The Tale of the Hapless Husband

Surrounded by packing boxes and lawyers' bills the Hapless Husband asks, How did it happen?

If you want to know why she cheated you need to accept that like many women your wife lied to you when you shared your sexual histories. Remember that night? A little drunk, limbs entwined, whispering for no real reason, the hooks of love snagging on your fast beating heart. I call it a lie but your wife meant no malice. Some experiences just don't count, are not included in the "official number." The number was seven, remember? Everything neatly accounted for, the ex-boyfriends, the stories, names, and dates -- everything seemingly tallied up. You had no reason to be suspicious, not with a girl like her. And she was gorgeous -- not tall but perfectly proportioned with a smile that brought down the defenses of the grumpiest person. She left out the others because, well, they happened so long ago and the men didn't mean anything to her, and she was a little ashamed of herself. Such editing is only natural and it happens all the time. Usually it doesn't matter but your case, Hapless Husband, it mattered a lot.

Your wife didn't cheat because she was unhappy. In fact, she was content with your marriage. She had no real complaints. You did nothing wrong the day it all started.

You had a silly argument about the laundry. You don't remember it? Of course you don't. Why should you? "You need to separate the whites from the colors. You can't dump everything in at once." That's what she said. "You yell at me if I don't do the laundry and you yell at me if I do. Make up your mind." That's what you said. It went on for a while. And then the silence.

Your wife, Alice, sat, angry, on the bed upstairs while you sat, angry, in front of the TV. She scrolled through her Facebook newsfeed. A friend request popped up from a guy at work. He was someone in the IT department who had fixed a glitch the previous week. She hesitated, not wanting to mix work with family and friends, but she decided it was harmless and clicked "confirm."

The dialogue box on your wife's laptop popped into view as you became absorbed in a History Channel show about military hardware, the laundry argument receding into the distance. They didn't chat for long and it was completely innocent, of course. But it was the beginning, so I thought you should know.

Now you probably think that they started screwing straight away. You're angry. But the point of this exercise, Hapless Husband, is to explain the reality of your wife's betrayal and for that you have to be patient. Nothing happened for weeks. Their occasional interactions were completely normal -- professional but friendly. Then one night the dialogue box popped back into view and everything changed.

IT guy typed "Your skirt was so tight today ;)."Your wife stared at the screen. She didn't know what to say. If you had been in the room you would have heard her characteristic snort of amusement. The cursor blinked an invitation. Let's step back a moment to try to understand what happened next.

Your wife likes attention. You know that, of course. Although, in the interest of accuracy we should add you'd forgotten this fact about Alice. Really, when was the last time you complemented her looks? She's a pretty girl, your wife. You never meant to stop remarking on her appearance. It was never a conscious decision. And we should also say that your wife did not much notice your lack of admiring attention. However, when she read "Your skirt was so tight today ;)" it gave her a thrill. She had been noticed, seen, admired, looked at. In the end she settled on "Thank you," and that neutral sounding response was, of course, really an invitation to look.

It also set up a dilemma the next morning. What should she wear to work? Yes, now your wife is thinking about herself as an object to be observed by another man. She doesn't want to wear something drab and ordinary but she doesn't want to go overboard and wear something too sexy. She settles on something in between.

Now, at last, we can go back in time to one of her lies. You remember she mentioned working at a video store before heading to college? You know about the boyfriend she had at the time but you don't know what happened at the video store. The manager was an overweight, loser who barely kept his job. By any definition he was a creep. Alice (she's not your wife yet) is just beginning to notice the attention she commands from men -- the smiles and minor flirtations she receives at the cash register and the looks she receives at the store, on the subway, and on the street. To Alice, the Creep knows so much about music and films -- the names of bands and directors role off his tongue so effortlessly. He's friendly and she wants to please her boss. Yes, she notices to the up-down looks, the innuendo jokes, the stack of blank-cover porn videos he takes home every evening. But, to Alice, it seems like a backdoor invitation to an adult world.

