee beans. The gray strands of hairs that were exposed in her short fuzzy natural hair assured him that she was a middle-aged woman, possibly in her early fifties. She carried her age well and with a little hair-dye she could easily pass for a much younger woman.  In fact her body was in better shape than some women half her age. Jason sensed that she was proud of her graying hair. It was her mark. Her way of saying, “So what I’m aging? I still look good.”

Dr. Thompson was smiling and had a
happy-go-lucky
glow about her as she offered him her hand.

“Hello Mr. Duncan, I’m Doctor Thompson, please
d to meet you”

“Likewise” Jason said with a forced smile.

Jason longed for his life to be as elated as hers seemed to be. Hopefully she could help him learn how to smile again. Telling her the deep dark secrets of his marriage, details that he hadn’t even told his closest friends was going to be the true test but he knew that he had to do it. It was the only way the therapy sessions were going to help him. Opening up to her was the only way he’d be able to free his mind of his desolating past. A past that had damn near destroyed him.             

“Please have a seat,” She said pointing to a buttercream expensive leather chaise.
             

Jason glanced around the room nervously. Aligned around the walls of the room were several plaques, degrees, and certificates. Judging by all the awards
Jason thought to himself,
she must know what she’s doing
and he eased down on the plush leather cushion. To keep his legs from shaking he rested both his trembling hands on his thighs. It wasn’t long before he found himself sliding his hands up and down his slacks.

“I can tell that you’re nervous
” Dr. Thompson said. “But don’t worry. Most of my clients are nervous their first visit. Why don’t you start off by telling me the reason you’re here.”

Jason crossed and then uncrossed his legs before lowering his eyes.  He cleared his throat, looked at Dr. Thompson, back to his lap, then back at her. “I’m here because I’m all broken up inside and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Okay that’s a start,” She said, opening a drawer. She pulled out a countdown timer, tape recorder, notepad, and pen and placed them all on top of her desk. “I’m going to have to record our session for my notes.”

He couldn’t sit down any longer. He felt like a paranoid lunatic. The only thing that he could think about was the fact that this moment was real. He was actually about to open up to a stranger. Getting to his feet he said, “This is hard for me. I’m not use to opening up about my feelings” And then he started pacing the room with both hands in his pant pockets. “But I do want to get it all out” He turned to her and said. “I have to get everything out. It’s toxic. And it’s destroying me.”

“I have a suggestion, since this is your first visit how about you write down exactly the way you are feeling? Act as if the piece of paper is me. Write down your thoughts exactly the way you would tell them to me.” She said and handed Jason a notebook along with an ink pen.

“How is writing down my feelings going to help me?”

“Plenty of people use writing as their escape tool. You’d be surprise how much better you’ll feel once you write down that first sentence, that first emotion.”

“With all of the emotions bobbled up inside of me it could be nightfall when we’re done. How long is the session?”

“One hour. Which is plenty enough time to write down an enormous amount of feelings. When the timer goes off I want you to read what you’ve written aloud. Deal?”

“Deal” He said, with another fake smile.

Dr. Thompson flipped on a lamp that towered over her as Jason headed back to the chaise. He flopped down on the cushion and immediately started scribbling in the notepad. Tell her all or tell her nothing, he thought

