Mindless sex and wild one-night stands had been her passion. How had she ended up the desperate wife of a geek who didn’t even desire her?
Marcy’s stomach lurched. She turned away from Peter and focused on gathering up the newspaper, retrieving the scattered sheets from the driveway.
“You have the perfect ass,” Peter said. “What I wouldn’t give to plow that furrow.”
He was desperate now. She could tell by the way his trite commentary had turned wistful. He was losing steam. Less confident, deflated. She did have a nice, round butt, but, really, his compliments were coming from another place now. This was desperation talking.
Which she’d always loved. She’d loved it when they were so hot for her they couldn’t keep their hands off. When they had to touch every inch of her soft skin. When they had to have her, now, no matter where, no matter what the risk. Yes, here, now, in the garden shed with the landscaping crew out front weed-whacking the walkway. Yes, now, in a friend’s bedroom with postered walls reverberating from a raucous house party downstairs. Oh, yes, here and now, in the back seat of the car, in the bushes at the park, in the men’s room at the neighborhood tavern. Oh my God, they had to hit it, right now, right here, right this minute!
But that was then. Before she’d found Jess. Before she’d married. Married a man she would fucking kill if he did such things with somebody else.
“Let’s not do anything we’ll regret,” Marcy said, her arms full of newspaper. It was so messed up she would rather throw it away than try to straighten it out.
“What you’re going to regret is not letting me cram my giant hard-on into your wet pussy.”
Peter revved his ultra-luxe engine and backed out of the driveway. Then he shot off with an angry squeal of radial tires on hot asphalt.
Marcy went into the house and locked the door. She was glad she hadn’t fucked up and had sex with the neighbor. She could wait for a better offer, find a single guy, someone anonymous she wouldn’t have to see at block parties. Besides, she wasn’t ready. This wasn’t the time to get herself a lover. Not yet. It was too early in the game for that. She had to think ahead, analyze the situation, use strategy, figure out what the best move would be.
First, she needed to determine whom Jess was seeing. She pictured her husband, his long fingers delving into the silken vulva of a lanky blonde. The vision made her double over in gut-wrenching pain. She held the newspaper wad to her abdomen and squeezed her eyes shut. It hurt to think of him touching another woman, suckling her perky breasts, rubbing his smooth hands across her cool, lean flesh.
Marcy’s stomach wrenched a few times and she experienced raw stabs of gut pain. She had to breathe through her mouth until the pangs subsided. When she felt a little better, she went into the kitchen and tried to compose herself. As she bunched up the messy newspaper and stuffed it into the garbage can under the stainless steel sink, she kept picturing the woman in the dream. Her whitewashed face, colorless eyes, pale hair.
Scandinavian, Marcy imagined, and cold as a snowball. The perfect match for her emotionless husband. Her cheating spouse.
Marcy suddenly remembered a cheesy television advertisement she’d seen one night after watching the movie of the week. The ad was for a local shop that specialized in spy equipment. Out of the depths of her sexual frustration and emotional confusion, a brilliant tactical plan bobbed to the surface.
She hurried upstairs to change her damp underwear.
CHAPTER TWO
Geeks Are Us
She drove quickly toward the outskirts of town in her BMW convertible. Her hair whipped about her head; the sun splashed on her bare face and arms. It was a beautiful day. Listening to Adele wail at top volume should have calmed her nerves, but it didn’t. Maybe she needed to take up meditation. And hot room yoga.
Marcy wondered how this could be happening to her. Jess was the ultimate geek, so the situation she found herself in shouldn’t have been possible. Geeks were like Jews; they mated for life. Didn’t they?
Marcy hadn’t been the least bit interested in geeky men before she met Jess. But, once she’d fallen for him, she’d discovered how reassuring geek love could be. Or so she’d thought.
Jess Margate wasn’t your average geek. He was a certified genius. The real deal, a wow whiz kid, an IQ beyond the beyond. He was Super-Nerd, so different from her in so many ways. So smart he was on another planet, one that spun faster than hers. But he was incredibly decent. Kind, when he remembered to be. Attentive, when he had nothing else going on.
