I'm George, mwm, 52

by George Everyman

  I'm George, mwm, 52

  Title Page

  Chapter 1: Getting Started

  Chapter 2: The Encounter

  Chapter 3: Alone with Abby, Post Encounter

  Chapter 4: Some Reflections on Abby

  Chapter 5: Lara

  Chapter 6: My Take on Societal Evolution

  Chapter 7: Back to Abby, and Let's Meet Deborah and Edith

  Chapter 8: Dewayne Does the Dirty Deed

  Chapter 9: Lara turns up the Heat

  Chapter 10: Back to Dewayne

  Chapter 11: The Epiphany

  Chapter 12: Making Sure Things Are Clear

  Chapter 13: The Aftermath, or How Are George and Abby Faring?

  Chapter 14: The Paintings

  Chapter 15: Why Did We Get Married Again?

  Chapter 16: More on Dewayne and His Two Wives

  Chapter 17: Some Ironies

  Chapter 18: My Feelings Are Hurt

  Chapter 19: I Talk to Kimberly

  Chapter 20: The Diatribe

  Chapter 21: Rainy Day and Lara

  Chapter 22: Why Does Abby Always Do the Man vs. Woman Thing?

  Chapter 23: What to Do About Kim

  Chapter 24: The Little Man in My Brain Kicks up the Volume

  Chapter 25: Kim Responds

  Chapter 26: Major Fight with Abby

  Chapter 27: Filling In Some Blanks

  Chapter 28: Kim Keeps Talking

  Chapter 29: Racial Slurs

  Chapter 30: The Girl Who Gave Me LSD and Something Else

  Chapter 31: Some Random Thoughts

  Chapter 32: The Super Brain Theory

  Chapter 33: Using the Super Brain to Try and Nail Kim

  Chapter 34: More on Me and Abby

  Chapter 35: I Call Dewayne

  Chapter 36: More on Home Life with a Major Digression

  Chapter 37: Abby's Lust and an Apology

  Chapter 38: A breather

  Chapter 39: Some Random Thoughts about Lust

  Chapter 40: I'm Glad; a Very Short Chapter

  Chapter 41: Our Anniversary

  Chapter 42: The Party

  Chapter 43: Abby Being Nice to Me

  Chapter 44: Dewayne Asks Abby to Ride, Sort of

  Chapter 45: Who Told Who What and When

  Chapter 46: A Serious Aside

  Chapter 47: Back to After the Ride

  Chapter 48: So what's the Big Deal?

  Chapter 49: Thinking of Lara, Not so Often and Not as Kindly

  Chapter 50: The Discussion

  Chapter 51: Kim Calls, Again

  Chapter 52: Dewayne Calls

  Chapter 53: My First Date with Kim

  Chapter 54: Morality and Obscenity, a Digressive Chapter

  Chapter 55: Dewayne Stops By

  Chapter 56: The Weekend

  Chapter 57: BBQ, or Taking a Break from Kim and Dewayne for a Bit

  Chapter 58: Abby's Family

  Chapter 59: Back Down South

  Chapter 60: Giving it a Rest

  Chapter 61: The Tri, the Internet, and the Ever so Cool Dewayne

  Chapter 62: The Hero Returns

  Chapter 63: The Bike, and Money in General

  Chapter 64: An Obvious Irony

  Chapter 65: Gay Marriage

  Chapter 66: An Admission

  Chapter 67: Juices Are Flowing

  Chapter 68: Do I Want Kim or Edith More?

