by Ann Dunn
The arcane weekend was starting to spook me right out of my wicked black boots! Why I did not run out of the scary place screaming and crying—I will never know to this day. There was a voice in my head that kept repeating, “Not okay, not okay” over and over again. I never acted on my feelings of flight, I simply stood there quietly buckled in for a wild ride.
We walked toward the back of the building, and there was a nude dancer in a room surrounded by glass. She introduced herself as Misty. Miss Misty weighed about ninety pounds and had fried bleached-blond hair. She had breast implants that looked like triple-f balloons. Her boobs looked like skin colored inflatables on her chest that were about to pop. Misty was the poster stripper for what not to ask for at your local plastic surgeon’s office. We had to pay with coins to have her dance for us. I don't think that those women ever had a chance of graduating to the velour couches of the champagne room. Trent had to keep putting quarters in the slot to keep the shield from coming up and blocking our view. It was chilling. It may sound naïve, but I never thought anything like that antiquated contraption actually existed in real life.
The scene we were in felt like a macabre movie and the killer with the chain saw was going jump out at us any minute. Then my parents would find out I was in that devious place. I could just see the newspaper headlines scrolling across my mind: “The totally inappropriate vacationers were murdered in our local sin store!” I did not want to be alive in there—much less dead! Yuck, the whole outing was too much for one woman to take during an evening, or even a lifetime—for that matter.
The topless dancer seemed helpless, as her legs slowly dragged across the dusty floor. Part of me wanted to bang on the glass and yell at her to get out of there. I wanted to dump out my purse and give her the bus money she needed to go back to Montana. My maternal side was kicking in overdrive. She was someone’s daughter, and I am sure somebody, someplace loved her, kept flooding downstream in my horrified mind. The dark store had such a heavy air of despair.
The walls had a story to tell and I could sense the heaviness of the drywall wanting so badly to spill its veiled secrets. As soon as my big toe entered the building, I realized I was in a place that I shouldn't be. I can only imagine the darkness that falls on that establishment on as soon as the sun fades into the horizon. I felt dirty for being in there for the short time spent inside those doors. I wanted to jump into a bottle of hand sanitizer and scrub all of the shame off of me! I had to consider what could have happened to the women working in the sex shop. How could a desolate place like that become a destination for them? I am sure those women working in there were thinking the identical thing of me as well, "Why was that nice woman in here with that perverted guy?” The view is always different depending on what side of the window you are peeking out of.
9). Jimmy
I realize that my saucy side attracted the wrong types—like flies to a key lime pie sitting in the middle of a picnic table. I was born crushing on the wrong type of guys. In the first grade, I had my very first crush. Jimmy was his name, and he was a wild boy with frizziest blond hair. Jimmy was the first bad boy I had ever laid eyes on. He raked his metal lunch box across the chain link fences all the way to school—so badass to me back in the day. I would follow behind him, hoping that he would notice me. He never did. That only made me want him more. Even back then I had a thing for the hard-to-get, rotten ones!
All I really ever wanted was a man with a pinch of a naughty side and a heaping helping of overflowing goodness. I wished for an edgy guy who was a “salt of the earth” type. I would uncover “over the span of a few decades” that the man I wished for was an extinct mythical creature that only lived in my imagination—either that or he’s already married.
Trent turned up the heat early on in our relationship and what I failed to do was beware and tread lightly. Of course, that’s not programmed in my genetic code. So, I rapidly leaped forward. Trent experienced situations outside of what is considered sexually mainstream, and because of that, he ultimately opened a Pandora's Box of forbidden pleasure. He sure cracked that funk-box wide open! Therefore, it was hard for him to be satisfied with only one person entertaining him in the middle of the box spring.
