A Shortfall of Intelligence

Nothing new here, just another tale of a marriage ended prematurely by more lust than brains.

"Fine." My voice remained deadpan.

Brenda's voice rose. "Fine? Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, dear. You are going on a date this Friday with another man."

"And you're OK with that?" Her surprise was impossible to miss.

"Not at all, but what choice do I have? As you pointed out, I don't control you, you are your own person. Your voice and expression tell me you're determined to go through with it, so what option am I left with?"

"I will be back. Don't let your fragile male ego get in the way. I love you, and I will make this up to you, you'll see."

"So you know it's wrong." Again, I kept my voice level and calm.

"What do you mean? I said no such thing! I deserve it."

"Will your parents and my parents agree with you?"

Brenda looked down and didn't answer--dead giveaway.

I let the moment stew in her mind. It wasn't visible, but I knew she still had one. "You know and I know they won't. You know what you're doing is wrong, you just said it."

"What? When?"

"Why else did you say you will make it up to me? If it was lunch with friends you wouldn't have to make it up to me. Or if you went for a haircut. You only said it because you know what you're doing is wrong. And you know that makes you an evil person."

Her voice betrayed uncertainty. "But, but, you said I can do it."

"Nope. Never did, and never will. All I acknowledged was I'm unable to stop you. I most certainly do not approve in any way. I wish you would stay with me, or go out with me. We can go to the same restaurant, and the same dance club afterward. But it's not the meal or the dancing, is it? It's the company you prefer. And that company is not me. You want what's his name, am I right?"

Again the hung head and silence.

"What is his name, anyway?"

"It's not important."

"Whatever. I'm not going to argue about that. Just know this: I do not want you to go with Mr. Pussy Hound, and going out with him on Friday will have consequences."

"What consequences?"

"Like you with Mr. Hound's name, I'm not saying. You're not only beautiful, you are smart, too. I tell you those two things all the time. Apparently you think I only say that because I have to. I don't. I say them because I mean them. I'll leave it to you, intelligent woman, to figure out the consequences of going out on Friday with Mr. Pussy Hound and not me."

"You're bluffing, You love me, you always give me what I want. Well, I want this, and like I said, I will be back and we will love each other and grow old together."

"I can't stop you from doing stupid things, but you've been warned. You're on your own." I got up, grabbed my keys and left before she could say anything further.

--

The temperature in the apartment that whole week was, to say the least, chilly. Thursday night, I took my stuff and moved to the guest room.

"What are you doing, Rick?"

Stopping with an armful of clothes, I looked at her as to a two-year old. "I severely overestimated your intelligence, looks like. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Are you moving out?"

"Duh. My wife wants to go out with other men. Do you think I'm going to sleep in the same room as a cheating slut? Dream on."

Her voice took on the sing-song of a five year old tease. "You are such a wittle boy, scared his wittle wee-wee will be bent out of shape."

Without a word, I took that armful of stuff, hung them in the spare closet and came back for another load.

"So now you're trying to punish the big bad witch with silence," she smirked. "Can you see how pathetic you are?"

"Consequences," was my only reply. She can't say she wasn't warned.

--

Friday afternoon I took off early and went to an upscale unisex salon, where I got myself a professional contemporary haircut, close straight-razor shave and a manicure (no shiny stuff on my nails, though). At the men's clothing store next door I bought a casual-elegant button down shirt, pants and jacket. I considered new shoes, but I figured new shoes and dancing don't go together, so I passed. On the way home I stopped at the car wash and had them do the whole works deep-clean thing. My truck didn't know what hit it.

At home, I took a shower and when I heard Brenda arrive and take her shower, I went downstairs and waited.

A half-hour later, she came down with a new LBD I'd never seen before, several inches above her knee and granting the world a kind and generous view of her cleavage. She paused on the last step and looked at me, as if expecting a compliment.

When I kept silent, she looked at me a second time and her eyes opened like saucers. "Holy shit. You look great. Where are you going?"

"Out. What did you think?" Mimicking her condescending voice, I continued. "That your weakling clueless husband would just sit at home, playing with his wittle weewee and wait till Her Slutty Majesty deigns to make an appearance?"

Shaking my head slowly, I opened the door to the garage and continued with a curt tone, "And I thought you were smart. How wrong can one man be? Well, I don't want to be late, Charmaine hates that." Getting into my clean truck, I heard the scream and smiled. Gotcha!

--

Charmaine and I had a terrific evening at a wine bar that served light dinners and had a live piano player on weekends to populate their smallish dance floor. At work we'd already discovered conversation flowed easily between us. Even better, she appreciated my humor. Yes, it's a cliché, but it's true: few things capture a guy's heart like a woman laughing at his jokes. Dancing together was like having sex on shoes. We fit together and, more than once, lips feather-touched ears, cheeks and lips. Our bodies extruded magic as we pressed together.

However, we both knew I was still married and respected what that did and didn't mean. So we spent a long, leisurely evening drinking wine and letting our eyes play flirty games with each other as we chatted.

