The Real Girl

It has been a while since I've written anything. I thought it was about time that I got back into the game and stop being a spectator. In my stories, I try to keep all characters as realistically and multi-dimensional as I possibly can. Both individuals in this story are flawed people, but I feel that they have endearing traits that balance them and make them human. I don't believe in heros and monsters. I believe that anyone of us can be either one in any given point in time, or both of them at the same time. I would love to hear from you guys, so feel free to comment. I will give an ear to the helpful ones and ignore the ones who simply want to vent (you know who you are). I usually try to respond to the emails that warrant a response. I hope you guys enjoy.

*****

"What the fuck are you doing!?"

I desperately and feebly tried to force my pants from being pooled around my ankles. I jumped up from the chair that I was sitting in like my ass was on fire while simultaneously trying to yank my jeans up. Almost comically, I tripped and fell flat on my face. Sadly, my pants never made it past my knees. I rolled over to lay on my back and tried to rub away the pain that exploded in my face as I made contact with the floor.

If I were watching this scene being played out for anybody else, I would have doubled over in fits of uncontrollable laughter. There, right in the middle of the living room, I lay sprawled out on my back with an engorged erection jutting in the air. My knees were still ensnared by the waistband of my pants. Sounds fucking hilarious, right? My wife however, failed to see the humor of the situation.

She looked at me with an expression so filled with pain that I knew she was cut to her very soul. Her eyes brimmed with tears mixed with anger, disgust, and humiliation. As she shrieked her question out at me, I could hear her voice cracking with disbelief as she witnessed the atrocity of the betrayal in the one place that she thought was the safest in the world.

Selfishly, I thought, "She was supposed to be gone for another hour."

Aloud, I said, "Baby, I can explain. It's not what it looks like." Original, I know. I believe that excuse can be found on page one of the 'Betrayers Hand Guide'. I'm one smooth operator.

Lisa shot me an "oh really" look as she put her hands on those perfect hips and shifted her weight to her right leg. Her dark eyes bore into mine as she dared me to continue with my absurd lie.

I had regained my senses somewhat and was gingerly picking myself (everything but my pride) up off the floor. Finally able to successfully clothe myself like a big boy, I fastened the button of my jeans around my waist. My proud erection that was fully engorged just moments earlier had deflated and sunken into my stomach. It was as if my little man had fled and retreated into the safety of his cave to hide from the evil she-dragon.

My lips moved in an attempt to form the words to adequately explain this situation, but my voice escaped me. Honestly, there are not enough words in the English language that would allow me to erase the image of betrayal that was seared into my wife's brain. I was caught with my pants down. Literally and figuratively.

Denial was certainly not going work; time for tactic number two found in my trusty Hand Guide. Misdirection.

"Okay sweetheart. You caught me. I admit that this is exactly what it looks like. But can you blame me?"

The incredulous look on her face told me that she most certainly could blame me. I mentally flipped the pages in my guide.

"Why would you do this to me Scott? Of all of the things you could have done, you had to do THIS?"

I began to feel a little bit indignant. I mean, I knew that I was wrong. Sure. I could admit that. However, she was blowing this entire thing out of proportion. Therefore, I jumped ahead to the next tactic. Attack.

"Oh come on Lisa! You hardly touch me! When I try to make love to my WIFE, you cringe away from me like I'm raping you. What the fuck do you expect me to do? Live like a monk?" My righteous indignation was now turning into anger. Yes, she caught me in a compromising situation. But all things considered, this was not as bad as it could have been.

It looked like she was going to start yelling and screaming. Her head must have filled with a thousand angry responses at once. She opened her mouth, but then she snapped it closed. Before me, I saw my wife deflate like a balloon.

"How could you Scott do this to me Scott?" This time her voice was barely a whisper as it competed with the sobs coming from her belly. She slumped down on the couch, buried her face in her hands, and wept bitterly.

