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I am not a writer. Let us get that out of the way right now.
I am forty seven years old. I smoke too much. I drink bourbon out of a glass with no ice because ice waters it down and I am not trying to enjoy the taste. I supervise construction sites in Indianapolis. I have bad knees and worse habits.
You are reading this because you are curious about something ugly. Do not pretend otherwise. People do not click on stories titled like this one because they are looking for poetry.
I am going to tell you about twenty years of fucking married women. Then I am going to tell you about the year I realized I wanted my own wife to do the same thing to me. Not as revenge. Not as punishment. Just because the only way I learned how to want something was by watching someone else take it.
This is not a confession. Confessions ask for forgiveness. I am not asking for anything from you.
This is a record. A stain. Proof that I existed and that I felt something real before I died.
You can close the tab if you want. I would not blame you.
But if you stay, do not expect me to hold your hand. I do not know how.
Here is what happened.
~~~
The first one was from apartment 402.
I came from Flint. That should tell you enough. Actually it probably does not tell you anything if you did not grow up there. But I dunno how else to start.
Her name was Sandra. Her husband sold pharmaceutical equipment and traveled every other week. Monday to Thursday, regular as a goddamn clock. She knocked on my door one Tuesday night asking if I had a screwdriver. I did not have a screwdriver. I had Jim Beam and nothing to do.
She came in anyway.
You still reading? Good. Do not expect me to slow down.
The hallway smelled like cigarette smoke soaked into the carpet, the curtains, the walls. That whole building smelled like that. Like people who stopped bothering.
Twenty minutes after she walked in I had her on the couch with her blouse open and my hand around her throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Letting her feel the weight of it. She made a sound against my mouth that told me everything I needed to know about her marriage.
She took me to the couple’s bed. I remember that more than I remember her face now. Which is — I dunno. Maybe that says something about me. The bed was made. White sheets, tight corners. His pillow still had the dent of his head in it. Years of the same skull in the same spot. I grabbed her by the hair and pushed her face down on that pillow and told her to stay still.
She did.
Women like Sandra always did. That is not an insult. That is just what they came for. I figured that out early.
I fucked her from behind with one hand pressing the back of her neck into his pillow and she stopped saying words after a while and started making sounds that did not have any words in them at all, and I remember thinking this is the most honest I have ever heard another person be, right here, with her face in her husband’s pillow and a stranger’s hand on her neck, and I do not know what that says about people but it says something. I held her down. She pushed back against me. That was the whole conversation.
When I came I pulled out and grabbed her jaw and turned her face up and finished on it. Thick. Her cheek and her bottom lip. She blinked. Let it sit there. Did not wipe it. Just stayed like that for a moment deciding something private.
Then she got up and went to the bathroom and closed the door.
I lit a Marlboro Red in the hallway outside her apartment. Stood there. The smoke alarm down the hall had a dead battery. That little chirp every forty seconds. I remember thinking somebody should fix that. Then I stopped thinking about it. Finished the cigarette. Went home.
I never felt guilt about Sandra. Not once.
Okay. Maybe a little. But it did not last past the drive home. So I do not count it.
After Sandra there were others. I do not remember all their names and I will not pretend I do. There was a blonde from the gym. A redhead from work, her name was Trish or Tracy, something with a T, I called her by the wrong name twice and she never corrected me. A brunette from the condominium on 38th. I cannot remember her name at all actually. I remember her kitchen counter.
All married. Every goddamn one of them.
The blonde took her ring off before she got in my truck. I used to make her keep both hands flat on the dashboard while I fucked her in the parking lot behind the Planet Fitness on Keystone because I liked watching her try to stay still. The redhead, Trish or Tracy, she used to text me from the bathroom at company Christmas parties while her husband stood twenty feet away with a plate of food. She liked being called a slut. Said her husband called her baby. Said baby made her feel like furniture. The brunette from 38th bent over her kitchen counter before I had my jacket off every Thursday. I used to pull out right before she came just to watch her ask for it. She always asked for it. She always got it. I just made her ask first.
They were not bad women. They were just smashed up already, same as me. We used each other and went home. That was the whole thing.
I was good at it. I will not pretend otherwise.
Where was I. Right.
The pregnant one.
I fucked a pregnant woman once. A friend’s wife. His name was Rob. Not a close friend but close enough that I had sat on his couch and eaten his food and shook his hand at his front door. His wife was Caitlyn. Seven months along when she called me. We met behind a Home Depot on a Wednesday afternoon and did it in the back seat of my truck and her belly was between us the whole time and she had to brace herself against the door and every time I moved the seat belt buckle tapped against the window. Tap tap tap. I held her wrists against the glass above her head and she did not complain. She asked me to finish inside her. I should of known better than that. I did it anyway.
After, she cried a little. She said Rob had not touched her in two months. Said she felt like a ghost in her own house. I did not know what to say to that. Still do not.
I dropped her two blocks from home. Drove back with her smell on me and the windows down even though it was cold. My cock was still wet inside my jeans. Rough denim. Stuck to it when I shifted in the seat. I did not stop to clean up. I dunno why. Just drove.
Laura was asleep when I got home.
Laura. That is my wife’s name. I should say it more. I do not.
She was curled on her side, blanket up around her shoulder, one hand tucked under her cheek. Dark in the room except for the hall light coming under the door. I stood in the doorway and looked at her and she looked so goddamn small in that bed, like she was just a person trying to get some rest, which is exactly what she was, and I had been out all afternoon fucking a pregnant woman in a parking lot, and I stood there and I —
I dunno. I just stood there.
I pulled my underwear down. My cock was still half wet. I started touching myself staring at her ass through her pajama pants.
Went soft. Not slow. All at once.
I stood there with a limp cock and Caitlyn’s smell still on me. The fan was on. Laura’s hair moved a little with the air, just the ends of it. I watched it. The smoke alarm in the hallway kept chirping. I barely heard it anymore.
Something hit me that I did not ask for and did not want. Not guilt. Colder than that. Heavier. A thought that sat down and was not going to leave just because I wanted it to.
I had been fucking married women for twenty years. Beds, trucks, closets, parking garages, once in a church bathroom at a funeral reception and I am not proud of that one. I had come on their faces and inside them and looked their husbands in the eye the next day without flinching. Taken what was not mine so many times that taking felt like the only thing I known how to do.
But Laura’s pussy. The one that was actually mine. The one with a piece of paper that said so. That one felt like a door I had no business standing in front of.
I had eaten half the world’s married pussy, and here I am, soft, staring at the only one that was ever really offered to me.
I pulled my underwear back up and went to sleep on the couch.
No dreams. Never do. Head hits the pillow and there is just nothing until morning. Clean nothing.
It is the only thing I am good at that does not cost anybody.