Husband Dot Com

by Ann Dunn

  Trent had secrets—dark ones. I had previously witnessed Trent's well-disguised skeletons long before our big steel bird ever touched its wheels down on Lady Luck’s infamous runway.

  5). Veronica

  I knew Trent had had a dirty laundry list of indiscretions from his past in the "Lifestyle." That means "swinging" for any good-girl-types that may not be following my rhinestone breadcrumbs. I did not even know what in the heckfire that word meant until I met Trent. Better yet, I seriously though it described people who were into nudity and hung their fleshy appendages out on nude beaches in seemingly exotic locales. I genuinely thought the "Lifestyle" was all about naturalists who got their kicks by tanning their white butt cheeks in public places. In my mind, they were a modern-day tribe of like-minded souls who roamed the earth in search of perfect-wide open spaces to gloriously spread eagle. It was my naive belief that their only goal was to show off their flesh-colored hardware. Well, boy was I ever wrong about that one! Apparently, I must have lived under a giant coral rock a thousand feet below sea level? How could a swanky Florida native like me not have known the code words for swinging?

  Trent's swinging buck naked from the chandeliers past was old news, or so I thought. I was a foolish girl who tricked my heart into believing that I would be his shiny new future. Nothing like a good sprinkling of denial to get a fabulous relationship off the ground! My cheap, plastic magic wand was apparently cracked and broken. I couldn't seem to get the fairy glitter to evenly dispense all over my nonsensical life. Where is a delightful fairy godmother when you need her, anyway? Maybe, I should have been trolling around online looking for fairy godmothers instead of husbands? Seriously, I forgot to ponder the crucial piece of Trent that must have really gotten his rocks off by swinging in the first place. That chunk of him did not vanish into thin air because he wanted an instant family. If big, smoking sex stacks of humans made Trent's one-eyed worm wink, then how could I ever compete? I was only one person with two ta-ta’s, and one kitty, for that matter. I was spray painting outrageous amounts of denial all over my life with a ten foot pressure washer. Just call me the ultimate queen of pick-and-choose reality.

  So, flashing back to Reno now and our wedding-day drama. My mom and I were in the hotel spa having our hair glamorized—in true bridal fashion. The pretty stylist that worked on my hair was named Veronica. She had immense chocolate-brown eyes and the most mesmerizing voice I’d ever heard. Veronica must have moonlighted on the psychic girl’s channel. Not only did she blow out my hair, but she thoroughly blew my mind. She was halfway through giving me the most rocking style of my life, when she blurted out of nowhere, "You don't have to go through with the wedding." I could have levitated right out of her chair and knocked myself out on the hairspray-covered ceiling.

  I looked at her and turned as grey as her hot rollers. Holy, golden hairbrush—that woman can see right through me! streamed across my brain like an emergency thunderstorm warning on a used television set. Her fingers must have been swimming around inside my delirious brain picking apart my conscience. My mind started racing and I felt a sudden surge of anxiety. She was saying out loud and in unison, with what I had already been thinking all along—confirming all of my deepest fears. Psychic girl must have had a magic, purple turban and a crystal ball hidden behind the manicure stations. I felt sideswiped by my bewitching stylist and her clairvoyant insights. I had to wonder if a supernatural force was working against me to stop our wedding. I felt horrible after my gypsy collision crystallized my reality.

  I was preparing to walk the wedding-day plank. The upside of the whole crazy ordeal was that my hair looked impeccable for my front-row public hanging at the hotel chapel. My single-gal days were rapidly nearing their expiration date. My mom and I left the salon together and my impending doom was near. Tick tock, tick tock, the unforgiving clock was breathing heavily down my neck. The shadows of darkness were closing in on me as I rushed to finish getting ready. The bridal game plan was that my mom and I were going to meet up in her room, as soon as I grabbed my dress from the lion’s den. Sounded easy enough for any normal bride to be, but I was no normal bride. My mom’s job was to somehow find a way to squeeze me into my super tacky, princess wedding dress.

