bed, you lie in it.” That’s what Mom used to say. Her excuse for not running out on that asshole she called sweetheart. I always told myself if you make your bed so badly you can’t sleep, there’s no reason not to get out, tear it up, and make it again from scratch. But I did what Mom did. Selfless sacrifice for the good of the family. Anyway, once its been shat, your bed can only be made so well.
I am a hero to those around me.
And then goddamn Daphne comes along. Daphne with her seductive glances and her short skirts, always trying to pretend she doesn’t know I can see up them when she sits on my couch. With her increasingly explicit text messages that turn to increasingly explicit pictures as I tell her over and over that she’s beautiful but I’m married and it needs to stop. And maybe if I’d just told Rose, if I’d forgotten how bad we needed the money from these sessions and just told Rose about the advances…
“Oh yeah,” Danielle moans. “Mmm, fuck me.”
Yeah, I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you like no one fucked me for a decade because my wife stopped loving me. I’ll fuck you like I fucked Daphne in my dreams every night until that last picture did to my world what this infection is probably doing to my toe. I’ll fuck you like I fucked my life.
One pussy pic at a bad time. One pussy pic I would have deleted if I’d seen it anyway, but because I left my phone on the coffee table while I went out to mow the lawn, it meant three months of sleeping on the couch, cast out of love over an act of infidelity that never even happened, straining myself not to go out and anger-fuck Daphne out of spite. Three months, and then still, “I can’t forgive you. I think we should divorce.”
So fine, I say. Go. Rob me of my sexual prime and tend to your pastures till they’re greener than I can get them. Just leave me my son. And even though behind closed doors she says sure, the boy says he’s going with her anyway. So long, Dad. The two of us don’t need you.
All that work. All that fighting. All those years of working myself half-dead so the three of us could have everything we needed and they don’t need me.
Now you fuck me , Danielle. Fuck me like I’ve got nothing to show for eight years of marriage save for a thousand photographs to trigger regret and a lack of sexual experience. Fuck me like I’m worth something.
I lie on my back and pull her on top of me. She grabs my knees and bounces her ass up and down on me. The phone rings. Probably Trish. She’s clingy. Maybe Rory or Keisha. Nikki’s in New York and Bibi never calls anymore. Viv and Michelle never did; I have to call them myself. At this point Daphne would just show up and ring the bell.
You made your bed, you lie in it. But if the bed up and leaves, make as many beds as you can before you’re old and ugly. Never get bedridden. Rampant, hedonistic bed-making is the only real benefit of not having to be a husband and a father all the time.
I am happy in my own skin.
Yeah, and the skin of others. As many and as often as possible.
Danielle squeals and lets loose. It’s always messy with her. Not as bad as with Trish, but close. I shove her back down and get on top again and it’s hard and fast and mean, on my knees with one foot elevated so I don’t disturb my toe.
That big, red, swelling spot just under the nail. What is that? Three days now. Worse each morning when I wake up. And if it’s worse again tomorrow maybe I’ll go to a doctor. But I said that about today too, said it yesterday.
Danielle says not inside, so I pull out and collapse on top of her and glue us together.
In a few minutes she’ll dress and go home and I’ll check my missed call. I hope it’s Trish. If it is I’ll take a shower and call her back. Danielle and Trish in the same night would be one for the ages.
I am where I want to be.
Say it. The idea with a mantra is, if you keep saying it, eventually it’s supposed to be true.
* * * *
I am a hero to those around me.
And then goddamn Daphne comes along. Daphne with her seductive glances and her short skirts, always trying to pretend she doesn’t know I can see up them when she sits on my couch. With her increasingly explicit text messages that turn to increasingly explicit pictures as I tell her over and over that she’s beautiful but I’m married and it needs to stop. And maybe if I’d just told Rose, if I’d forgotten how bad we needed the money from these sessions and just told Rose about the advances…
“Oh yeah,” Danielle moans. “Mmm, fuck me.”
Yeah, I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you like no one fucked me for a decade because my wife stopped loving me. I’ll fuck you like I fucked Daphne in my dreams every night until that last picture did to my world what this infection is probably doing to my toe. I’ll fuck you like I fucked my life.
One pussy pic at a bad time. One pussy pic I would have deleted if I’d seen it anyway, but because I left my phone on the coffee table while I went out to mow the lawn, it meant three months of sleeping on the couch, cast out of love over an act of infidelity that never even happened, straining myself not to go out and anger-fuck Daphne out of spite. Three months, and then still, “I can’t forgive you. I think we should divorce.”
So fine, I say. Go. Rob me of my sexual prime and tend to your pastures till they’re greener than I can get them. Just leave me my son. And even though behind closed doors she says sure, the boy says he’s going with her anyway. So long, Dad. The two of us don’t need you.
All that work. All that fighting. All those years of working myself half-dead so the three of us could have everything we needed and they don’t need me.
Now you fuck me , Danielle. Fuck me like I’ve got nothing to show for eight years of marriage save for a thousand photographs to trigger regret and a lack of sexual experience. Fuck me like I’m worth something.
I lie on my back and pull her on top of me. She grabs my knees and bounces her ass up and down on me. The phone rings. Probably Trish. She’s clingy. Maybe Rory or Keisha. Nikki’s in New York and Bibi never calls anymore. Viv and Michelle never did; I have to call them myself. At this point Daphne would just show up and ring the bell.
You made your bed, you lie in it. But if the bed up and leaves, make as many beds as you can before you’re old and ugly. Never get bedridden. Rampant, hedonistic bed-making is the only real benefit of not having to be a husband and a father all the time.
I am happy in my own skin.
Yeah, and the skin of others. As many and as often as possible.
Danielle squeals and lets loose. It’s always messy with her. Not as bad as with Trish, but close. I shove her back down and get on top again and it’s hard and fast and mean, on my knees with one foot elevated so I don’t disturb my toe.
That big, red, swelling spot just under the nail. What is that? Three days now. Worse each morning when I wake up. And if it’s worse again tomorrow maybe I’ll go to a doctor. But I said that about today too, said it yesterday.
Danielle says not inside, so I pull out and collapse on top of her and glue us together.
In a few minutes she’ll dress and go home and I’ll check my missed call. I hope it’s Trish. If it is I’ll take a shower and call her back. Danielle and Trish in the same night would be one for the ages.
I am where I want to be.
Say it. The idea with a mantra is, if you keep saying it, eventually it’s supposed to be true.
* * * *
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