I grabbed the remote and paused the DVD that played on my big screen TV. Sasha Stars, in all of her gangbang glory, stared back at me through the box. Her expression was frozen into a look of absolute bliss. Her eyelids were half way closed and her mouth hung slightly open. She looked at the camera and wordlessly told me how much she enjoyed getting fucked. With her face drowned in heavy make-up and cum, you would hardly recognize her as my wife of 5 years.

I'm sure that I took you by surprise just now; no doubt, you may have had to take a slight pause to reread that last sentence over again. Let me save you the trouble; you read it right the first time. I can just imagine you sitting there in front of your computer with a WTF look on your face. Yep, you read correctly; it's not a typo. The woman on the screen that was getting an airtight fucking from three 9-inch dicks for my carnal entertainment was my wife. Her saliva hung off the big black dick that hung in front her face like a microphone. The Mexican (or Indian, I couldn't really tell) guy whose cock was deeply embedded in her ass was possessively clutching her hair with one of his fists while his other hand grabbed her by the shoulder. It looked like he was getting leverage to savagely torture my wife's anus, which is exactly what he was doing before I paused the video. Romeo (my nickname for the muscular white guy who was under all of the action) was kindly holding her ample round cheeks apart, giving me an uninhibited view of every single thrust as his dick was claiming her pussy as its playground. Sasha Stars and Lisa Allen-Reed were one in the same.

"Of all people Scott. I thought you were different." Her barely audible voice sounded full of defeat.

"Honey..." I moved to put a tender hand on her shoulder. My loving wife recoiled from my touch as if I dropped acid on her bare skin.

"You could have at least jerked off to another woman Scott." Her eyes shot up at me, piercing me with a glare that drove icicles through my core. There was an empty coldness to her demeanor that I had never seen in the six years I had known her. "Of all of the videos you could have masturbated to, you had to pick one of mines. Do you enjoy that Scott? Is the sight of me getting degraded and treated like fuck puppet arousing to you?"

Of course 'No' would be the appropriate answer here. Unfortunately, evidence to the contrary was overwhelming.

"Lisa, you have to look at it from my point of view. I...I love you. I don't want any woman but you. So if I am going to watch a porno, why wouldn't I watch one with you in it?"

Her answer was immediate. "Because you told me I wasn't a whore! The girl in that video is a whore and THAT WHORE ISN'T ME! That is what you told me Scott!" With that, she ran out of the room and up the steps. When she reached the top, I heard a definitive slam of the bedroom door. If doors could speak, that one would have said, "STAY THE FUCK OUT PERVERT!"

By now dear reader, you probably want me to clear some of the cobwebs and shed some light on this situation for you. In order to do that we have to go back to the beginning. Our beginning. Before I do that though, I feel the need to clear some preliminary things up for you.

1. I am not a cuckold who enjoys seeing his wife gangbanged. At least, I don't think I am. You can judge for yourself as I go through my story. Bear with me.

2. My wife and I don't have what you would call a "wild" sex life. How can that be? you may ask. You are married to a porn star. Well, ex-porn star anyway. Forget the stereotypes that are put into your mind about the sex-crazed slut who loves big dicks and being treated like a whore. That is part of the illusion created to extract jism from your penises. However, that will also become clear as this tale of woe goes on.

3. No matter what you may think of my wife at this point, she is the best thing to ever happen to me. She has been completely faithful to me, not to mention the most loving person I could have ever had. If I could trade her for any "legitimate" actress in the world, I would tell the broker of that deal to go fuck himself.

How ever did I meet a famous porn star? Am I a movie director who helps hundreds of nubile coed cuties trying to break into the biz? Maybe we met at the Playboy mansion while sipping chardonnay with "The Hef". No to both of those. As anti-climactic as it is, we met in a coffee shop; it was the one where I worked.

Hey, stop laughing! In my defense, it is actually MY coffee shop.

My parents, while not rich, were pretty well off. They died in a car crash when I was in college to be an investment banker. Their deaths, as twisted and fucked up as this is going to sound, was a gift that was wrapped in shitty wrapping paper.