  I was still so sideswiped after my psychic hair experience that I got off on the wrong floor with my puffy wedding dress in tow. It took a few moments for me to realize that my karmic compass was broken as my hand was banging on the wrong hotel door and screaming, “Mom, open up, over and over again”. It felt like I was in some barren abandoned land—everything was blurred. All of the floors were identical, except for the room numbers, and there was not a human being to be found. I started to hyperventilate and my limbs felt heavy. I was at the wrong door, in the middle of a mini meltdown, and then out of nowhere, I had a calm moment that came over me like a cool breeze. It was a momentary break in total chaos and I could breathe again. In my new, Zen-like state, I had a possible revelation about my fate. Could banging on the wrong door have a much deeper meaning? I had to acknowledge the irony of my screw-up. God may have had a hand in my lost downward spiral. Maybe the surreal experience was an attempted bridal intervention from a much more divine and enlightened place.

  It took a second to clear my mind, ignore my higher self, and make those inconvenient thoughts simply disappear. The mere thought that God may have played a part in trying to destroy our wedding was not included on my to-do-list that afternoon. I conveniently changed the radio station in my brain to easy listening for my checked-out-enjoyment. Hitting the down button in the elevator on the way to my mom's room was almost painless. Maybe my guardian angel was sitting on my shoulder slapping me around a bit? I heard the dreadful warning whispering to me from my long lost conscious, "Wrong door, equals wrong man, Honey." I needed to get hit with a nail- encrusted-two-by-four to get the picture! The roadblocks I bumped into that day were in no way coincidental. However, I did not have time to heed any supernatural signs. I was getting married in a few hours—no matter what! We were headed straight to the chapel to say our "I Dos”. I was going to walk down to that alter naked with “something blue” pasties on if I had to!

  I actually indulged myself in the twisted concept that being married and divorced was a far better option than never being married at all. I was afraid that I’d become the over-the-hill lady, with the darkened door step, and a “I love my thousand fur balls” bumper sticker stuck on my wood paneled station wagon—not happening. I did not want that kind of dreadful fate for myself.

  The flipping, white wedding-bell train I was riding on had already left the station and she was racing out of control—the brakes were entirely gone. It seemed more difficult for me to tell my family and friends that I had made a terrible mistake, than to call off our wedding at the last minute. The mere thought of sending back all of my bridal shower gifts would be a disgrace. I set a towering bear trap for myself. I did not have the courage to free myself from my own metal claws. I could see my disaster unfolding in slow motion on the side of the road and yet I witnessed it all going down like an innocent bystander and certainly not the leading lady.

  Not to mention, my dad was beaming with pride. That fact only added to my tainted bouquet of guilt and confusion. I could not stand the thought of letting him down. He might have beaten the shit noodles out of Trent if he knew how badly he was treating me. My mom didn’t give a hoot about the path I took, as long as she was still given free rein to shop at the Silver Legacy’s gift store. I could live the rest of my life single and she would not care either way. Although, I knew she took comfort in the idea of Hope and I being settled in a family of our own. However, any path I decided to take she would graciously accept with open arms. Well, not any path, because if she had any inkling of what a holy terror Trent had become, she would have burned my wedding dress right in the middle of the hotel lobby.

  I reluctantly strolled across the rose-petal aisle of fleeting bridal bliss. I slowly sauntered down the black carpet of love, with
a numb sensation of mild anticipation. I looked the part of a half-cocked bride on our wedding day. Hope looked like a perfect angel. I was trying to sell myself on the grand idea that Trent had it in him to be a devoted husband and father. My diluted haze of denial lasted right up to the moment I rubbed elbows with our rent-a-minister.

  The emptiness inside of me could not escape through my pores because of my heavy doomsday facial powder. My made-up face was a mask that only disguised my true fears. The emptiness of blank space lingered with me throughout the day—like a mild case of food poisoning. The graceful glow that a bride radiates was not kindly bestowed upon me. Even though I could have held my own in a room full of “almost” middle-aged brides—I did not own it. The only pose I could muster up was a half-cocked, mauve lip-glossed smile and a stunned look on my pliable Botox-free face. The lines on my eyebrows resembled confused ivory question marks the entire day. I tried to smile my way through the reception and failed miserably. I wanted so badly to resonate with the happiness that everyone else wished for us, but it did not belong to us.