Alice was confused by the arbitrary touching that the Creep indulged in. A touch on her back as she passed through the stockroom door, the brush-by behind the counter, the "accidental" touching of their hands as videos were passed between them. Then one late afternoon she thought she was alone and rifled through the Creep's porn video selection -- "Cum on her Face II," "Glory Hole Whores," "Nympho Cockwhores," "Housewives do Anal" -- but looking up there he was, eyeing her with amusement. She blushed deeply and stammered an apology. He said nothing.

The next day he cupped and squeezed Alice's ass as she stood behind the counter. Again she blushed but said nothing. How could she, there were customers in the shop. The next time it happened he whispered, "Wear a skirt tomorrow." And so we have Alice, for the first time standing in front of a mirror, dressing for work, uncertain what to wear, part of her denying she is doing anything wrong, part of her knowing the wrong she is doing.

The Creep stood behind her, there were no customers but she could see people walk by the front of the store on their way to the pharmacy next door. His fingertips brushed the inside of Alice's thigh, testing her limits. She held her breath, concentrating on his touch. His fingers pressed between her legs and rubbed in an exploratory way the fabric of her underwear. A gurgled "no" rose from your future wife's throat, the final gasp of her conscience, but she didn't move away. He yanked at her panties and she reached around fighting silently to hold them in place. "Okay, okay," he said, "Just stay still."

Alice, bent over the counter, felt the Creep's cock rubbing between her ass cheeks against the cotton fabric of her panties. She heard his grunts and smelled the stale sweat of his excitement. Moments later a hot stream of cum lashed the tight skin of her lower back, a second stream was absorbed by her panties, and then she felt several drops splash against the back of her legs.

I know what you're thinking, Hapless Husband. It was a terrible experience, no wonder she kept it a secret. But there's more to the story. It happened more than once. They never talked about it but when things got quiet in the store Alice would find herself behind the counter and the Creep would be masturbating himself against her ass. Alice's excuse (she did have a boyfriend after all, we shouldn't forget that important fact) was that as long as she kept her panties on it "Wasn't really cheating."

Of course, once she was at college and had some perspective, then she saw how this had to be a secret because, in her own words, "It was disgusting." But, disgusting or not, I have to mention that for years Alice's main masturbation fantasy involved replying those scenes in her mind. In fact, she kept the cum-stained panties from the first episode and, on several occasions masturbated with them in her mouth. They are still in her mother's attic, in a box of old clothes, if you want to search for them.

Let's get back to your story. When your wife stood in front of the mirror and debated what to wear to work, the primitive, pleasure-seeking, part of her brain gushed with chemicals (serotonin mainly). She wasn't conscious of the connection to her past but an old pleasure resurfaced like a visitor from a younger, happier, more hopeful self.

That evening she awaited the dialogue box and sure enough the IT Guy obliged with some complementary remarks on your wife's choice of skirt. Still, in her mind anyway, nothing untoward had occurred since she offered no encouragement , merely a "Thank you" and a few "lols" in reply to his remarks. And then, he admitted wondering what was beneath the tight, ass-hugging skirt your wife wore to work that day. In return he received another "lol." He tried again, asking only for the color of her panties, "pretty please ;)." To her credit, your wife understood that this was step up in the game she was playing and instead of answering, made an excuse and signed out.

It was nearly a week before she ventured back to Facebook. At first she was relieved to find no new message from him but then she felt puzzled, and finally a little hurt. (She blamed her irritability on PMS but really she felt rejected). His green chat button glowed in her side panel but the dialogue box didn't appear.

When you train a dog it's important not to always punish and not to always reward. It's best to mix reward and punishment in an arbitrary way. The unexpected rewards are more pleasurable and the unexpected punishments are more hurtful. The part of her brain that your wife shares with dogs -- that reptilian ganglia located at the base of her skull -- ached with the need for reward. She checked her Facebook page constantly. Still there was no reward, no treat, no pat on the nose. Finally, she clicked on his name and typed the single word, "Blue" and hit "Send."