  Chapter 69: Players

  Chapter 70: Edith Sends another Email

  Chapter 71: Edith and Me at the Bar

  Chapter 72: Typical Sunday

  Chapter 73: Kim Changes Her Mind and Edith Wants to Walk

  Chapter 74: The Walk and Talk

  Chapter 75: Sinking Fast

  Chapter 76: Kim Responds

  Chapter 77: Or so I Thought

  Chapter 78: Kim's Information

  Chapter 79: Rethinking Open Marriage? Not

  Chapter 80: The Really, Really Bad Dream

  Chapter 81: Some Apologies

  Chapter 82: Wrapping This All in a Nice Neat Bundle

  Chapter 83: The End, for Now

  I'm George, mwm, 52

  by

  George

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  George on Smashwords

  I'm George, mwm 52

  Copyright © 2011 by George

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Chapter 1: Getting Started

  I'm George, mwm, 52, 5-10, 145 lbs, average looking, I guess. Abby, my wife, is 48, 5-4, 104 lbs, blue eyes, quite pretty, and she turns more than just my head, as you will soon find out.

  We've been married twenty four years and most of the marriage has been what most people would probably call happy, but keep in mind that there's always more to the equation than what floats on the surface.

  If I had to pick out what is best about us, it would be that we say 'fuck' a lot. Not that we actually fuck all that much, but at least we sit around and shoot the shit and everything is 'fuck this' or 'fuck that'. It's kind of nice when you can sit down with your spouse and just say whatever you think or feel and not be overly concerned that they will take offense and get all pissed off and create some kind of big issue over some random words that, when you think about it, are really just imperfect representations of thoughts and emotions anyway.

  I've never liked to hold things back, and Abby is that way on steroids. She's a lot more careful when other people are around, but when it's just me and her, I can expect a whole lot of shit to come flying out of her mouth, and I like that.

  Abby comes from a Northeastern Catholic family, and that's where she gets her beautifully foul mouth. I'm from the South and I've learned to keep the conversation relatively clean, in most cases, down here. On the other hand, when we're up there, it's pretty much say whatever the hell you want, even around the kids, and nobody blinks an eye. I think it's better that way. Kids up there learn early on that the thoughts and meanings behind the words are important, but not the actual words themselves.

  By the way, I digress a lot. It's kind of like reflection I guess. I get going on something and then I feel this need to reflect back on something else for perspective. Or maybe it's a mechanism to slow things down so that I can absorb what is going on in the present tense, since I try to absorb all that I can in a situation. I mean I really try to absorb it all. I want to take in everything. What everyone is saying is just the surface. I want to try and pick up on what they are feeling. Not that I want to try and read their minds or penetrate their defenses, I just want to tap into their positive energy because I'm basically a positive person. To me it's simply a practical matter. I figure that I can only have one emotion at a time, and any time I waste hating anyone or being pissed off or annoyed or self pitying or any other of those bullshit mindsets, it just takes time away from being happy.

  Ok, so I was digressing a bit too much there and I lost my train of thought. That happens to me a lot. So now I have to try and reach back and remember what I was saying before the digression. Oh yes, now I remember, it was about Abby and her brain to mouth switch which she turns off when she comes home and resets it when she leaves the condo. Sometimes I wish she would just stop and think before she says something, but that's usually when I'm in some sort of mood where I need
for her to be more understanding of me, and she just blasts past that need like it didn't exist. But most of the time, her keeping the switch in the off position works well for both of us.

  Abby and I have cocktail hour every day at 5 pm, when we are not apart. Nothing interferes with it. Well, not quite true. Nothing interferes with her hair cutting appointments, not even cocktail hour. At cocktail hour she drinks a beer. Yuengling or Blue Moon. I drink wine. Usually the cheap stuff, on a daily basis. We go through the day's events. The good and the bad. There are a lot of "oh dear gods" from her these days, due to some financial headaches we have had in the past two years. And of course the usual compliment of "fuck this" and "fuck that." I wonder how many couples have a regular cocktail hour. If they don't, they should. Good way to stay in touch and sometimes hash out some potential issues before they become full bore problems.

  One thing I should mention is that, other than cocktail hour, we don't spend all that much time together, except when we're sleeping. It's not as though we don't like each other's company. It's just that we have different interests and that works well. She likes biking and swimming and running and I like reading and cooking and walking. Actual waking hours together are pretty limited.

