The Average American Marriage

by Chad Kultgen

  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, th
e 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.

  chapter twenty-seven

  Demands Are Made

  Alyna has invited me back to my own house for dinner. I’m looking forward to seeing the kids, but when I show up they’re not home. Alyna says she left them with Isabelle for the night. I know it seems highly unlikely, but some part of me hopes she’s going to initiate some crazy night of sex in order to win me back by proving to me that I don’t need to be fucking people outside the relationship, that she’s somehow transformed herself back into the insatiable woman she was when we met.

  She says, “I made chicken. I hope that’s okay.” She’s being extremely civil. It’s clearly forced. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. It feels like she’s purposely trying to trick me into letting my guard down, and then she’s going to have some guy come out and club me on the head or something.

  I say, “Yeah. I like your chicken.”

  We walk into my dining room, which we used maybe once or twice before all of this shit happened. The table is set with the good plates, which we also only used once or twice before all this shit went down. I’m starting to think that maybe my raunchy fuckfest idea was dead on the money. I wonder if she’ll let me fuck her in the ass. The only pussy I’ve gotten for a while now has been Holly’s, and although she’s clearly in better shape than Alyna, the allure of something different is always strong. My wife has become the something different. I imagine sliding
my dick into her asshole and squeezing her fat ass. It appeals to me more than I ever thought it would.

  Then I realize that I’ve totally forgotten about my vasectomy. It’s only been six days. I decide that, if the shit starts going down, I’ll throw caution to the wind. I haven’t had any abnormal pain since the operation. Like Dr. Klein said, I’m young enough. I should be fine.

  I sit down at one end of the dining room table and Alyna pours some wine for us both. We’re definitely fucking. She only drinks wine when she wants to fuck. We take our glasses and she raises hers and says, “Cheers.”

  I say, “To what?”

  She says, “Uh . . . how about to figuring things out?”

  I was hoping for something more along the lines of “To showing you I can still be the filthy cock-whore you married five years ago,” but at least it’s a step toward that possibility. I say, “Cheers to figuring things out.”

  We take a sip and she says, “Let me get dinner.”

  She brings out two salads and two plates of chicken and vegetables. Before I take the first bite, a brief and insane thought flashes through my mind that she might be poisoning me. I wonder if I should tell her my fork is dirty and ask her to get me another one, and then switch our plates when she goes back into the kitchen. She cuts a piece of chicken. It’s too late. She’d notice the whole chicken on her plate if I switched them. Fuck it. I take a bite. Tastes fine.

  She says, “So, thanks for coming over.”

  I say, “Thanks for having me.” It’s weird. This forced politeness in my own fucking house is starting to get to me. I want to cut through the shit and just ask her why she invited me over, but I don’t want to ruin whatever she’s got going on in case it is the fuckfest.

  We talk about innocuous shit—my job, how the kids are doing, fucking American Idol—as we polish off the first bottle of wine. I can tell she’s a little buzzed, and this only strengthens my theory that she wants to get fucked tonight, that she’s seen the error of her ways and maybe she hasn’t forgiven me for anything that’s happened but she recognizes her role in why it happened.