Who would think that just four letters could change so much in your life, Hapless Husband?

Let's skip the next stage in this sorry tale -- your wife dressing for another man's pleasure and attention, the daily reports of her underwear (not confined to color now but including style and type), and the late night chats on Yahoo (a new account especially created for the purpose). Let's move back again in time to your wife's college days.

Again, your wife lied to you. If you had been paying attention you would have noticed a gap in her account of boyfriends that roughly coincided with her junior year. It would be fair to call your wife a slut during this period, although others have behaved worse. And I don't want to detail every episode here. For the sake of brevity, let's focus on just the incident that triggered several months of sluttishness.

She was at a party on a date. He wanted to leave. She didn't. He left. She stayed. She stumbled on a scene -- a drunk girl slumped over a dirty couch, the busy hands of two guys pulling at her clothes, their words, "cunt," and "pussy," piercing the thumping bass of the music. In the safety of the shadows she watched the firm young asses and tight balls of the guys rise and fall as they took turns between the limply spread legs of the drunk party girl.

As Alice walked away her first thought was "disgusting, so disgusting." The party was emptying out when she spotted the eyes of a man on her. She smiled, aroused and needful of attention. He crossed the room and awkwardly asked after her musical tastes. Alice offered him a look of contempt. That was not what she wanted, not the hesitant pick-up lines of the guy who couldn't get a date, not the three act play of youthful seduction. She pushed her way out and angrily headed towards her dorm. There was a shout behind her, followed by a whistle. "Disgusting," she thought and slowed down. And then Alice devised a plan. She stumbled, turned and slurred her words. She acted drunk. Soon Alice was the party girl, crouched between cars in a parking lot, her mouth stuffed with cock, her pussy already bruised from the rough fingering she received, and her breasts yanked from the cups of her bra.

By the end of the semester Alice had perfected her drunk act. I won't tell you how many times Alice "stumbled", "slurred", and "swayed." She couldn't tell you precisely how many men she duped with her faked drunkenness. However, by the end of her senior year Alice had reformed herself from secret party girl to resemble the woman you would meet several years later. How could she tell you about this phase of her life? They didn't mean anything, these men. It's true that despite her efforts to forget this "disgusting" time of her life, images and memories would continue to invade her thoughts. But what you don't know won't hurt you, right, Hapless Husband?

Let's now visit the fateful day that your wife's sordid fantasies shifted from late night sex chats and episodes of bathroom masturbation to real world adultery. IT guy had been pressing Alice to accompany him for an after-work drink. She resisted at first, telling herself that erotic chat was one thing but meeting outside work would be another thing altogether. But as we know, these matters acquire their own arc of necessity, the "no" always eventually becomes a "yes."

I know you want to know where they went and what they talked about but I'm getting tired of typing and so you'll have to speculate on your own. I'll say this though, Alice prepped the events that unfolded by saying more than once how bad she handled alcohol (you were not the only person she lied to that day). She had no plan as such, and it's true her knees were shaking when they entered the underground parking garage. Yes, she was acting tipsy, needing to steady herself against his arm. She must have known that his mind would be filled with echoes from their late-night Yahoo chats -- the talk of blowjobs and cocks, and cum. He steered your "drunk" wife between two large SUVs, their silly giggles echoing in the vast emptiness of the concrete underground chamber. He congratulated himself on persuading your wife to have a second martini, this was going to be a lot easier than he thought. And he was right. To save myself time I'll give you a list of their sins: 1.They kissed, tongues, clashing teeth. 2.His hand up your wife's skirt, sliding across the silkiness of her panties, feeling the shape of her ass. 3.She moaned, a guttural release from her throat that signaled her overwhelming pleasure at being handled by him. 4. He yanked up her skirt, pushed his hand between her legs, and found her cunt, Alice's cunt, your wife's cunt. One finger and then two. 5.The sound of screeching tires freezes them. Alice feels the furious beating of her heart. 6.They resume their ferocious fumbling. 7.Her knees on the hard concrete floor. 8.The silkiness of his cock-skin, salty against her tongue. 9.Quick now before someone see them! 10.The cavity of your wife's mouth is now full of pulsing cock, saliva, and a sudden burst of gushing cum. She smiles up at him as she swallows and wipes her soiled chin with the back of her hand. 11.They stand sweating and exhausted, rearranging their clothing, confederates in a criminal adventure. 12.You don't smell the cum on your wife's breath -- she pleads a headache, brushes her teeth twice, and pretends to be asleep when you join her in bed. You have no fucking idea, Hapless Husband.