A traditional married sex life may have never been enough to satisfy Trent’s desires. The thrills need to keep getting bigger and better for people who are into a multicolored cornucopia of skin spread out on a sexual smorgasbord. The kinky price tag just kept getting more expensive. For me personally, it’s impossible to love someone with my whole soul and get my “funky girl” on with someone else. I could never see myself looking at the man I love with stars in my eyes and knocking boots with some random, hot, young buck at the same time—looks good on paper though. Sure, in fantasy lane it's all fun and games, but no man is pinning the tail on my donkey with other people watching!
I suppose there must have been a mental separation that Trent embodied to be able to play sex games in such a way that it altered his sexual appetite. I can't imagine saying to my husband, “As soon as I finish up with him sweetie, you’re next.” “And, by the way, while you are down in my taffy-town, would you mind wiping that hot dude’s cooties off me?” I’m just saying—it’s not my thing. My mental capacity does not have the ability to emotionally de-compartmentalize that type of arrangement. My heart is way too sensitive for the "lifestyle" that so many horny lovers relish in.
As it turns out, I am definitely more bark than bite. I honestly can't fault Trent for turning his fantasies into reality. I just knew he never lived in my reality, and I would never live in his fantasy. Trent wanted to be a one woman kind of guy in the worst way. I just don't think that was possible for him. He loved the idea of being smack dab in the middle of some obscene sexual limelight. Part of the trouble was that he had crossed the coital line enough times that it had changed the hardwiring in his brain. Walking back into the normal procreative light may have been too mundane a task for a man who had sped down route sixty-nine ways too many times.
10). Hooker Lady
I awoke one morning after a terrible dream warned me that something wicked was headed my way. In it, I had a vision of me finding an upsetting yellow letter in our mailbox. The nightmare left me with a very real and lingering feeling of dread that I could not shake. It was one of those dreams that I have experienced early in the morning right before I wake up. The vision haunted me in my waking hours. I felt a heavy sense that evil was blowing right into our lives. I had no clue as to what was coming or why.
A few days later, I woke up in the middle of the night and did not find Trent sleeping next to me. I snuck quietly downstairs and caught him in the office with his pants down. He had disgusting massage oil all over him and was deeply entrenched in some type of sex website. He was doing something majorly icky with strangers. We ended up in an explosive fight that blew the shutters off the house.
From that point on, I constantly found myself snooping around Trent's computer every chance I got. I just knew he had to be hiding more nastiness from me. Unfortunately, I found that Trent had emailed a naked picture of his beige boner to a woman who lived in our city. I wanted to vomit all over his desk and take a shredder to all of his belongings. The trashy-looking woman had a tacky, yellow sex website. So there it was, precisely in front of me—the yellow piece of my dream actually materialized before me on Trent's crusty computer screen.
In a panic, I confronted Trent over my disgusting discovery. He told me it was no big deal and to get over myself. Trent said the woman pissed him off. So, he sent over a picture of his low-ranking pencil to mess with her. That was such bullshit! Really, it's not like I would send strange men pictures of my shaved buttercup if I got ticked off at them! A married man did not deserve a wife if he was pulling those types of outlandish stunts.
A few weeks went by, and I was still coughing up blood-soaked feathers from my bird cage being rattled. Trent and I fell asleep together once again, and hours later, I shot right out of bed like a rock
et. I was in the middle a horrible nightmare that black snakes were surrounding my feet! I was hitting the sheets before my eyes even opened— the dream was so vivid. I could feel the heaviness of the snakes twirling around my ankles. I automatically hit the left side of the bed with my arm and it fell into emptiness. Trent was gone. I flew downstairs to find my resident pervert on a live sex site that had a black snake as the main logo. It was as if my subconscious was screaming, “Wake up from denial town, girlfriend!” The entire thing was surreal to me. He was such a sneaky guy who had me on eggshells even in my sleep. It was a terrible omen that my dreams had to make me aware of the problems that affected me in my waking hours.
