My Story

Like I have said, my apartment served only as a place for my mail to be delivered. Honestly, a storage unit and a post office box would have suited me just fine after the first six months. After that, and the elimination of my nine to five hours, if I wasn't travelling I was visiting Stacy.

Beyond that there isn't really much to say about our early years. I suppose we were no different than any other young couple in love. Everything was new and exciting. There was never a dull moment, never a time to pause and reflect. Everything was great.

While we talked at length about what we each hoped to experience in life we never really talked about us. I knew what Stacy was thinking and she could read me like a book. We were going to be together and we both knew it.

My proposal, though obviously expected, was ultimately still a surprise. I made it during the annual homecoming choir banquet during Stacy's senior year in front of all of our friends.

All marriages have their struggles and difficult times. Ours were very, very few and far between. My business took off while Stacy was still finishing school. After she graduated, and was still trying to decide what career path she wanted to embark on, we rented a tiny apartment just to be safe and so we could save as much money as possible. Living with someone, even your best friend, is always a crap shoot. As much as I loved Stacy, there were days that she just annoyed the shit out of me.

We may have had more in common than any other couple that I had ever met, but our personalities weren't one of those things. I think our upbringing had a lot to do with that. Stacy was raised in a rigid military environment. I was raised the mountains of Wyoming. Her day to day activities were scheduled and required commitment. I took on whatever the day set in front of me. Early on, while we were setting our boundaries and feeling each other out, this difference caused a lot of friction. Not too much later, I learned to appreciate our differences as Stacy's gift to our marriage and I loved her even more for being strong in areas where I needed improvement. I am fairly certain she felt the same.

It was the sex that always brought us back to an even playing field when we were young. Our love life was always good, often great and frequently fucking fantastic with a little kinky mixed in. I was a virgin when Stacy and I first made love several months into our couplehood. I am positive that Stacy was too although, by unspoken agreement, we never mentioned our previous sexual experiences. During our first night together it seemed that Stacy was as nervous as me and just as excited to experience the moment as I was. I think that almost coming three times before we really even started was limited to me, although, she did let loose a few baby growls and some unexpected gasps.

Exploring all of Stacy's body for the first time was an experience I will never forget. She was stunningly beautiful in the nude. Her body responded to my touch. Her nipples hardened. Her face flushed. Her breathing quickened. That night, and every other time we were together, she flooded with sweet, tangy juices. We fit together, perfectly.

I have decided to limit the amount of personal descriptions to protect whatever limited privacy you can expect when you post something on the internet for anyone to read. To be honest, my time on the Internet has taught me one thing. Everyone is someone's reason to masturbate and Stacy was definitely mine. I will say that Stacy was slight in build with nice curves, cute features and a great smile. Hopefully, that, and knowing that every time I saw her, naked or clothed, I wanted to take her, will be enough to satisfy your curiosity.

After our first time, and for a very long time into our relationship, I fucked Stacy every time we were alone together like I was a man sentenced to death row with one conjugal visit left. For her part, Stacy took great pride in playing the role of seductress finding new and wonderful ways to entice me. During the first year of our marriage we spent the majority of the time I wasn't on the road in bed, or on the couch, or in the shower, or with me licking every inch of her pussy on the kitchen counter or with her begging me to fuck her face in a darkened parking lot. Every marriage has its problems, sex wasn't one of ours.

Our only truly trying time occurred early in our second year of married life. I was traveling more frequently, Stacy had started a new job, our schedules conflicted and our communication suffered.

Over the course of several months we nitpicked each other to death and complained about things more than we enjoyed each other's company. At its peak, I was miserable and tired of all the arguments. When Stacy called me an asshole for planning to attend the annual choir reunion events without her, even though she had to attend a work related conference, I started looking forward to a few days away from my wife and I knew that wasn't a good thing.

