40 Years of Earth Days


Nonetheless, his rejection of her makes her feel old and unwanted, much like those fossils that he uses as classroom demonstration aids. She could look better, no doubt, with a lift here, a nip there, and a tuck pretty much everywhere, along with a bit of exercise to firm her up a bit. Maybe if she had the vanity of a younger woman and was younger, she'd summoned the courage to get breast implants and liposuction, but not at her age. Satisfied with the way she looks at her age, why would she compensate for something she doesn't need or want with plastic surgery, just to please and appease him?

Besides, he'd still reject her anyway. Even with a total, physical makeover, she'd never match the excitement that he obviously feels, needs, wants, and receives from being around twenty-something-year-olds. If he's still no longer interested in her now, after all she's done for him, there's nothing that she could possibly do to herself to make him more interested in her, again.

Still, she couldn't help but wonder, what hold does he have over women so young? How does he attract so many of them? Why do they all flock to him and want him enough to travel with him, dine with him, and go to bed with him? The logic of it all escaped her. It was then that she wondered if she'd be as sexually promiscuous, as he obviously is, flaunting herself at younger men and playing the horny cougar, if she had a sudden wealth of money available to her to travel the world, as he has and as he does.

Do they all want an A grade so badly that they'll go to bed with a dirty, old man, a senior citizen, or are they just looking for an old, sugar Daddy to stick onto and to suck? Do they ever think of her, his loyal wife of 40 years, sitting at home alone, while they fuck and suck her husband? What's wrong with these women that they all freely flock to him, throw themselves at his feet, and fall to their knees to suck away, whatever they can get of him, while hoping, no doubt, for more?

After all the women's liberation that her generation had fought so hard to get, these women are willing to degrade themselves by turning the clock back 50 years for the sake of bedding an old, wrinkled man. They are all educated women, who should all know better, than to have him reduce them into such lowlife bitches, fighting to become one of his favored and favorite assistants for the chance to willingly have sex with a married, dirty, old man. She didn't understand the attraction. She'd never understand the attraction.

She wondered what, if anything, her husband told them about her. Maybe he told them that she's a bitch. Maybe he told them that she's a drunk. Maybe he told them that she's stupid. Maybe he told them that she's boring. Certainly, she's all of those things now, but she wasn't any of those things before. If she was guilty of anything then, she was guilty of being in love with him, her crime of passion punishable by him taking advantage of her with all of his infidelities.

She was young. She was a virgin. She was in love with him. He's due all the credit for making her into all of those other things, a stupid, drunken, boring bitch. Now, the worst of it all is that he doesn't even remember her name.

If she's a bitch, and she doesn't think she is a bitch, he made her a bitch in the way he has treated her. Besides, just because she will no longer tolerate his disrespectful, bad behavior of her, and just because she's, finally, decided to stand up for herself and up to him, her new found self-esteem shouldn't label her as a bitch, but more as a self-respecting woman and as his loving wife. No one should have put up with what she's had to endure for forty years.

Even, though she's drinking now, she never drank before and she's certainly not a drunk. For sure, her life would be easier, if she was a drunk. She could have numbed herself with alcohol in the way she numbed herself into believing whatever he told her. She was so stupid to trust him, but love is blind and she loved him. Besides, she's just having a little champagne, is all, to celebrate forty, fucking years of being married to this miserable, ungrateful, cheating asshole.

Yes, definitely, she's stupid to have put up with all his sordid affairs for all these years. Someone should give her a medal. Even though he was, oftentimes, bigger than life, she was stupid not to have stood up to him, once he started disrespecting her by not taking her with him on his trips. Then and there, she should have put her foot down. She should have known he was up to something by suddenly not inviting her to accompany him.

"Eye candy my ass, how dare he?" She said reinforcing her anger with another long sip of champagne.

She was stupid not to have made her wants and needs known early in their marriage. She was stupid to have relinquished her control by not fighting for her self-respect. She never should have given in to him by accepting, whatever he said as law, and passively agreeing with him to placate his mood, so that he wouldn't be upset, before leaving for a trip. She realized now that his delicate mood was just a ruse and something he used, so that she wouldn't complain, when he told her that he was taking one of his students, instead of her. In that regard, for letting him use her and bamboozle her, she's just as much to blame for his infidelity as he is.