Much to my horror, I would wake up quite often and not find Trent in bed with me, but online and virtually sexing it up with strangers. He even had a webcam so that he could put on amateur live sex shows when I wasn't home. I reluctantly became a part-time investigator in my own marriage. Trent thought it was nothing and was angry at me for being upset with him. I felt stabbed in the heart. He had met me online, so naturally I felt threatened by his behavior. There was nothing stopping him from meeting local sex partners behind my back.
I knew there had to be more dirt on that mysterious whore lady. So, I went through the garage and snooped inside his suitcase. I found his video camera hidden inside of an old white shirt. I was a nervous wreck when I ran inside to plug the damn thing in. I sat at the kitchen table watching Trent, some skank bitch, and a gross middle-age man having sex in a cheap hotel room. They were actually taking turns screwing her while the other one watched! I was hysterical, not laughing, but rather, crying! I threw the camera down on the Italian tile and it smashed to plastic smithereens. I sat there with a chilling numbness until Trent came home from his softball game. He said the threesome happened way before we ever met. He was pissed off that I broke the video camera, and I was outraged over seeing him behaving like a full-fledged human sausage and loving his three-way action. There was no way that I could lie to myself anymore about his torrid past after witnessing that video firsthand.
Trent’s past was garishly decorated with random sex encounters at human swap-shops. He frequented sex clubs in South Florida as a part of his normal weekend routine—before I came trotting along. I never understood that, because he was not blessed with a spectacular member or anything. The visual of him walking around naked in those secret clubs like a proud peacock seemed curiously odd to me. If I were a man, I’d never prance around in my birthday suit in public unless my Johnson was slapping both sides of my knees. Apparently, Trent wished he still was living the naked life during our disastrous new marriage. He promised me, with tears in his eyes, that he was over that phase of his “sex obsessed” life.
I daydreamed about more children, family cookouts, and theme park vacations. I wanted to skip down Main Street in Disney World at midnight, holding hands and sniffing cotton candy. Oh, and I also wished for a passionate sex life. Unfortunately, the naked ghosts from Trent’s past rolled around in our king-sized bed with us! Our minds and genitals were in very different places, and yet we were sleeping under the same golden comforter.
Nothing in my life made sense anymore. That empty excuse of a man had ruined my life, one porn experience at a time. How could I ever feel secure with him again? I was vulnerable and afraid. I was not able to love Trent with all of myself. I could not shake the fact that someone I committed my life to was as void of human emotion as he was. Trent never really loved me. He was only caught up in an illusion of having a wife and a daughter. He wanted to force us to fit inside of his make-believe life.
11).Wench
In a last minute attempt to save our drowning marriage, Trent and I went to church instead of taking a mini vacation. I felt myself being pulled under water as we walked into the church. The last bubbles of oxygen I had left escaped my nostrils and floated upward, tickling my eyelashes. I was submerged in a roaring religious river—right in the middle of broad daylight. The outing was a transparent plea to appease me, rather than a life changing excursion for Trent. The church field trip was a full on holy disappointment. Trent felt that he needed to confess his sins of the flesh.
Trent followed Father Murphy into his sanctuary like a five-year-old boy. I felt like a basket of wilted Gerber daisies as I sat on the bench waiting for him. Mere moments later, Trent walked out of the priest's office with the weight of his dark clouds lifted off his shoulders. Trent headed my way at a fast clip, sporting a smile across his face. He was smiling at me as if he had huge flipping white plastic angel wings stapled to his back. Going across my mind was, Oh no, what just happened in there? That monstrosity had years of screwed-up shit that he needed to purge. Trent told me that he just "confessed" to the man of the cloth, telling him that he did a lot of questionable things in his torrid past. The priest said he was forgiven! I said, "Did you tell him about all of the sick shit you did?" Trent informed me that he was not asked to give any details about his actions. I could feel my stomach melting like wax in a microwave as he explained what had transpired. I wanted him to boil in a giant, murky lobster pot of confessions! Where the heck was the gloomy, black confession box? I think the priest should have sold us a used confession box that he may have had hidden somewhere in the back. Shoot, we could have kept it at our house, right next to his cum-encrusted webcam. Lord knows, we could have used one of those black boxes at our house!
