“Yes,” he admitted, his fingers reaching out, circling my clit. “Did you? Please tell me you at least kissed her.”
This was it. I had to tell him. “Well, it wasn’t a she,” I answered truthfully. “But I did kiss him.”
All gyrations promptly stopped. Jake lifted himself up on his elbows so fast he knocked my head on the steering wheel. “What?” He growled quietly.
“Ow! Jake! Careful!” I sat up, knowing sex was over.
He shoved me over to the passenger seat and leaned on the steering wheel, his lips moving, but no sound coming out. “What happened?” He demanded loudly.
I rubbed my head. “Jesus, Jake, calm down.”
He grabbed my wrist – no more rubbing. “WHAT HAPPENED?”
I grabbed for my skirt, not wanting to look at him as I said this, because I owed him the truth and I wasn’t exactly proud of the truth. “He’d left the restaurant. Then he came back. He saw you seated at the table and guessed I was in the bathroom. He caught me just as I opened the door and he came inside.”
In the shadows of the truck I could see his eyes bug. “AND?”
“And he told me I was beautiful and I kissed him and apologized! Told him I was married!”
His lips made a tight seam on his face and he stared out the window for a long moment before finally asking, “Did he touch you?”
“No.” He turned and stared me down. I sighed heavily and admitted, “Yes. Just for a second.”
He pounded the steering wheel. “GODDAMMIT!” He started the truck, yanking it into gear, and careened toward the road, both of us bouncing wildly.
“Jake! Stop driving so crazy, all right? Just STOP!”
He slowed down, but refused to look at me. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you Maddie. You’re changing, right before my eyes. And at first I thought it was a good thing. Now I’m not so sure I even know you anymore.”
“Will you listen to yourself? That doesn’t even make any sense! One minute you’re all excited that I might have kissed someone, provided it was a woman and –“
“Only because I knew YOU NEVER WOULD! It’s just a FUCKING FANTASY!!!!”
“I’m sorry.” I jostled as the truck found the road again, knocking the bag of goodies from the sex store in between us.
The sight of the toys only aggravated him more. “Were you thinking about him when you were with me at the store?” My hesitation was taken as an answer. “Get this shit offa me!” He kicked the bag, the contents spilling out at my feet.
“That was all there was to it,” I protested. But Jake seethed and didn’t answer.
At the traffic light, I glanced over and checked his face, illuminated in red light. He looked like a thunder cloud. Feeling my eyes on him, he glared at me and I looked away. The light changed, and he screeched out. My relief was palpable as the truck pulled into our driveway five minutes later, presuming in the dark of our bedroom, we could talk. But Jake shut off the car and climbed out, slamming the door. He went into the house without a word.
I slowly gathered the toys and put them back in the bag, carrying them inside. By the time I walked inside our stifling house, I found my pillows and a blanket, tossed on the sofa. I heard the door to our bedroom slam shut.
I stripped off my clothes and lay naked on the sofa, lazily watching the ceiling fan rotate above me, wondering what Jake meant about me changing. Had I changed? Other than opening myself up sexually? Which he’d admitted he’d always wanted? Or was that sexual liberation, in and of itself, enough to destroy the delicate calibration that had previously existed in our marriage?
I’d always assumed our marriage was made of stronger stuff. But maybe not. Tonight I’d kissed another man, let his hands wander over me, something I never would’ve done before. And secretly, I’d loved the rush I felt. My body tingled with want at the memory of that split second before he kissed me – the uncertain, yet inviting taste of his mouth, the unfamiliar hands wandering my skin with a different set of directions than Jake had ever used. I remembered the tenderness of his palm on my ass, his fingers so soft compared to Jake’s sandpaper skin. I’d instantly wanted that hand to plunge lower, my pussy ready and waiting to invite him inside without so much as an introduction.
I shook off the imagery. If I kept this up, I’d give that memory power over me I didn’t want it to have.
I’d met Jake young, I rationalized. I was only 21, and yes, a virgin. I’d never anticipated marrying him, even after I slept with him. I always assumed he’d go, as all guys left. And I’d have mature, sexual relationships with other men, where I could’ve gotten acquainted with this wild, physical part of myself that had suddenly and inexplicably emerged. But Jake had been so steadfast in his sincerity, kindness and loving that I’d never found the need for someone else. That didn’t mean this physical need inside myself didn’t exist – only that it needed to be tamed.
Jake had been sexually active since he was 15 and had at least a dozen partners. Surely he was familiar with the physical urge to bed someone else, and he had a way to cope. I had no doubt of either his desire or his fidelity. I’d never had any reason to doubt -- he’d openly stated when he found someone else attractive, yet he’d come home to me, every night, since we’d been together. If I could get him to talk about it, openly and honestly, I could learn how to cope myself.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I felt the pressure of his body on top of mine.
“Hi,” I whispered, mustering the sleepiest, sexiest voice I’d could.