****

I filed for divorce a few months back. I married my high school sweetheart. We were only fourteen when we met. She’s
the only woman that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with
.
She’s also partly the reason
why I’m here. I’m torn. And Angry. And bitter
.
When it comes to women...well, let’s just say she left a sour taste in my mouth
.
Most of the time I feel like women aren’t worth a darn thing! Which is the reason why I’m single. Women drain you. They’re not satisfied until they’ve taken everything that you’ve worked hard for. Especially the one that I was married to, turned out she was nothing but a maligner. Everything about her was fiction. “Shit” it pisses me off every single time I think about how I wasted 22 years of my goddam time on that damn woman. Vanessa. Half-breed. Mixed with Puerto Rican and Black. Woman had a body outta’ this world and she knew she was the shit too, couldn’t nobody tell her nothin’. I can’t lie; she had me whipped like cream. My toes use to tingle every time I thought about her good loving. And she could cook too. Bake the hell out of some mac-and-cheese. Because she was pretty, I felt like I had to go that extra mile to keep her. You know? It was my way of being sure she didn’t long for another man. Excuse my French but I didn’t just fuck her; I made love to her, made sure she exploded like lava erupting from a volcano, every time she gave it to me. Sometimes she didn’t have to give it to me. Sometimes I just took it. Woke her up out her sleep. She use to like that kinda’ stuff, ya know? Vanessa was spoiled, the compliments of her being an only child. Because of her upbringing I spent all my damn money on that woman. Movado watches, Prada bags, and Versace heels. And when she was tired, I cooked dinner, washed the dishes, cleaned the house, and rubbed her damn feet. You see I’m from the south, Alabama to be exact, I’m not bragging or boasting but us Alabama men we cherish our woman. No matter what, we take care of home first.  Wheneva’ something broke around the house, I fixed it, mowed the lawn, changed the fluid in the cars, and did everything else a good man does to keep his woman happy. I always thought that’s what women crave.  But I guess some of em’ are never satisfied. Vanessa pretended that I was all she wanted, all she needed, the only man she’d been with, and for more than half of my life I believed that con-artist. I should’ve known that something was up when she first started nitpicking and nagging me all the damn time about small shit. Every time I turned around she had something new to complain about. She’d push my buttons so we could get into a fight. I recently learned of her motive behind all those petty arguments. Those were the nights she’d run to Deon and do God know what with him.  “Jason, why did you leave the seat up? Jason, why did you leave your dirty socks in the den? Jason, you haven’t even noticed my new haircut.” Getting on my fucking nerves!  Is there a manual that says men should let the seat down? Why can’t women lift the seat up when they’re done? The socks, okay I could have put them in the laundry room, but is it really that big of a damn deal? And I noticed that damn ugly ass haircut, I liked you better with long hair and that’s why I didn’t comment on it.  I think that if you don’t have nothing good to say, then don’t say nothing at all. Vanessa was smart too. Teaches English at NYNU. Of course, us men, we love the hell out of a brilliant ass woman. We think it’s sexy. And that’s how I let that woman trick me into thinking that I was the luckiest man in the world. Turned out she had more secret’s than Victoria. And I was her damn sucker. Woman had me looking like a damn idiot! She just stopped wanting to make love.  Started complaining when I attempted to wake her up out her sleep, “I have to work in the morning” she would complain. I’d always sit there pondering the same damn question, which was, since when did that become a problem? The measly times she did give me some of her good stuff, I felt like she’d rather be sexing someone else and that she was having sex with me out of pure obligation, not desire. It’d gotten to the point where she’d just lie there like she was a naked mannequin. Didn’t moan and didn’t cum. “Are you almost finished?” she’d ask me. Our once hot and sexy rumble in the sheets was now dull. It was like watching raindrops fall, boring. I may as well have been screwing a statue. Stupid “Ol” me! I didn’t notice the lies until the truth slapped me in the face. The truth that happened in our bedroom, our cars, and most importantly with money from our joint bank account. I can’t believe she did those things. Not my Vanessa! The woman I watched blossom from a cute little girl into a beautiful intelligent woman. The woman that was pure and gave me her virginity. The woman that I was supposed to share the rest of my life and grow old with. Never in a million years did I think that this was how things were going to end up between us.  I was always faithful. No matter how many times Vanessa deprived me of my sexual needs I never stepped out on her. Although there was plenty of times that I could’ve easily given into temptation. Hell women are always throwing themselves at me. All that garbage in the magazines and online is all a bunch of bullshit.  Now according to womentop10.com, women want a man that’s romantic and actually makes love to her. They want a man that keeps himself up. That’s good with foreplay. That’s emotionally open. That has great conversation. That’s passionate. That likes to cuddle. That provides stability. And a man that listens.  Hell, I don’t think that women know what they want. I did majority of those things and look where it’s gotten me. I was romantic and Vanessa complained that I was so nice that it was aggravating. I need space she’d whine. You got eyes, you can see for yourself that I inherited a jock build and a massive six four, two hundred forty pound frame, flawless onyx skin, dark mahogany deep-set eyes, a full goatee aggrandized with a square jaw line and thirty two frosty teeth. My pops may not have done anything else but he definitely blessed me in the looks department and I’d like to think that I’m a good catch. I’m sure that we can both agree that lack of attraction was definitely not the problem. I’m sick of all this talk about women needing and wanting foreplay. After years of being married, whenever I tried to seduce Vanessa with foreplay she just wanted me to get straight to it “Baby just get to it” she’d demand. Statistics say that women want a man that’s emotionally open. I guess that’s where I messed up. I have a hard time expressing my feelings. I’m pretty good with hiding my emotions. I can only remember myself crying once as a man. Don’t get me wrong I didn’t deprive my wife of attention. I did the basics, such as, cuddle every now and then after sex, hold her at night and stuff like that. After a while she hardly ever wanted to cuddle because she was too damn worried about her hair.  