The reunion was fine and things were still a little icy at home when I returned. Then out of the blue, and after all those weeks and all those arguments, Stacy apologized. At the time I considered it the most sincere apology I had ever received. She said that work was causing her stress and that she missed spending time with me and was frustrated with our haphazard schedule of sex. I apologized for letting things get so out of hand and for not making more of effort to make her feel appreciated and we moved on.

Two weeks later she announced she was pregnant with our first child, a little girl. Two years later our first son was born. Two years after that our twin boys completed our family. Stacy stayed at home with our children until they were all in school, then she went to work on a very limited basis to keep herself occupied and active.

The children were like the glue that cemented our puzzle pieces together. We were nearly inseparable after the birth of our first child. We took care of each other and the kids. We rarely argued about anything, and never about anything important. I loved my family and their daily reminders of what was really important in life. Stacy was a fantastic mother, the absolute best. As a life partner she was even better.

We missed out on whatever causes new parents to have a reduction in their sex life. The more children we had, the hornier we were. Although three or four times a week was the norm, weeks of daily sex were not all that unusual. Even my vasectomy, after the twins were born, was like a jolt of energy to our sex life. We fucked with reckless abandon for weeks after I healed. It was as if all the stars aligned to make sure that we always had plenty of alone time as adults. There simply wasn't anything wrong with our marriage or our sex life or our family, until there was.

I honestly believe that it was our constant flirting that led to all the sex. The more Stacy was doing things for the family the happier I was. I never failed to share those thoughts with Stacy. I had no filter on my thoughts when I was around her. If her meal was delicious, I told her. If I thought she looked smoking hot in her new outfit, I said so. My mind was constantly filled with thoughts of Stacy and our family. If I had a clever thought, I wrote it done and gave her the note later. If I saw her favorite candy bar or flower or just about anything less than $20, I would buy it for her and surprise her with at some point in the day. She was the same way with me. It felt great to be in love with your best friend and to hear, all the time, how much they loved you and how much of a turn on your partner thought you were.

Those few months of frustration early in our marriage were a blip in our lives, soon forgotten and replaced with a love that I cannot begin to describe. If you are a father, you know what I am talking about. You loved your spouse before the children but you cherished her afterword. You marvel at her inner strength as a mother and you love your children without reservation. It is the most glorious experience on earth.

For fifteen wonderful years this was my world. Until it wasn't.

***

I am not an expert on cheating wives. You can take that to the bank, endorse it and cash whatever amount of money you want. I would have placed my belief in my wife's fidelity against any wager you would have offered. And finding out I had been wrong, and for so long, was the most gut wrenching, spirit crushing, disorienting event I have ever experienced.

If you have had this happen to you, I can't compare my feelings to yours. I can only assume that the experience is different for everyone. If it has never happened to you, consider yourself blessed. All I can offer is the thoughts that went through my head and how my outlook on life completely changed over a period of seven days.

Shock was first. From the moment my mind matched the reality of what I had heard and seen together with my life until I woke up, hours later on the floor of the hotel bathroom covered in sweat and vomit, my body was on auto-pilot. I remember trading business cards with Robert Paulson. I remember shaking his hand and not wanting to. I remember how cold I felt. How he didn't notice my shaking hands I'll never know.

I remember the elevator ride to my floor in the hotel. My stomach rose to my throat the moment it started to move. I remember bending over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath and regain my bearings. I remember the feeling in my chest. It wasn't a normal pain, not even at its most excruciating. It was so much more than that. It was like my whole body was constricted by some invisible force, causing the bones of my body to scrape against every muscle and tendon and nerve ending I had. It literally hurt every time I moved, even just to breathe.

Finally, I remember puking my guts out the moment I opened the bathroom door and I remember not caring that I was lying on the floor in my own vomit. I don't remember closing my eyes.

Months later I would recall these moments and put an accurate label on them. It was the pain of death. These were the moments that my love for my wife died.

Despair was next and it lasted much longer.