Before Jess came into her life, Marcy knew a few geeks. Guys who were content on a Saturday night to be rewriting a computer program. Or solving Heisenberg’s uncertainty equation or something. That’s why she’d never fallen for one of them before Jess came along. Geeky guys just weren’t her type.
When she met Jess, he was still a virgin. A real late bloomer sexually. He’d made it through the usual rounds of day-to-day bullying during grade and middle school without dumbing down, without going bad. Which explained why, senior year in high school, he became the Boy Most Likely to Succeed—but not with the chicks. Totally awkward, gawky, not cool. Big glasses with dark frames, pale and bony. No sun, no exercise, too much time in the basement creating algorithms for software design companies and financial investment firms. Jess breezed through college with honors, graduating magna cum laude. But without a single hot date on his resume.
In his early twenties, however, Jess finally decided enough was enough. He wanted some action. He went for long runs every morning, sculpting himself into a lean and mean man-machine. He got some color to his complexion and started wearing tinted contacts. He had his smile whitened and grew out his hair, which he got in the habit of tossing back with a casual shrug. Women began to check him out.
Around this time, geeks in general enjoyed a widespread image boost. Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg. Go ahead, laugh, geeks were saying. I’ll be your boss one day. The attitude had shifted overnight. Suddenly, the smartest guys in the room had magnetic appeal for women. Women everywhere said to themselves, You know what? We like them nerdy. High IQs make us hot.
It was at this exact tipping point in the cultural consensus of opinion on high-tech sexiness that Marcy Buenaventure first turned blurry eyes to Jess Margate. In the midst of a crunky party, where she’d already had a bit too much to drink. Her most recent fling had ended in a flame-out; she’d kind of liked the guy, but not enough to stay with it for more than a few months. Marcy was feeling old, tired of easy sexual conquests that, in the long run, meant nothing. She was standing by the keg, trying to change the double Solo cup in her hand back into a single, when Jess stepped up.
He introduced himself and began telling Marcy about the software he designed. She didn’t understand much of what he said. His words made her head spin on its axis. But she could tell the guy knew his stuff. Impressive. He mentioned persistent venture capitalists, lunch dates with CEOs, interviews with online journals. It was all geek to her, but oddly aphrodisiacal.
Marcy decided she wanted this guy. She was attracted to his intelligence and challenged by his disinterested innocence, his half-attention to what she was saying, the way he looked through her while texting someone.
“A guy I work with,” he explained in defense of his rudeness.
And Marcy believed him. Because all Geek Guy did was work. He’d been so busy nerding his way to the big time, he hadn’t had a chance (or an opportunity, like the one Marcy planned to offer him) to discover the joys (and miseries, although she wouldn’t, of course, tell him about those) of sex.
Marcy was drunk, but not too drunk to think about her future. She could see Jess there, in her future, working a lot, but loyal to her, reliable. She asked him to walk her home, and he held her hand the whole way. She could still remember how that felt, his thin hand, cold and hard, like packed snow.
When he followed her up the steps to her second-floor apartment, she made sure to sway her hips in an alluring ma
nner. She brewed a pot of dark-roast Colombian while he looked over her bookcase. He said with a grin, “I read this,” and held up a book left behind by one of her many ex-boyfriends. A worn copy of Eros and Civilization. Jess was such a nerd. But appealing, and something about him screamed long-term.
Marcy stood by the kitchen counter while Jess sipped her coffee and explained the difference between meta and beta. Or something like that. She nodded her head, but she wasn’t paying attention, not really. She was focusing on his lips, which were nice, coral pink, and plump. Virginal. After a decent interval, she threw herself at him and suckled his mouth. He submitted with a guttural groan.
Marcy slipped out of her cotton dress, then helped Jess slide out of his khaki pants and hooded sweatshirt (de rigueur for geeks). His boxers were striped. His penis was the perfect size, so she took it into her mouth, like a popsicle. He pulled out quickly, saying, “I’m going to come if you do that.”