Let me explain. You see, I absolutely hated the idea of becoming an investment banker. Why would I be in college to learn a job that I loathed? Because investment banking was what my dad did. He loved it. He would jokingly say that it was legalized gambling with better odds. I couldn't think of a worst way to spend 8 - 10 hours a day. But I loved my dad and I would've done anything to make him proud.

I was really into writing poetry and short stories. I wrote for my high school newsletter and for the college's. I had won multiple contests growing up for some stories that later on wound up becoming published. I'm not saying that I am a world famous author, but if you look hard enough you can find a book or two with my name in the author field. Journalism would've been a dream come true for me, but statistically it was too competitive and the reward wasn't worth the risk. At least that's what he said.

Anyway, there I was with a bleak but profitable future ahead of me when I got the news. I don't remember everything that the grief counselor told me, but I remember key words. Semi, T-boned, raining hard, intensive care, induced coma; these were a few of the flowery terms used. I'm surprised I didn't get into an accident myself as I broke the sound barrier as well as every speed limit law there was to make it to the hospital. My father clung to life by his fingernails a I wasn't going to let him die alone.

Sadly, my mother a DOA. She stopped breathing before the witness could finish dialing 911.

As I sat next to my father's hospital bed watching helplessly as he fought the grim reaper for his life, I went through the stages of death at rapid speed. Some people may go through them and come out the other side a better person. I went through each and every last one of them multiple times a day. Every time I went to sleep I was at acceptance, but I would wake up right back at denial.

My father slept for weeks and I was right by his side. By now, college was a foregone speck in my rearview mirror. I failed the classes that I was enrolled in and had no plan of registering for new ones.

When they felt he was stable enough, they brought him out of his coma. It seemed like everything was going to be fine, but it wasn't. When he awakened to find that his wife was no longer living, he lost his will to become an old man. I watched as the man that I felt could do anything sank into a deep depression that began to complete the job that the Semi had started.

Before he did go, he said something that changed my life.

"It's funny son. When I look back on my life, do you know what I remember most? I don't remember the vacations that we took to the Hamptons, or the number of zeros in my bank account. I can't even tell you the last expensive thing I bought. The one memory that keeps coming back is your mom and I playing scrabble."

He gave a slight laugh as tears filled his eyes. "Your mom used to kick my ass every single time. She would taunt me mercilessly as she delivered my beatings. But I never had more fun than I did in those moments." He turned his head to face me and looked me straight in the eyes.

"Life isn't about money son. It's about finding something or someone that you love. I spent my life chasing money, but in the end I would give it all back just to hear her laugh at me as I try to get away with spelling a word that wasn't even in the dictionary."

We had a few more talks before he finally passed, but that one stuck with me. As I laid him down to rest next to my mom, I had an emptiness in my heart but a bank full of money. I told you, he was very well off. I wasn't a millionaire, but I had time to grieve and think about where I wanted my life to go.

As I mentioned earlier, I loved poetry and short stories. Therefore, I bought a closed down antique store and opened a coffee shop. I set up a stage in the middle of it. My dream was to share my love of poetry and give others an avenue to do the same. A year after I opened Lisa Allen was a regular customer.

Let me dispel all of the cliques that may be running through your head. I didn't see her and instantly fall in love. It wasn't love at first sight or anything corny like that. It certainly wasn't anything like one of her pornos. You know, beautiful girl comes into the coffee shop with a pair of pink booty shorts that says "juicy" across the butt and a see through halter-top make of fishnets stockings. You know the kind of porn I'm talking about!

No, when she came in she looked like every other pretty girl who drank coffee. Her hair was in a ponytail and she wore glasses. I certainly didn't know what kind of day job she had. Hell, I had some of her porn on my computer and I didn't recognize her.

To me she was Miss Whipped Mocha Latte with extra foam. That is who she remained until she took the mic for the first time.

She had been coming faithfully for about a few months at that point. When she nervously stepped up on stage, she introduced herself and anxiously unfolded a piece of paper that was in her hand. She talked briefly about the poem that she had written a while ago but never had the bravery to say aloud. After coming to my shop for months, she regarded the regular crowd as a sort of "poetry family". No one judged her (probably because no one recognized her). She was received with a heartfelt applause as the generous crowd encouraged her to continue.