I won't trouble you with accounts of the lunchtime assignation in a motel or Alice's after-work visits to his apartment. However, I will mention your wife's increasingly troubled mind. You see, Alice doesn't think of herself as a cheat or a slut. She understands that she is cheating on you -- after all, she bends over in front of him and shamelessly spreads her ass and pussy for his greedy eyes -- but she doesn't think that she is a cheat. It's not her identity, she's not like that. There must be an explanation, she thinks, and of course, it is you who have brought this about. She cheats because of you, Hapless Husband, not because she is a cheat. As she wipes the cum from between her legs with toilet paper in his bathroom, she looks in the mirror and asks, What is wrong with my marriage? Why can't my husband satisfy me? What makes him so annoying recently? Why does my lover know me better than my husband? And finally, as she reapplies her lipstick, a statement -- If my husband was different, better, more accomplished, this would never have happened.

You, in your naïveté have no clue why you have a suddenly distant, irritable, and criticizing wife. But you never paid attention and you should have done. When you met Alice she was single and you will recall her amusing account of the failings and inadequacies of her previous boyfriend. You weren't paying attention to the details because you were basking in her glowing approval of your fine qualities in comparison to his. You should have paid attention because her complaints resurfaced now but this time it was you who lacked ambition, you who was a slouch around the house, couldn't see what was right under your nose, disrespected her family, drove too fast, drove too slow, never noticed her, was unappreciative, couldn't boil an egg, told too many long boring stories, and so on. In her mind these complaints were all valid and had nothing to do with her cheating. They were just the facts.

It's just too boring to recount here how hurt you were by these criticisms. It's too pathetic to recount your attempts to improve yourself and how the goalposts shifted each time you did. For example, while you painfully followed each step in the tuna bake recipe so that you "could at least cook once in a while," your wife's cunt and tits were being photographed so her lover would have jack-off material between visits. She took only a single mouthful and declared herself "not hungry." You thought, perhaps she doesn't like tuna that much, but really, Hapless Husband, she no longer likes you.

I can't bear this story anymore. The only way Alice can reconcile her actions with her idea of herself is to blame you. If you are at fault, to blame for what she was pushed into doing, then how can she stay married to you? She can only save the marriage by admitting to herself that she is a cheat but, in her mind, she is not a cheat, only someone who was forced to cheat because her husband neglected her, neglected the marriage, and neglected to be someone else.

Yes, it is true, she broke from her lover for a couple of weeks to make sure, in her own mind, that her wish to divorce you was really nothing to do with her affair. Satisfied with her answer to this question she filed the papers. When you asked why she was divorcing you, she repeated her litany of complaints. When you asked if there was "anyone else" she said "of course not."

Oh, Hapless Husband, you should have listened for the lies and the gaps in her earliest stories about herself. If only you could have uncovered the springs of her desire, witnessed the grotesque humping of your future wife in the video store, known of the buried synaptic connection between the thought of work and dressing to be looked at, observed the rough fucking she sought, pretending to be drunk, from the pornography addled men at her college. These shameful secrets, like worms in the ground, were waiting for their opportunity to crawl back to the surface.

A wife is a mystery from which a man is never truly safe. Love is the hatchet and trust is our tomb. Go, Hapless Husband, make your way as best you can.