Then, she thought, that's ridiculous to accept any responsibility for his cheating. None of his unfaithfulness was her fault. She's been saint like in her treatment of him, worshipping him, as if he could walk on water. It'd be easier if he had cheated on her with one of their friends, someone more their age. She could have accepted that. She'd have understood that, and his infidelity would have been on more of an even playing field, had he chosen a lover her age. She could have competed with her for his love. Only, understandably and regrettably, with his head spun by a twenty-something-year-old with big tits, there was nothing that she could do to turn his head back around enough to want her.

If she's boring at all, it's because he doesn't take the time to talk to her or even look at her. If she's boring at all, it's because he's no longer interested in her and in what she has to say. None of that is her fault; it's all his fault. He's the one who's boring by being the stereotypical, dirty old man, instead of being the loving and faithful husband, whom she thought loved her and whom she thought she was marrying.

What do they think about, while making love to her husband, she wondered? Maybe the women he seduces think about someone else, someone younger and someone harder. Surely, when with him, they must miss their boyfriends and friends more their age, after being with someone as old and as wrinkled as he is. Maybe they think about all the money they think he'll spend on them. Apparently, they don't know he's Scottish, a true Scotsman with a family kilt and all, and a real tightwad, when it comes to parting with his hard earned money, which is why he has so much of it and why she receives so little of it.

His little whores know he has money, no doubt, money that she never sees and money that he never spends on her. He doles out the money that she needs for household expenses. Except for the sales job she had, after college and after they were first married, she's never worked outside the house. He didn't want her to work and she's grateful for that in a way, but bored by not having had a job and never having had a career.

She couldn't imagine having to work full-time, while caring for him, too. Instead of the man she thought she was marrying, instead of the husband she thought she was getting, he's more like an ungrateful teenager coming and going, as he pleases, without so much as a thank you for all that she does for him. Nonetheless, bored and wanting to make her own money and pay her own way, she wanted him to get her a job at the university, but he refused and now she knows why.

He told her that she'd have enough to do around the house and in readying him and making the preparations for his numerous trips. Truth be told, he didn't want her to find out about all his dalliances, but she did anyway. Apparently, she's not as stupid as he thinks she is.

Maybe his gullible assistants think he'll divorce her and marry one of them. Not by a long shot, he's too cheap to pay off his wife of 40 years, splitting all his assets in half, and then having to share what's left of his money with someone young enough to be his granddaughter. He's foolishly stupid, but he's not financially dumb.

He's worked too hard to spend the rest of his life with a child. Even he is smart enough to know that he needs a good woman by his side to help him get up in the morning and get through his day. For someone so educated and so enlightened, a teacher of young minds, for him to discard and disrespect his wife in the way that he does, he's a stupid man not to appreciate what he has in her at home.

Alas, he won't realize what he has in her, his wife, until she's no longer there, one day, to take care of him. Does he think that one of his young, buxom blondes will make sure that he takes his daily regimen of medication? Moreover, wait until they see what he really looks like in the morning, before he straightens out his tired, old body with an extensive pharmaceutical elixir of pills and cups of hot, black coffee. Further, he snores as loud as a donkey brays and, from all the rich food he eats, he farts in his sleep, passing enough methane gas that if she smoked, she'd explode the poisonous and odorous cloud that hangs low over their bed and set the room on fire.

"Oh, and I left my baby parked out in the street," he said. "A photographer from the magazine is coming to photograph her."

"Yes, Dear."

His baby. She's not his baby, not by a long shot. It's obvious to her now, by the procession of women he's had in his life over the years, she never was his baby. Too selfish to have a baby, he doesn't have any children either, nor does he have any pets. Too self-centered to have a pet, surely, a dog or a cat would take away some of the attention that he needs every day for him to continue to work his plastic smile and walk his peacock strut. He may call his young, buxom, blonde assistants baby in private, but they aren't really his babies either. His real baby, his only baby is, of course, an inanimate, unfeeling, and incommunicative object, an automobile, his beloved car. That's his real baby.