Now she was a hundred percent sure—Jess’s lips were not the only virginal part of his body. Marcy shivered as he ran his chilly hands across her breasts, but she was excited, wet, and ready for him.
She stood up and, taking him by the hand, led him to her unmade bed. He was tender and gentle, and she came once before he did. His lovemaking was nice. Not wild, not crazy-making, but sweet. Very sweet. He slept with his arm draped across her shoulder.
When Jess admitted to Marcy, over scrambled eggs and wheat toast, “That was my first time,” she acted shocked. He told her how he’d studied a sex manual, something clinical he’d ordered online. So he would be prepared when the opportunity arose.
“How’d I do?” he asked.
Marcy said it had been immensely pleasurable, emphasizing the word immensely. Jess’s gray-green eyes lit up.
“I want to do it again,” he said.
So they did.
Whenever Marcy recalled their first few months together, she remembered days (and nights, endless nights) in her apartment. Sometimes they went to the movies or cooked dinner together, but mostly they made love. It was sweet, really. Very sweet. He always slept over afterward.
Marcy developed strong feelings for Jess, but these feelings mostly had to do with their future together. Would he stay with her? Would he agree to meet her girlfriends, family, ex-boyfriends? Would he remember her birthday, the anniversary of their first meeting, her middle name? Would he stay interested in her? Would he actually make a commitment?
Jess said he had feelings for her too, but those feelings mostly had to do with his work. Would she interfere with his long hours and intense schedule? Would she place demands on him he didn’t want to fulfill? Would she forgive him when he forgot her girlfriends, family, ex-boyfriends, birthday, anniversary, middle name? If she could cope with his idiosyncrasies, he would indeed remain interested in her. And, eventually, he promised, he would offer to make a commitment to her.
He was true to his word.
Marcy loved her husband, but this was geek love. Not her usual brand of wild, passionate, intensely sexual love. She’d assumed theirs was a forever love. A committed, rational form of true love.
A miscarriage earlier in the marriage had led to a brief depression on her part, but otherwise their love for one another had seemed to bring them both a contented sort of joy. She’d willingly given up the untamed side of her nature, and she’d thought this was a kind of unspoken guarantee. A promise their marriage would last. Because if she remained faithful, she would have nothing to worry about. Geek love ensured fidelity. Or so she had believed.
Time danced on, and Marcy and Jess kept having okay sex, and he made a giant pile of money with some accounting software he designed. After he pulled in another truckload of dough on an investment algorithm, they moved to the suburbs. The two of them picked out a stone house hidden behind tall hedges. Lovely songbirds flitted overhead, darting from maple tree to maple tree. Life was good, or at least good enough.
~~~
When Marcy passed by the small sign for the storefront she was seeking, she slowed the car. As soon as she could, she eased into an open parking space. As she walked back to the Spyware Shop, located in a squat brick building that also housed a high-end hairdresser’s and a label-only vintage clothing place, she pondered what she would tell the clerk behind the counter. Their suburb was small, wealthy, gossipy. If she admitted she wanted to catch her husband in the act, the clerk might blab about it to someone who knew them. She needed a reasonable excuse for purchasing miniature tape recorders that looked like pens or key chains and a tiny video camera. Spy equipment for personal use, miniature digital devices like the ones featured in the TV ad.
The clerk turned out to be discreet, apparently uninterested in her plans for the stealth products he had to offer. A short, rotund fellow in an impeccable oxford shirt and pressed slacks, he gave the impression he was there to serve her needs, not to interrogate her about why she wanted to conduct undercover work. He led her to the recorder section, where an array of small gadgets lined the glass display case.
“We’ve got a sale going on today. You’re in luck,” he told her without once checking out her breasts, which were now tucked away under a fluffy sweater vest. “Voice-activated mobile recorder with forty hours of audio recording power. Reception’s professional quality. On sale for one ninety-five.”
“Can you show me how it works?” Marcy asked.
Two hundred dollars to catch your spouse en flagrante? What a bargain.