  I was desperately yearning in my heart of hearts that our marriage would somehow miraculously work out in the end. Making wishes and throwing silver dollars in the casino’s water fountain could not have rescued us. I was crossing my fingers that the genie inside my water bottle had enough muscle to grant us a wish of eternal love.

  What Trent and I had for each other could be called anything but admiration and compassion; it may as well have been some love-lost island in Indonesia. Possibly, what we had was a severe case of infatuation, or a heavy dose of wanting a lifetime companion. The essential ingredients we needed to bake a long and happy life-cake together were still waiting in the checkout line of the grocery store. In all fairness, we felt strongly about being a couple for shallow and self-serving reasons. Trent was ten years older than me. I am sure he did not want to spend the rest of his days trolling around online for love. I could also bet that he was not looking forward to being the old guy who hits on the nurse and slaps the candy striper's ass in a dingy nursing home. Shoot, I didn't want to be that person either. We had an extremely misguided insight as to what it took to spend the rest of eternity together. I am sure that we each had similar motivations for getting hitched that initially stemmed from the right place, but then it slowly grew into an out-of- control cactus with ultra-sharp thorns.

  We stayed in Reno for a week after the wedding and we tried to have a normal honeymoon situation. Maybe, if Trent had more junk in the zipper department the sex sparks would have illuminated the sky high above our honeymoon suite. Our post-wedding sex left me with something to be desired—like a cluster of muscle spasms. I would have enjoyed sitting poolside and gazing at plastic palm trees much more than hanging out with Trent’s lackluster penis. On top of that, anything was a better option than looking at Trent's hairy back in the hotel shower—I mean anything. Gosh, why did I not see all those pubic hairs on his back before I said yes? That was proof that love really does make you blind! Although, we did have some decent postcard-worthy moments together on the subtropical sand—we fell short of reaching a euphoric state that may have catapulted us into the dreamy castle in the clouds known as forever bliss.

  Upon leaving Reno and heading to the airport, I found myself daydreaming about taking a quick detour back to the courthouse. I secretly wanted to run back to the clerk and say, kind lady, would it be too much trouble for you to seek and destroy our marriage license—we were just kidding? Or better yet, ask her if she has a huge can of white spray paint on hand, so that we could make that whole silly marriage idea simply disappear? What my heart was screaming for on the inside was an external roadmap for happiness. Instead, I got sidetracked in a tiny backroom of marriage purgatory—without a map!

  Our friendly airplane wheels touched down on the piping-hot Ft. Lauderdale asphalt—home sweet Hell. We arrived home and I could have kissed the sweltering ground. One of the first and most heartwarming things Trent said to me when we got home was, "You better not start packing on the pounds now that we are married." We were only home one day when the rude comments started to fly across the room. Who says such cutting and cruel crap to a woman he is pretending to love? He could have at least waited a month or so before he started verbally trashing me.

  Was our marriage even a legal marriage anyway? Like the urban legend says, "What happens at the craps table—stays at the craps table." I was daydreaming that maybe the same motto could have been applied to our Cracker-Jack marriage. No way was I that damn lucky. My brain burp was over and my mental commercial break had ended. I was forcefully thrust back into my icky, self-inflicted reality. I had the cruel realization that I was legally married and royally screwed. That thought flooded quickly over my post-honeymoon, over-nourished, buffet-loving body—like a swarm of rabid locusts. I was gasping for all the calorie-free air that I could fill into my distended lungs. That terrible sinking sensation that I’d gotten myself stuck right in the middle of a keg filled with concrete and cayenne pepper completely deluged me. No come-hither high heeled maneuvers or covert lipstick missions could fix the ring-on-my-left-finger dilemma.

  Shoot, why are good guys so hard to find? Maybe I would have had better luck finding the Loch Ness Monster wearing a purple bathing suit in my swimming pool rather than finding a suitable man online?