Her poem was about the loneliness of a little girl who had to face the cruel world as a grown woman. As she gave voice to the poem, her voice cracked with emotion. Tears began to fall down her cheeks. There was no doubt that these words came from a place deep in her heart. It seemed as though she was fighting demons of her past, even as she stood on that stage and bared her naked soul. She didn't stop though. She read that poem to the last syllable. I had not heard a standing ovation that thunderous in my homely shop before that day or since.

I was so touched by her poem that I had to meet her. Sadly, I didn't get the chance to converse with her until a couple of weeks later. She was the last customer in my shop as I was about to close. Normally, I would try to shoo her off so that I could go home, but I remembered her poem and how it touched me. Her words gave voice to the inner turmoil that I had been wrestling with since the tragic death of my parents. She seemed lost and alone. Just like me. So, I broke the rules and allowed her to stay. It didn't hurt that she was one of the prettiest girls to grace my humble coffee shop.

We started having a light innocuous conversation, but all too soon I realized that it was past midnight and that I told her things that I had never told anybody. I hadn't even turned the "Open" light off in the window.

There was such an innocence about her, yet it was cloaked in a hard, cynical shell. It was like she tried to be contemptuous and suspicious of the world around her, but she had to constantly do battle with her naïve and trusting nature. She was every bit what her poem said. My heart broke for the little girl trapped in a woman's body.

When she left that night, I was in love. It took her a while longer to reach that point, or so I thought, but she got there. In fact, she came back the next night at about the same time for a cup of coffee.

This went on for about two months. She would come in right before I closed and we talked until well into the night. Chris, business partner, best friend, and the real reason why the coffee shop was staying in the black, told me to get off my ass and ask her out. I finally got the balls and went for it. As I nervously asked her to dinner, she smiled warmly at me and said, "I didn't think you were ever going to do that."

"You wanted me to ask you out? I didn't think I had a chance."

"What, did you think I enjoy drinking coffee and eating day old Danishes at 9:00 at night."

Almost a year later, she was my wife, but we almost didn't make it down the aisle. A week before our wedding Chris pulled me aside.

"I need to show you something bud, but you're not gonna like it." That was his ominous warning. "Not going to like it" was a gross understatement.

Standing there next to Chris I watched my fiancé getting the holy hell fucked out of her by a male porn star that I'd seen and envied for years. She took it in the mouth, in the ass, upside down, and even in a swing. I almost didn't' believe Chris when he prepared me for what I was about to see. I could barely believe it as I was watching it. The woman on the screen looked and acted nothing like the Lisa I was about to marry. However, the longer I watched, the more convinced I became. When the guy finally jerked hot globs of white semen all over Lisa's pouty face, I threw up.

---------------

"I never wanted you to find out about me this way."

She looked at me with a face streaked with tears. This was the way that the conversation went after I stormed into her apartment and ambushed her armed with a Video of Mass Destruction and a belly full of righteous indignation.

"Well how the fuck did you want me to find out about you. YOU SURE AS HELL WEREN'T GOING TO TELL ME!"

"I - I guess I never wanted you to find out period. I never wanted you to see me that way."

"What, you didn't want me to see the whore that you really are? Didn't want dear hubby to find out how much you love to suck and fuck hard dicks?"

I didn't think that it was possible for her to break down into more tears than she did before I said that, but that is exactly what she did. With that one sentence, I could feel the crushing blow that I had given her. The Lisa that I knew deflated and became a shell.

"You're right. I am a whore. I'm a fucking slut who has had more dicks in her than a pair of Hanes. I'm nothing more than a wet hole. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you. I - I just thought I could be someone different with you. You know, put the past behind me." She removed her engagement ring and fingered it for a few seconds.

"I guess we can never really escape our past. It was a nice fantasy though. You know, being your wife. Growing old with a guy who makes life worth living. I guess whores don't get happy endings." With that she lightly dropped it in my palm.