My usual 4:00am wake-up call almost didn't get my attention. When it finally did, it was habit that took over not conscious thought. At the airport, my first conscious thought was that my socks didn't match. One was brown, the other black. Airport security let me pass anyway. It was the first of many things that I wouldn't care about in those first few days. My clothes were clean but wrinkled. I had showered but had chosen to skip some of the other basic grooming. With finger combed hair and an unshaven face, I purchased an overpriced pack of gum at the gift shop to cover the fact that I had not brushed my teeth or used mouthwash.

I stared out the window as the plane left the ground and then, for the first time ever, slept while in the air. I woke up when the wheels touched down and jarred me from my slumber. From there my normal excitement at being home and minutes away from seeing my wife and children was replaced with a morose apathy. Was the sky overcast or did everything seem to have a gray appearance for some other reason? I can't tell you for sure. But the color in the world was definitely gone.

Not caring about things was an unusual experience for me. Even at your worst, you still have survival instincts and mine ruled the day. I was angry that the luggage was delayed coming off the plane but I refused to curse at the baggage attendant because a mom and her kids were standing close by. I didn't care that I almost caused a car accident by pulling out in front of oncoming traffic, but I wasn't driving recklessly and I was wearing a seatbelt. Even at my worst, my wild raging beast was a pussy and probably a coward. I hated myself so much at that realization.

Returning to my home that first day was surreal. It was like I was watching a movie of myself going through the motions of reconnecting with my family. I received my hugs from the twins, a knuckle touch from my oldest son, and a kiss on the check from my wife. It was a miracle that I didn't vomit in the foyer when her skin touched mine for the first time.

I clung to my daughter's embrace as though she was the only medicine that could cure me of my sickness.

Stacy was immediately worried about my behavior.

"Are you OK, Jacob? You are acting strange and you look like you are about to fall over."

"I don't feel very well."

It was the only thing that I could manage to say.

After that I retreated to the bedroom and chased sleep until I caught it and pounded it into submission. I periodically woke up to the sounds of Stacy checking on me. I chose to dismiss her with a moan and a flopping motion back to my pillow. I repeated this performance for the next two days warding off Stacy's attempts to get me to call the doctor. The fact that she barely left my side at times and seemed to be genuinely concerned about me gave me absolutely no comfort.

And then my mom died.

***

Sitting at the bar sipping on a beer was nothing new. Neither was the blowhard sitting next to me talking up his business success, his charmed life and his prowess as a lover. Robert Paulson was no different than the hundreds of other braggadocios bastards that I had met on a barstool. He was a little older than he would admit, a little more out of shape than he wanted to believe and nowhere near as charming as he thought. What always fascinated me about guys like him and places like this was how their behavior was always reinforced by circumstances.

I was sitting on the bar stool to have a beer. Robert Paulson was here to get laid. Guys like me changed out of their business attire, simply not caring what they looked like as long as they were comfortable. The Robert Paulson's loosened their ties but wanted to seen as a success. The suit, the watch, the keychain left strategically placed with the car manufacturer's logo up were all meant to entice. Hey, look at me. I am doing well. His speech pattern was predictable. He acknowledged just enough of the conversations going on around him to allow him to flip the script and turn the focus back to him and how great he was. The funny thing was, left to his own devices and more often than not, Robert Paulson would probably succeed in his quest because the women who showed up here were lonely. It didn't matter how beautiful or smart or attached they were, if they were here alone they were looking for Robert Paulson.

To me these places were a fine place to experiment without any risk. In my job, the faster I was able to get people to really talk to me, to give me their real story, the better. A bar was a great place to practice and Robert Paulson was my next lab rat. So we chatted.

I let him spew some lies about the success he was having and tossed in a few compliments. I threw his ego a bone telling him that the hot blonde at the end of the bar had been eyeing him for the past hour when I actually thought she had been staring at me. Then, just as I had hoped, it happened. Robert Paulson opened up to me.