  Speaking of sleeping, I told her the other day, when I was trying to communicate to her that intimacy was not her strong suit, for about the hundredth time, that I really hated when it was time to go to bed, because I knew, from many years of experience that not a lot was going to happen in the way of touching. I wasn't trying to be mean or argumentative, and in fact, I never would have even brought it up if we hadn't just had a really good summer sexually and now it was September.

  I know this might be sounding confusing at this point, me saying that we have such a good and comfortable relationship, and then I make what might sound like a flippant and maybe even mean remark about hating to sleep with her. In my own mind this is not contradictory. I do love her and I do hate to sleep with her because I want us to fuck or at least touch each other a lot more often.

  When I told her about hating to sleep with her, she started in her nasty mouth mode saying that I did a lot of things that annoyed the fuck out of her and she maybe did a few things that annoyed the fuck out of me, her words verbatim. Notice the "maybe" and a "few" when she was referring to herself.

  And then she blew me away with "I'm just not a touchy feely person" in response to my requests that even if she didn't want to fuck, a simple scratching of my back or some spooning might be nice on occasion. And of course she had to add "besides it's a hundred fucking degrees in there and I'm way too hot to get close to you."

  Just to set the record straight, since Abby is prone to hysterical exaggeration. She's talking about the summer and it's usually about 75 degrees in our bedroom when we go to bed. I know this because I go to bed first and she sets the thermostat to 70 when she comes to bed and then when I get cold because the vent is over my side of the bed, I get up and change it to 75. It never gets above 75. But never mind. Abby knows it is a hundred fucking degrees in there, and what Abby knows in her mind trumps everything. Even the thermostat.

  I just had a flash. Maybe I could save myself a lot of consternation and get laid a whole lot more if I just left the thermostat at 70 instead of moving it to 75 to save a few pennies and not be cold. Isn't life like that sometimes? If you could just see the bigger picture, things would be so much easier.

  But I'm getting away from the point here, and the point is maybe I've been wrong our entire marriage. Wrong in assuming that she likes to be touched as much as I do. After she said that, I went online and did a search regarding touching and went to some blogs and heard people saying how much they hate people touching them. "Violating their space," they called it. I know they were probably talking about random strangers coming up and touching them, but some of them were saying that they didn't want anybody to touch them, ever. I've never really thought about that. I've always liked people to touch me. Even random strangers. I'm not talking about some fag who comes up and starts grabbing my crotch.

  Ok another slight but necessary digression. On the Kinsey scale where zero is totally heterosexual and ten is totally homosexual, and most people fit in somewhere between zero and ten, I'd be about a minus one. I'm not homophobic at all. I'm just a raging heterosexual and I love the way most women sound and think and smell and taste, not that I've tasted all that many of them. I just don't find men sexually attractive at all, and I'm convinced that if I was a woman I'd be a raging lesbian.

  So back to the guy who might want to grab my crotch. It's not like I'd be totally offended, I'd just probably tell him that I was a Kinsey minus one and hope that I didn't have the scale reversed, and hope that the guy knew about the Kinsey scale in the first place. But if a random lady asked me for directions and then, kind of cutely, after I had given them to her, said thanks and laid her hand on my arm in a very casual manner, it would make my day.

  Alright back to Abby and her touch aversion. How the fuck did this all of a sudden become an issue which she has never shared with me in twenty four years? Are you detecting a hint of anger in my voice here?

  By the way, I really hate using shared with me because people usually use it in a condescending way, in effect saying, "I know something you don't and I'm going to take my valuable time to educate you." But since I am pissed at Abby for dropping that bombshell on me about her touch aversion, an aversion she has never mentioned to me in twenty four years I might add, I don't mind using it in a condescending way. It's as if I'm saying to her, "Abby, you piece of shit, that is total crap." I love the way I can at least think bad things about her and not feel guilty, even if I'm usually afraid to say them.