Brenda, as I mentioned, is beautiful and passionate. A downside of passionate, though, is jealousy, and I was almost certain the thought of me cavorting with Miss DD Charmaine would drive her nuts and destroy the wonderful time she had anticipated having with her new and lusty Mr. Pussy Hound.

When I dropped Charmaine off at her apartment, she did me a solid by dabbing a drop of her perfume on my shirt, and smearing freshly made-up lips on my shirt collar, neck and cheek. With a peck on the cheek, she said goodnight. "Go get her, Tiger."

We laughed as I got in my truck and set off home.

It was barely ten when I walked in to The Big Chill. "Where the hell have you been?"

"None of your business," I replied, nonchalant. "You never said where you went with your anonymous Mr. P. Hound. I would have asked you if you used condoms, but I don't care any more if you rot from the inside, because I'm never touching your skanky, cheating body again. So, I don't care where you went, what you did or with whom you did it. I had a fantastic time, and I thank you very much for it."

"What do you mean, thank me?"

"Don't you see? If you hadn't gotten the boneheaded idea of opening our marriage, I would never have had the opportunity to get to know Charmaine better. What a woman. Hot, hot hot. So, thank you, dear."

"Argh!" Brenda screamed at the top of her lungs, making me wonder if a neighbor might call the cops. "You know I hate that bitch!"

"Hmm... Why do you think she was the first person I called?"

Aghast, she stared at me, aghast. "Wha... wha... What did you say?"

"Yet again, I seem to have overestimated your intelligence. Pull it together for a second, this is not rocket science. You decide to reject me and rub my nose in it, by dressing up for some anonymous asshole, wearing clothes you've never worn for me, and you're surprised when I follow your example? You redefined the terms of our marriage--over my objection--and I just did what you did. The only difference is I was honest enough to tell you who I stepped out with. For some weird reason you are too ashamed of your accomplices to name them. So... Ms. Rocket Scientist, what exactly is your problem?"

The wind taken from her sails, Brenda deflated before my eyes, and two tears slid down her cheeks.

Not giving her the chance for a second breath, I continued. "So let me guess, Kevin South didn't get your pussy tonight like he hoped."

Another squeal, this time filled with pathos, filled the air, complete with hands to the mouth. "How did you know?"

Using a game show announcer's voice, I intoned, "And once again, your mind's inadequacies go on full display. Think, for once. You work in an office with at least ten other women. Kevin is the biggest pussy hound anyone has ever seen. Everyone there knows who's screwing who, and they talk about it. You used to, too. So, peabrain, did you think for one second you'd be an exception? For more than a month several of your so-called friends have told me how you were not only falling for Kevin's crap, but had begun seeking it out. Googly-eyes, one of your coworkers called it. Who knows? Maybe he dumped her for you--hell hath no fury and all that. According to the scuttlebutt, tonight he was going to make you his, he even had a room at the Marriott. Apparently he uses the Marriott for the first night. After that, it's Motel 6 or the woman's home. Did you not know that?"

Her big eyes told me she was shocked and appalled at being exposed as ignorant, gullible and such an easy mark.

A crying fit overtook her. "Oh, Rick. I am sorry! You're right, I'm such a fool. How can you stand to be married to a stupid bitch like me?"

"Ah, Brenda, good news: I don't have to. I don't need to stay married to your dumb, skanky ass. You will be served here tomorrow after breakfast. We rent this house, and have three more months, so you can renew or use the time to find something you like better."

"Where will you go?" she asked with a small voice.

"Charmaine said I can stay with her while I figure out something. She has a second bedroom she's using for an office. Once I've filed, she said, we can explore better terms. When I told her I'm filing tomorrow, she laid out those terms. Nice ones. Can't wait to explore them further.

"Everything else you and I have, we'll just split down the middle. Now you can go fuck whoever you want and you don't have to put up with crap from a wimpy husband and his wittle wee-wee. I hope Kevin is worth it."

Epilogue

I got together with some of the other husbands victimized by Kevin, aka Mr. Hound. After dinner one night, he found his car vandalized--windows broken, paint scratched up, baby poo on all the seats, wheels stolen, and I forget what else. While he surveyed the damage, three unidentified masked men, all clothed in black, wordlessly robbed him and beat him up badly. The police were mystified why muggers after his wallet and fake Rolex would pulverize his family jewels, but since there were no witnesses and the parking lot cameras were paintballed, they had nothing to go on. The four spouses of his victims were playing poker at one of their houses. After he recovered, he moved out of state. Nobody knows--or cares--where.

Brenda moved out, found an apartment, but when she realized I was happily attached to Charmaine, she also moved out of state. Never saw her again.

I stayed with Charmaine for a while, but we mutually decided short-term fun did not necessarily lead to long-term compatibility, so I moved out and found a townhouse close to work.

Older, wiser, and fitter, I found a good connection with a fellow member of the gym I used. One thing led to another, as it is wont to do at times like these, and I found happiness with someone who had real brains between her ears, and loyalty in her heart.