Because she has a well-paid job and is what she likes to call herself an “independent black woman” her biggest problem was, she forgot how to let me be the man. I loved the fact that she didn’t need me but after a while it dawned on me that she didn’t want me. And the only time that she wanted me to listen was when she was yapping about something I hadn’t done enough of, or needed to stop doing, or what she’d rather me do. Her definition of communication was for me to listen whenever she complained. Then it had gotten to the point where I felt like she was trying to change me. She said to me once, “Jason we’re middle class people so you should act like it.” Somehow over the years she’d forgotten that I’m from the streets and the facts of my life managed to slip through the cracks of her mind. I am now a successful black man but my success hasn’t changed who I am as a person. I’m still Jason Duncan and I will always be Jason Duncan. Meaning, I will never forget where I came from and I won’t ever change. I was born in the projects and raised by a single mother and I’ll never look down on people who may not have been so successful at escaping that life. My theory is, just because you’ve made it out the ghetto doesn’t mean that you sho
uld treat people differently are feel that you are better than a person just because they’re not as fortunate as you are. Once she began acting as though she was better than others I realized that she was no longer the same woman I’d fell in love with years ago. Women so damn complicated.  They pretend that something we mighta’ did, didn’t bother them but every time we turn around they bringing the shit back up. That crap bewilders the fuck out of me. We always gotta’ wonder what our woman is thinking and worry if whether or not she’s going to be mad if we go shuck-in-jive with the fellahs. Hang out at the sports bar. Drink some beer with the guys. Watch a football game or two at the bar. I think Sunday is a man’s day and we should be able to just kick back and watch football, shoot some pool, and just be men if we want to.  Shit, we don’t want to be out shopping for things we really don’t give a damn about! Like paintings, and bath decor, and curtains. Men just don’t give a damn about things like that. Give us a big ass TV and a futon and we’re good to go. Gossiping is a woman’s biggest problem. They’re always allowing everybody to be up in their business, especially their damn mama. Before Vanessa’s mama passed away she stayed up in our business. She knew more about our business than I did. Now, correct me if I’m wrong... but in my opinion some things are personal and should only be discussed between a man and his woman. Not everybody in the goddamn family, especially when there hasn’t been an attempt to resolve the issue with the spouse first. Allowing other folks to get into your personal life will only welcome confusion into your home.  Speaking from experience, once outsiders dip into your marriage it’s like water leaking through a roof, it will eventually need repairing. Towards the last few years of my marriage I neglected myself. And now here I am at thirty-six years old, angry and resentful. That woman burned me out. I couldn’t get any advice from my best friends Trae, Kenneth and Malik. Based off their circumstances I was cautious about taking any advice from either one of them, hell, their lives were just as screwed up as mines, if not worse.  Trae in my opinion is self-centered, and too damn materialistic. He wouldn’t recognize a good woman if Jesus warned him that she was the one for him. He should’ve married the mother of his children years ago. She’s a good woman and on top of that she’s proven that she loves him for him.  He’s always treated her like shit and he also neglects their children. Which is the reason that he and I haven’t spoken in I don’t know how long. The man travels from city to city and state-to-state preying on every gorgeous woman that makes six figures and will give him the time of day. He sex’s them and makes them fall in love with him. The next thing you know they’re buying him designer clothes, shoes, jewelry, paying for expensive trips, co-signing on a ninety thousand dollar car, and begging him to marry them. One day he’ll realize that he’s taken Brandi for granted all of these years.  Malik? He ended up marrying a trophy wife that couldn’t cook, didn’t have any common sense, and didn’t know how to do anything but look pretty. Maybe if he would have married his high school sweetheart Stacy he could’ve saved himself a lot of stress. As far as Kenneth goes he married Lena, aka Cruella Deville. She’s controlling, selfish, and on most days she walks around like her shit doesn’t stink. I can guarantee she’s never going to change. She’s been that way since high school. Back in the day when we all use to get together she always embarrassed the shit out of Kenneth by treating him like she was the man of the house.  So, listening to either of the fellahs would’ve been toxic, don’t you think? Their advice would have only contaminated a partnership that was already dying. Now that I’m no longer blinded by love (in other words pussy whipped) according to the fellahs, I realize that I saw what I wanted to see and made myself believe things that I knew weren’t the truth.  Somehow I convinced myself that Vanessa getting caught in little lies, and spending an enormous amount of time texting, and her sudden need for privacy, and let’s not forget the late night work days were just not enough for me to confuse the signs that she was cheating, with actual proof that she was cheating.  I conceived that she was an angel. That she was perfect.  So discerning that she was nothing short of an unfaithful whore was my worst nightmare. The proof is so blatant now it’s pathetic. Recalling back to the first little lie that she told me, I should’ve noticed that my marriage was crumbling long before I did.