He didn’t answer me, just roughly spread my legs apart, and skewered his way into me, forcing me to consciousness. Sweat-ridden from the stale heat of a summer night and the mingling of energy, our bodies sluiced across one another. His thrusts were predatory and feral -- no kissing, no gentle touches -- and I didn’t try to kiss him or touch him in any way. This wasn’t about tender feelings – it was about ownernship. At twelve strokes he climaxed and rolled off me, instantly, his feet landing on the floor. He rose directly into a standing position, his shadow looming over me for what felt like a full minute, before he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You’re mine.”
I heard the bedroom door close again.
It was a week of silence, occasionally and awkwardly inhabited by a solitary sound. Usually a leading question from me, which would be cut off with an incremental “yes,” “no,” “I don’t care,” or “do what you want” from Jake.
Writing was impossible. My brain was my office and equipment, and as it was thoroughly occupied by my troubled marriage, I couldn’t process anything else. I’d received my first set of edits, too -- a day I’d anticipated since I was 8. Jake merely looked at the pencil marked manuscript, shrugged and said, “You’d think they do that all online by now,” and left me to it.
As enabling as my marriage to Jake had been, helping me let go of self-esteem issues, my sexual repression, and granting me enough faith in myself to write and achieve my dreams, it should have been no surprise to me to discover his rejection was equally debilitating.
My body was in full-scale rebellion. I broke into sweats for seemingly no reason. I crossed my legs at meetings to mask the clenching. Having tasted sexual freedom for the first time, my body demanded rightful sex, but received nothing. Midday bouts of masturbation replaced working, but I failed to achieve orgasm. My body was siding with Jake, which was absolutely outrageous, considering it had been the traitor that caused all this mess in the first place.
“You’re mine,” he’d told me. I clung to that statement like it was my last grip on a cliff.
On Wednesday night, I found him smoking on the patio in the backyard. I walked out and sat on the steps. “I thought you’d quit.”
He regarded the cigarette for a moment and shrugged. “You thought wrong.”
“When are you going to forgive me?”
He shrugged again. “When I think I can trust you.”
“Trust me to what? I kissed the guy, that’s it. I stopped the
whole thing, not because I didn’t find him attractive, but because I love and need you. And I told you about it. That night, in fact.”
“Well, thanks so much for…what, exactly? Being honest?” He sneered. “I seem to recall you swore in front of everyone we know to be faithful to me. How’s that for honesty, huh? You should’ve stopped it before you kissed him. Or at least before he pawed you.”
“It was a MISTAKE!” I shouted the last word for emphasis.
Jake responded in kind without hesitation. “A BIG ONE!”
“I KNOW!”
“LOWER YOUR VOICE!”
“AFTER YOU!”
We regarded each other, heaving with anger and need. Jake dropped the cigarette, stubbed it out with his foot on the pavers, and grabbed his keys. I was blocking his path into the house and I had no intention of moving.
“Where are you going?” I asked pleadingly.
He threw up his arms. “I don’t know.” For the first time in a week, he peered into me with those dazzling hazel eyes. “You’re changing Maddie. You got this big, huge opportunity – publishing a book. And while I’m not the kind of guy you expect to have an author for a wife,” he explained, gesturing to his contractor uniform, “I was happy for you, proud of you. And I was thrilled you were finally coming out of your shell sexually, in the process. But now I’m not too good at all. Because it feels like coming out of your shell may involve leaving me.”
I was shocked by his admission. “Leaving you? That’s what you think? It’s not like that,” I insisted.
“Yeah? Then what’s it look like to you?”
I hesitated, still trying to process the illogic of his position, but he took that pause for conviction. He barged past me up the steps. I heard the front door slam and the raucous sound of his truck starting moments later.
Friday afternoon, Jake called from the truck to say, “I’ll be a little late. Have to meet with the plumber and the inspector’s only going to show when he feels like showing.” He hung up without so much as a goodbye.
I wrestled with how to make amends. I didn’t want to endure another entire week this. On inspiration, I printed out a copy of the manuscript.
I papered our bed with the pages of my story. If Jake was worried I was going to leave him because I was an author, I had to show him what was at the very top of my priority pile, and what was beneath. I’d push him onto the bed and fuck him right on top of the next best thing I loved – my book.
I ran to the store, bought food and champagne. I cooked – coq au vin and roasted potatoes – adding the unimaginable heat of the oven to the scorching 100 plus degree heat outside. While everything simmered, I decorated the tiny table in our kitchen as romantically as I could, lighting candles, crumbling rose petals. I glanced around for something to use as an ice bucket for the champagne. I didn’t have one. I scooped up the phone.
Kendra answered on the first ring. “Hey.”
“Hey! Do you have an ice bucket I can borrow?”
“Oh Maddie! Sorry. I was waiting on a call. Just assumed it was them – didn’t look. Ice bucket? Yeah, sure. What do you need it for?”
She was always so nosy. I suppressed my irritation, reminding myself beggars can’t be choosers. I decided to leave out the particulars. “I’m planning a romantic dinner with Jake.”
“Oooohhh!!!! What’s the occasion?”