A sticking point with her that has festered like an open wound for all these years, especially when continually referring to his car as his baby, he never gave her a baby. It was always, wait until I finish with my studies, wait until I earn my Ph.D., wait until I have tenure, wait until I finish writing this book, that book, and more books, and wait until my books sell. Wait, wait, and wait, by then, the time had passed and it was too late.

The day finally came when the doctor told her that she had waited too long and that she could no longer have children. Her beloved husband had no inclination to adopt or to waste his money, his words, on in vitro fertilization. It was obvious that he didn't want to vie for her attention with a baby and then a child. With her attention only focused on him, he needed to have her all for himself.

"I figured it would look nice for Classic Car Magazine to have a background of our house with the Weeping Willow tree out front, when photographing my baby. Don't you think?"

Don't you think, sweet Elizabeth, you insufferable ass? What do you think, dearest Elizabeth, you obnoxious bastard? Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, she wanted to say. In case you've forgotten my name, the name of your wife of forty fucking years, my fucking name is Elizabeth, you self-centered, self-absorbed, little prick of a man.

Say it. Say Elizabeth. Look me in the eyes and say my fucking name, you sanctimonious son of a bitch. Say Elizabeth, you sack of shit, before I shoot you through your stone cold, black heart, you miserable excuse for a man and even poorer excuse for a husband.

Then, she thought, do you really want to know what I think? Or are you asking me one of your famous, rhetorical questions that you ask and never give anyone sufficient time to respond, a thought provoking question that stimulates you to continue talking non-stop without ever stopping to listen. No matter. This is what I think, dear Gordon fucking Gordon.

The fact that your parents named you Gordon and gave you a middle name of Gordon, too, the two names, when said in unison with your surname, redundantly reverberates your old English heritage in an annoying singsong way. A name that I imagine someone back in 12th century England had, before being executed for having sex with one too many damsels from the King's Court. With your neck on the chopping block and a rowdy crowd of peasants cheering the executioner on in the background, saying your full name is much like uttering a goading cheer, Gordon, Gordon, Gordon, before the executioner's axe beheads you, Dear dead Gordon.

What do I think? First of all, I can't believe you are actually asking my opinion. Yet, to answer your question, this is what I think, Dear Gordon Gordon Gordon. I think it would look nice to have the Weeping Willow tree stuck up your skinny ass and the car, your baby, parked on your fat head. Now, there's a picture that I'd like to see on the cover of Rest In Peace, Funeral Home magazine, if there is such a publication.

"That would look nice, Dear," she said taking another sip of her champagne.

"It's a little early to be drinking, isn't it Lizzie?"

As if he were her father, as if he had the right to say anything to her, he shot her a scolding look that made her want to throw the champagne in his face and mess up his perfectly coiffed, dyed hair, but she didn't want to waste good champagne on him.

What do you know? He called her by her name. He called her Lizzie. He hasn't called her that in years. He must be in a good mood. He must be thinking of fondling Christine's big tits, while she sucks his little, limp, wrinkled dick.

"I'm celebrating our fortieth anniversary of happy matrimony together, Dear," she said raising her glass to him, before raising it to her lips. "I admit that my celebration is a bit premature because you are leaving me so early. Have a glass of champagne with me, before you dash off to wherever the Hell it is you disappear to every April," she said filling a second glass of champagne from the chilled bottle.

She expected him to apologize for forgetting their anniversary, yet, again. She expected him to give her a kiss and a hug, wish her happy anniversary, and have a glass of champagne with her. She hoped and wished that he'd pull an anniversary gift from his ass, a huge diamond ring, and slip it on her finger, before he ran out the door. Only, he didn't do any of those things. Instead, as if the house was on fire, he was anxious to go and to leave her alone to her bad self.

"I can't," he said looking at his watch. "I'm late already. Oh, there's my cab," he said looking out the window, grabbing his briefcase, and turning to leave her, without so much as even giving her a glance, a kiss, a hug good-bye, or even wishing her Happy Anniversary. "Ta-ta," he said looking straight ahead and still not acknowledging her with so much as a look and/or a smile.