“It’s quite simple, really.” He demonstrated by pressing two control buttons. “You set it up, turn it on like this. When it’s on, his voice will activate the recording feature. As soon as he stops talking, the file’s complete. You can use it under the driver’s seat of a car. When he’s driving, the sound may be bad. But if he’s parked, you’ll hear everything nice and clear.”
Marcy felt like saying, Who says the person I’m spying on is a man?
But she knew it was silly to pretend. Why else would a woman like her be shopping at a place like this?
“May I suggest one of our covert cameras as well?”
He led her to another glass case and removed a black box the size of his thumb. After showing her the clip used to attach the miniature camera to clothing or a briefcase, he demonstrated the set up. “The cam-stick has a pinhole lens situated just above the clip. You get twenty-four hours of recording space on an eight gig micro SD memory card. This is usually adequate time for . . .”
He left the sentence unfinished.
“How much?” Marcy asked.
Whatever he said, she would pay it. In cash, of course. It would defeat her purpose if Jess discovered Spyware Shop purchases on their next Amex bill.
On the way home, Marcy felt both sick to her stomach and eager to get started with the equipment. If Jess was cheating, she would soon discover the truth. And she would be able to prove it. She’d play back the tape for him, show him the video. She’d hammer him with the evidence of his betrayal. Then she would feel justified in her fury. But the whole thing was making her ill. Just thinking about hearing and seeing him with someone else caused her stomach to writhe.
When the sun disappeared behind a deep hedge of dark clouds, Marcy pushed up the visor and blasted Adele. We almost had it all, all right. Then he fucked it all up.
An endless circle of bothersome questions ate at Marcy, causing further gastric distress. So what if she could prove her geeky husband was a philanderer; what good would that do her? What would she do after confronting him? File for divorce? Have a fling with someone just to get revenge? Call up her old boyfriends and indulge herself in mindless sex with available man after available man?
By the time Marcy pulled into her driveway, she had to press one hand against her roiling gut while clasping the shopping bag (unmarked and as discreet as the salesman) in her free hand. She was trying her best not to cry. Dark clouds had taken over the sky, pierced occasionally by jagged lightning strikes. In her current state of psychological anguish,
the threatening weather seemed like a message from the gods.
You’re doomed, Marcy. You’ll lose everything, and guess what? You’re guilty too. You’ve been bad many times in your life. Whatever made you believe you deserved a good man anyway?
The deafening thunder did not help her mood either. Just as the rain dumped down with a loud whoosh, she scurried into the house. In defiance of her cramping belly, Marcy headed straight for the liquor cabinet.
~~~
Poor Marcy, right? Who hasn’t behaved badly, then cleaned up her act and been so very good for so very long, only to be punished—weeks, months, even years later? It happens to the best of us. Just when we least expect it, our virtues are no longer rewarded, and our former vices are outed and revenged. Payback time comes for us all.
Marcy is no different than you or me. Her guilty pleasures may have differed from ours, but otherwise, she’s just like us.
CHAPTER THREE
Spy in the House of Love
The following weekend, while her husband was holed up (holed up, that was a good one) in his home office, Marcy went to work on the James Bond bit. She set up the recording device in Jess’s Jag, tucking it carefully way up under the driver’s seat. She positioned the volume as high as possible. If he farted on his way to work on Monday, she thought with a mirthless giggle, her eardrums might explode.
Jess spent the entire weekend doing whatever it was he did behind a closed office door. When she paused outside to listen, the only thing she could hear was this occasional little ping. Like the sound of a small metal ball dropped on a tile floor or a weird kind of alarm clock. But she couldn’t detect him talking to anyone. She heard no long phone calls with hushed voices. He was strangely quiet in there.
At dinner Sunday night, Jess ate quietly, his eyes downcast. He pushed his boiled red potatoes around with a fork and avoided the broccoli casserole entirely. A thick slice of roast beef (rare, the way he liked it) sat untouched, bleeding into a pool in the center of his dinner plate.
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