Telling Kendra everything that had happened would take too long, and simultaneously be a major mistake, considering how loose her mouth got when she drank. I fumbled, “No reason. Just wanted to show him I love him.”
“Oh. I get it.” Even by the tone of her voice I could tell she didn’t. “Hope it goes well! Hey, I might be out when you come to get it, so I’ll just leave it on the back porch. Okay?”
“Sure, thanks.”
I grabbed the bag from Adam and Eve, which had been lying, discarded on the floor of our room, for days I donned the blue velvet and lace lingerie, while I deliberated what to wear over it. I wanted something I could rip off quickly – or that hopefully, Jake would rip off. I had one lone zippered dress in my wardrobe. When I’d shown it to Jake initially, he’d thought it was a tablecloth, thanks to the big blue and green flowered pattern, so I’d never worn it. To be fair, the fabric was a little Stepford wife, but the cut was fitted and flattering, hugging my hips and waist, while revealing plenty of thigh action and my more than ample cleavage. And to be honest, I felt like I could use a little Stepford mojo for the event.
I regarded myself in the mirror – woeful. My long dark locks were sadly drooping from the heat, and the lingerie underneath my dress wasn’t helping. I checked my watch: Jake could be home in forty five minutes. Even when he says he’s going to be late on a Friday, his enthusiasm for Friday night tends to override his otherwise meticulous work ethic. If I hustled over to Kendra’s now, I might just have enough time to come back and at least curl the sides.
I hustled out the door and was instantly assaulted by the shimmering heat. It was five o’clock, but felt like midday. I was instantly grateful I’d decided to get the ice bucket before attempting to curl my hair.
Kendra and Bill’s voluminous house was dead quiet as I opened the wrought iron gate at the sidewalk and headed down the path. Kendra’s car was lonely in the driveway. No surprise. Bill often didn’t get home until eight on a Friday, as all IT problems at his company had to be resolved before the weekend. His Friday schedule was how we’d all become friends, actually. I’d chatted with Kendra one time until the early evening, when she proposed a drink on the front porch. Jake had come home shortly thereafter, and she’d resisted our attempts to make excuses and leave. Feeling guilty about leaving her on her own, we all waited for Bill. By the time he got there we were all plowed, and he invited us to stay for dinner.
I climbed the stairs to the back porch – no ice bucket. She’d forgotten. I rang the bell and peered through the window. I could see the ice bucket was sitting on the dining room table. She’d pulled it out, but forgotten to set it outside.
No one came to the door. I knocked again, and the door swung open slightly – it wasn’t locked, the ancient door catch as unreliable as the ones on our house. I mentally deliberated whether or not to just step inside and retrieve the ice bucket. Although I’d been in this house many, many times, I was as incapable of walking into someone’s house uninvited as I was of going through another woman’s purse.
Not essential to my evening, I decided. It just would’ve been a nice touch. I turned to go.
And then I heard Kendra’s scream.
I pushed open the door and shouted loudly, “Kendra? You okay?”
No answer. But I could hear music. Creeped out, I deliberated what to do. We lived on a main thoroughfare. Our proximity to downtown gave us proximity to the homeless shelter and the jail. Dubious looking guys often knocked on all our doors, at all hours of the day and night, in search of work or just flat out asking for mone . Jake had lectured me many times on keeping the doors locked when I was home alone. Kendra’s car was home. Her door was open, and she’d screamed. Anyone could be in her house, keeping her quiet at the sound of the doorbell and my shout. Maybe she hadn’t put the ice bucket out for another reason.
I dialed 911 and had my thumb on the “Send” button before I stepped into the house. “Kendra?”
I followed the sound of the music to the downstairs master bedroom door, which was closed. I tapped lightly, but made my voice as deep and as loud as I could. “Kendra? You in there?”
Her voice was strangled and weird. “Oh, Maddie! Sorry, I just got out of the shower!”
Unconvinced and deliberating whether or not to open the door, I argued, “I heard you scream. Why were you screaming?”
“What? Oh!” A rustle inside and the turn of a knob. Kendra narrowly opened the door a crack in nothing more than a towel. “Sorry. I’m fine. But it appears we have a rat. I’m not going in that bathroom until Bill gets it.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and ch
uckled, “Jesus, you scared the crap out of me! I heard you scream, the door was open and you didn’t answer. Glad everything’s okay.” I turned to go, thought of something and turned again. “Okay if I take the ice bucket?”
“The ice bucket! Shit! Sorry, I forgot. Yeah, it’s on the dining table. I’ll see you later.” She shut the door to the bedroom again.
“Thanks, okay.” Weird. She was always fun -- she’d drop everything on a dime for a proposed last minute trip out of town and she’d be the life of the party the whole way -- but that same tendency often rendered her frenetic and mercurial. She’d get irrationally angry at Bill, and she didn’t care where she was or who was watching while they fought. She’d once asked him in our backyard, in front of us, whether he was “too drunk to get it up.”
The Virgin Wife Page 5