  Are you getting a sense that something is amiss here? I sure am. The little guy in my brain, who talks to me constantly, suddenly shifts into overdrive and the ten signs of a cheating spouse suddenly appear in my consciousness. I file that thought for later reference.

  Sometimes I like to approach a situation from a lot of different angles. I don't think I'm a good linear thinker. Time to me is probably a lot different than it is to most people. I've read a lot of metaphysical books and I've become convinced that time is either circular or perhaps 'ever occurring'. I know that sounds pretty bizarre or maybe even totally fucked up. But keep in mind that I function normally in society. I have a steady job. In fact I own a business that I have kept afloat for twenty four years. I've helped my wife raise three kids and by almost all standards they are healthy and functioning people. But there is a hidden part of me that thinks the future is already here, somewhere, and the past is also here, somewhere, and the present is not as big a deal as we make it out to be.

  Back to my approach to situations. Back to Abby. Back to the little man in my brain who is telling me that my wife, my Abby, MY Abby, is maybe fucking someone else. As I said before, I'm really into analyzing situations from a lot of different angles, and one of those angles is time. So let's fast forward, or is it fast backward, to the night of the encounter.

  I know that I'm jumping around in time here, but I'm hoping that you can deal with this. By the way I'm not trying to be clever or cute or innovative in this approach. It's just the way I think. Maybe it's the way we all think, but most people are more disciplined or focused than I am.

  Not only do I jump around in time, when putting all this information out there, but it may also seem that I am throwing a lot of extraneous nonsense into the mix and that's really not the case. It all has relevance in sort of a convoluted way. Just be patient, please, and it will all come together. I promise.

  Chapter 2: The Encounter

  I'm sitting on the couch looking at Dewayne. Is it DE-wayne, or is it Dawayne or is it Dwayne. Why do I give a shit, at a time like this, how the asshole's name is pronounced? And actually, why am I wavering about him being an asshole in the first place or not? The motherfucker, according to Kimberly, is fucking my wife.

  Don't worry about keeping a lot of characters straight in
your mind. I'm not capable of doing that, so there aren't going to be many more. So all you really have to know to get it straight at this point is that Abby is my wife, Da fucker Wayne is married to Kimberly. Lara, will play a part later. But let's just get rolling with the four of us for now.

  There's been a few week gap in time between when Abby first displayed one of the ten signs of a cheating spouse and when Kimberly was standing there calling Abby and Dewayne some pretty nasty names. As I am sitting there, I'm not real sure what role I am supposed to be playing in this. My first thought is that I am the aggrieved party. Well actually both Kimberly and I are the aggrieved parties, but it is somehow hard to feel sorry for her. I mean, the lady is drop dead beautiful; long blond hair, great tits, killer thighs, perfect ass.

  And her nostrils are flaring as she rages on, and that is making her seem like one of the sexiest ladies I'd ever seen. So what if Dwayne cheated on her? She could have anybody she wanted. She could certainly have me. It just seemed so incongruous that she is so mad. But then again she is probably so mad because she knows she is so fucking hot and she could have anybody, and if anybody in their marriage should be cheating, it should be her and not the asshole Dwain.

  I'm already forgetting if I told you how they got into our condo in the first place or not. I just looked back, and it seems as though I haven't, so here it is.

  Abby has just finished her dinner and is lying on the couch watching Cash Cab. I am on my third glass of wine and I hear the knocking on the door. Actually it was banging. I think, "Who the fuck is that?" We never get any visitors in the evening. I start to have a panic attack. It feels like something out of the 80's when I used to smoke dope. "Fuck, it's the cops! Flush the grass," I think. But I quickly realize that I don't have anything illegal in the condo.

  While I am doing all of this thinking, Abby is on her way to the door. As soon as she opens it, Kimberly blasts right past her and comes over to where I am sitting. DeshitholeWayne kind of ambles in and Abby shuts the door quickly, probably knowing what was coming. I have no fucking clue.