  I stubbornly dug in my heels and tried to make it work with Trent. Our marriage was new and I kept hearing from everyone that the first year is the hardest. Okay, living with him was like training for an emotional Iron Woman Triathlon. I remember thinking, Holy shit dazzle, how do people stay married for any length of time—this marriage crap is way too hard? One of the Seven Wonders of the World should be marriage and not oddly shaped rock formations.

  Trent and I needed a few truckloads of Super Glue to try to salvage our broken relationship, but instead we made plans for a quick road trip. It was to try and help gloss over our rocky adjustment period. The excursion Trent and I went on should have been called the newlywed field day of freaks, if nothing else.

  6). Rex

  Being open minded and freewheeling beyond my normal threshold of sexiness for Trent was at times tricky for me. It was very much like juggling red Jell-O shots, naked in my front yard—it wasn’t happening for me at all. So, off we went for a relaxing weekend in Key West with my fluffy tail curled between my legs. This particular getaway was a side show—to say the very least. In our usual mode of operation, we had to search the seaside city’s garden-variety adult stores. We were so predictable on our quest for anything sexually racy that it was downright shameful. Every vacation had to have some type of a sexual theme to it. I will call this road trip "The Green Monster Weekend."

  We walked into the novelty store and looked around until Trent spotted him. He was a Herculean lime-green vibrator, perched on his cardboard throne. The name on his box should have read” Vibrateasaurous Rex." The only things he was missing were teeth and a tail! I was not sure if the toy was even made for humans to use. The warning sticker should have had skull and crossbones on it! The brown paper bag was not even large enough to conceal the green beast. It would have been in the best interest of the store to have made us sign a hold-harmless waiver before we left with him in tow. Trent carried him out of the store. I had already reached my humiliation threshold for the day.

  The big question of the day was who was the monster really for, me or Trent? He seemed a little overly excited over finding him. I found that to be slightly curious. He acted as though he had won a grand on a scratch-off ticket when we left with him—one word, weird. I was left to ponder if men are embarrassed shopping for plastic dicks while gazing into their sweetheart’s eyes. It's the exactly same thing as saying, My limp wiener schnitzel does not do the trick for her; we need some backup over here—call in the plastic troops." Wouldn't your average dude seem emasculated looking for man-made ding-a-lings with his best girl? Even worse, maybe it's the man's way of passively saying, "I love plastic dildo
's that tickle my fancy, but I will pretend it's all for you, honey.” I'm starting to suspect that I may have been the "honey" a few times in my dildo loving life. Maybe men-folk browse through these novelty stores holding hands with their loves, looking for their own objects of desire under the guise of couple time—another word, freaky.

  Plastic, ding-dongs didn’t have the true muscle to keep me satisfied for the long haul—or do they? Oh shit, who cares, I think I am allergic to plastic anyway. Toys were the ammunition I abused with Trent to catapult me to new heights. I would start to get some momentum going right out of the cannon and then I would get cut off mid-flight between the sheets and come crashing down time after time with Trent.

  We found ourselves at a beachfront hotel in the Key’s. Our salty oasis, three-star room overlooked the beautifully shark-infested Gulf of Mexico. The room was decked to the hilt with tacky bird-of-paradise comforters and bamboo furniture. The few moments we spent on the balcony outside our room were the only half-ass romantic part of the trip.

  We were diligently trying to prove the myth of hotel sex being the best. The only moon watching that was happening that evening was the beastly green vibrator being used all over the bamboo bed. We tried every sexual position possible with that wacky thing. I am surprised that we did not crack it in half! Right in the middle of the extravaganza, I was even rubbing it on Trent, without any complaints—I might say. It did intrigue me to see how far I could push the rubber envelope with him. If that wasn't enough to make me delirious, Trent had the stupid thing on high speed—all night. I am surprised the vacationers in the rooms next to us were not banging on the walls, screaming, "shut up!” I am sure their ears were glued to the wall listening to all of our tantalizing noises that were drowning out the ocean breeze—and thinking what the hell is going on in there?