He was twice divorced and lonely and tired of working on the road. He couldn't quite put his finger on how his life ended up like this, a revolving door of meaningless sex and loneliness. He was no different than the others and I had been able to get his real story. Finishing my beer normally would have been my cue to end our discussion and head back to my room. Normally, I would have declined his offer of another round, but I didn't. There was something so familiar about him, even though I was certain that our paths had never crossed before. For whatever reason, I just couldn't walk away.

So I politely answered his questions about my work and my family and where I was from. I could tell the exact moment he put his guard back up. I knew when the false bravado returned I would be hearing another 'I banged this hottie once'. I didn't know his confession would have any impact on me. But it did.

I listened to Robert Paulson brag about how he had once hooked up with a married woman in Saint Paul all those years ago. I watched him search his brain for her name among the lists of his other conquests. Was it Lacy or Tracy? He couldn't quite remember but she had clearly left an impression. He described her body like he was staring at her picture. He recalled his two lust filled days at a conference hotel with the biggest slut he had ever met with great reverie.

"Yeah, man. That bitch was the biggest whore I have ever been with. Whoever caught that little minx was one lucky son of a gun. To Lacy from Saint Paul by way of Alaska. The best fuck of my life."

Did my life end as he raised his glass and slammed down the rest of his drink in a mock salute? Or did I just imagine it.

***

The death of my mother temporarily jolted me out of my morose behavior. My morbid thoughts were replaced with a need to make decisions about my mother and her meager possessions. It took me about five minutes to decide I would drive to my hometown. It only took me four to decide I would go alone.

Anyone without a guilty conscience would have chalked up my roller coaster emotions and erratic behavior to illness and grief at the loss of mom. But my wife followed my actions as if she were watching a caged animal on the verge of an escape.

My miraculous recovery from 'illness' did nothing to comfort her. For the better part of the next 36 hours, I basically ignored her for more pressing concerns. That didn't mean she didn't have the opportunity to drive a stake through my heart one more time.

I was heading back to the bedroom from the den and an exercise in gathering the documents I would need to finalize my mother's affairs. She was sitting on her side of the bed whispering into to phone.

"He knows."

"I don't know how."

"What am I going to do?"

I walked back down to the kitchen for a glass of water. Then I returned to the bedroom as noisily as possible. Stacy was in the master bathroom when I arrived. If the number on the phone when I pushed the redial button had been Robert Paulson's, I think I might have killed her. I had already had a few daydreams about doing that very thing. Would that would have been better? I honestly don't believe the answer to that question was yes, but I won't lie to you and say that hadn't occasionally thought it might be. When you're thinking about the person that you love more than anyone else in the world and hoping, beyond hope that you can kill her and make her suffer and not get caught, what does that mean?

Thoughts of Stacy made me angry. Being angry with Stacy made me incredibly sad. Being sad made me frustrated and frustration led me to thoughts of my dilemma and back to Stacy. It was a revolving door of pain.

It is actual doubtful that I could ever take another person's life. I am just not wired that way. I have never in my life been in a fight that rose above some minor pushing and shoving. And I know that some of you, who weren't sitting in my shoes at that very moment, are reading this thinking that only a madman would even consider such a thing. I honestly don't care what your opinion of my thought process is. My wife is alive, judge me on that.

Shockingly, recognizing the phone number was her best friend Tricia's actually made me feel worse. My devastating problem, the worst thing that had ever happened to me, wasn't even a secret. It was the perfect threesome of knowledge, Stacy, Tricia and Robert Paulson.

I pretended to be asleep one last time and I waited for the familiar sound of my wife's breathing to change to make sure she had drifted off. I paused at that, remembering that I used to take comfort in recognizing that sound. Regardless of the stresses of my day I could always count on my wife's slumber to remind me that the trouble was over and that a new and untarnished day was a few short hours away. That night, it didn't make any difference.