Ta-ta? Ta-ta?

I'll show you ta-ta with my foot up your tight ass, she thought, while following him out the front door wanting so badly to kick him through the glass door. Then, she spotted her. Ah, there she is. There's Christine waiting for him in the taxi already. She's always so prompt, ready, and available. They make for such a nice couple, don't they? The dirty, old man professor and the cock sucking whore of a student. They must be heading off for breakfast, before having sex at his campus apartment, on the pretense of preparing for his lecture.

Elizabeth spotted her sitting in the back seat of the cab looking so blonde, so perky, and so pretty. The back of her head would make for such a good target, if only she had a rifle with a scope. If she had a gun with a bullet big enough, she could knock her blonde head clean off her shoulders. Bulls-eye. Bye-bye Christine.

"Yoo-Hoo, Christine, you little home wrecking, cock sucking whore. Yoo-hoo." Elizabeth called out to her with a little wave that Christine, no doubt, didn't hear nor turn her head to acknowledge.

Look at her. Christine is so pretty. Isn't she? She's so blonde, so thin, so busty, so self-important, and so perfect. I hate her.

With the thoughts of what women used to do to women, who had sex with their husbands in the old days of Sicily, she thought of what she'd love to do to Christine. Elizabeth imagined opening the rear door of the taxi, pulling her out of the cab, dragging her across the street by her long, blonde hair, stripping her naked, and beating her unconscious with the champagne bottle, before pounding her pretty head against the concrete sidewalk, until her face, her hair, and her clothes were a bloody mess. Then, with her hands wrapped tightly around her long, thin, swan like neck, she imagined strangling her to death and not stopping until her bright, blue eyes popped out of her bloody head.

If she was older than 22-years-old, she'd be surprised. The younger his assistants get, the bigger their tits are, the older he grows, and the more insufferably obnoxious and full of himself he becomes. Yes, they are, indeed, the perfect couple with both of them getting what they want, before getting what they deserve.

He's such a dirty bastard. He's such a pig. For him to think that she'd put up with his bad behavior for so many years and not snap is surprising to her. For such a smart man, he's such a stupid man. It's all about him and never about her. He must think so little of her to think that she'd continue to allow him to disrespect her in the way that he does. She was able to control her temper all these years, but not now and not anymore.

She followed him outside to the curb and he turned to her before getting in the cab. He actually acknowledged her with his look. She couldn't believe it. He looked right at her and even made eye contact with her. For a moment, she actually thought he was going to smile at her and say something endearing, something that she could take away with her to remember him by, should he and his little slut, Christine, be killed in an airplane crash, burned alive, and their bodies burnt beyond recognition, but she should be so lucky and she should have known better.

"Yes, my love," she said with a smile. "What is it?"

Tell me you love me, you cad. Say it. Close the fucking cab door on Christine's leg and come back to me on the front porch to tell me that you can't bear to leave me on, yet, another wedding anniversary, our 40th. Then, kiss me in front of your little whore, while humping me and grabbing my ass, in the way that you used to do with me, when we were first married, and in the way that I imagine you do now, to your bevy of bodacious sluts.

Wish me a happy 40th anniversary. Wish me Happy Earth Day. Wish me that you hope I'll drop fucking dead, while you're gone. Wish me whatever? Only, say something to me.

Apologize to me for being such a pompous and self-centered, cheating prick. Say you're sorry for being so ungrateful and unappreciative of all that I do for you. Say, Happy Anniversary, Elizabeth. Say I love you, Elizabeth. Say that I will miss you, while I'm gone, Elizabeth. Say it! Say it! Say it!

"After they're done photographing the car, don't forget to move my baby back in the garage and put the top up and the car cover over it. I don't want bird shit or sap from the tree getting on it," he said without so much as a smile. "Don't drive it, though. Just release the handbrake, shift it to neutral, and push it in the garage very carefully. Wear your white gloves, so you don't get your fingerprints on the paint. I just had it detailed."

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