Not to be an evil wench, but I did want him to feel some sort of pain or remorse. Why would he ever change if it was that easy to obtain a “get out of jail free” card? I thought my butt would at least have gone numb waiting hours as he spilled his sour jelly beans all over the sacred floor. Trent could have been in there for weeks with stories of all the sickening penis poking he committed. However, he totally got off the hook like a sneaky water moccasin and slithered away beneath the holy water. I wanted him to be punished by his very own dirty tongue. Wishing something and reality are two different animals. Those two polar-opposite species would never meet—especially between a priest and a swinger.
12). Apples
I had not one ounce of respect left for Trent—not even in the trunk of my car. I could not stand to look at his face any longer. When I glared at him, I could not help but to fixate on his flaws. So, loathing him was as easy as slicing warm butter. I was afraid of him. Trying to build trust again with Trent was an ice-covered glacier that was unfathomable to climb with a pair of rubber flip-flops on.
My subconscious was in overdrive with Trent and my dreams and actions were simply warnings in order to protect myself. Sometimes, I have wanted something or someone so bad, that I have had a one-track mind and would not heed warnings until it found its way into my clutches. I will admit that, when it came to protecting myself, I got in my own way where Trent was concerned. The danger signs in our relationship kept popping up everywhere. It was kind of like bobbing for apples with him. There would always be one more apple popping up in the murky, spit-filled water bucket.
Trent was no dandy when it came to spending money. He should have worn a tarnished, gold-plated, necklace that said “Cheapskate.” I have uncovered my own crackpot correlation between men who are tight with money and those who are openly gregarious. Men who keep their wallets zipped up in their pockets seem to keep their hearts under lock and key as well. The guys who are free flowing with money have a tendency to be kind and bighearted. It’s not rocket science here, but rather an insight gathered from my honorary Master’s degree in the hard-knock's classroom of love.
Trent taught me a huge lesson about how penny- pincher men can equal a thrifty life of pure psychological torture. Cheapness can extend outward like poisonous tentacles into every facet of a female’s existence. I am extremely careful these days if I sniff out any tightwad action. I was a scorned woman who blew off the cheap guy warning signs. I subsequently paid an expensive price for being with an emotionally cheap man!
In a weak moment during our final days, Trent confessed to me that he fo
und a hardcore sex magazine when he was a kid. Some piece of his brain must have become fixated on the heavy-duty stuff and he could not shake it. I could have tried to figure him out for the rest of my life, but then I would have lost my own way. Everything Trent did started to rub me with an indescribable rawness. It was the kind of effect that nails on a chalkboard has, except it scratches away at your soul.
Nothing is one hundred percent—especially in love. Maybe the not-knowing is part of the equation is what keeps me on my toes. What I know now is: when an empty relationship boat sails away, I need to save myself and throw myself overboard. Trying to save something that has already mustered off was a total waste of time. I could never fix the emptiness of Trent's emotion to my liking, no matter how hard I tried, not ever!
Our depraved and twisted marriage ship had sunk for good. The damaged vessel was filled with used sex toys and two broken hearts—or maybe only one? I actually think that ship left the dock on our very first date. Our marriage was a war zone, blown to smithereens by grenades filled with anger and fear. We had one last, big battle over something trivial, but the frazzled camel's back had finally snapped for good. I ran out of the front door in the middle of a rainstorm as if it was for dear life—and in retrospect it was.
My heart could not take any more pain from that shell of a man. I did make a commitment to Trent. However, the price was too high in that game of love to stick around and see another day unfold. Our internet marriage was finally over; the judge had granted us our coveted divorce. The last time I ever saw Trent he was walking out of the courtroom doors. I made sure I was walking ahead of him in some strange race to get to the parking lot first. I did feel an immense relief to have him emotionally and legally out of my life for good. I cried a lifetime's worth of tears over a man who would always love his penis more than me.