AI Era: I Smell Trouble

Speaking of Nora, she and Mark have been dating now for about six months. At first, Sally and I were surprised by this. We had Mark pegged as an eternal bachelor, dating lots of women but never settling down. However, he has always had a type: cute female string players. I think he was a goner once he heard Nora play the mandolin. He has since taught her son how to play string bass, and gets along with him like gangbusters. I join them from time to time with my fiddle, and we play for square dances and contradances together.

Sally and I have continued to go to our therapists, and our PTSD slowly improved. We were able to slowly desensitize ourselves to the concept of Tom Wilson. I think we've done a pretty fair job of it. We are still occasionally triggered by thoughts of him, but it is now more of an annoyance than a problem. Whenever she thinks of him now, it is not as a powerful rape figure who debased and traumatized her, but as a flaccid figure of fun. A pathetic pipsqueak. An insignificant nothing. A contemptible cunt. A vision of derision.

I founded a startup based on my e-nose, and have licensed the technology to several industries, such as animal husbandry, medical diagnostics and law enforcement. The royalties have so far paid off our mortgage and all of Sally's med school debts. Next on the list for us are a few exotic trips, hopefully followed by starting a family. Do we still use the e-nose at home? Yes, but only for fun. This whole experience has increased our regard for marital trust and transparency. If I want to have sex, I just ask Sally. If she has a problem at work, she tells me. We won't be using the e-nose for either of those things again.

The puns and wordplay at the core of our relationship are back online. Some of our friends may find our wordplay about rape a bit unsettling. However, to us, it is a sign of strength and mental health, and that our easy intimacy is back to stay. Whenever we find ourselves backsliding, it is tremendously therapeutic to indulge in a bit more pun punishment at the expense of Tom Wilson.

And yes, we did resume having sex together. It was a slow start, but it has been wonderful. One memorable example was after dinner at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants. Sally had her favorite combination platter, along with her customary multiple shots of El Muerto hot sauce. Sally says that there is no definitive medical proof that capsaicin is an aphrodisiac. However, it really seems to get her own personal sexual motor running. I have absolutely no complaints about that, but did express concern about her lips touching my penis after eating so much capsaicin. In the end, Sally's dinner inflamed only her passions, and not the tender tissues of my taint. Our fiery sex was only figurative, and no scrotal exfoliation followed. The AI was out of our sex lives, but the ai-ai-ai was definitely there! We cuddled in bed afterwards, and found ourselves drifting into yet another round of paronomasia and verbal bitch-slapping of Fuckface Wilson.

"Wow, you certainly shocked his cock!"

"Honey, I did major malice to his phallus!"


"You created a new sport: pole volting."

"His pole was re-volting, so I zapped him several more times."

"Did you fry his stiffy in a jiffy?"

"Hell, I blasted his johnson to Wisconsin!"

Game, set and match to Sally. Again. I know by now that the only way I can top my sweetie in a duel of puns is to flip her over into doggie position and top her in a different way. Topping her brains out seems to level the playing field for a little while at least. But then my brilliant wife's mind reboots, and I go back to being the punderdog once again.

Mexican food is a gift that keeps on giving. As we lay there in post-coital and post-paronomasic bliss, Sally ripped off a humongous, Richter 6.0, technicolor fart. The e-nose by the bed went nuts for a moment, recorded a new high score, and then settled back down.

I raised my eyebrows at her. "Wow, that was a good one. Further fond feelings for Fuckface?"

In her best Monty Python French accent, she curled her lip and said, "I fart in his general direction."

Romantic, isn't it? Well, all I care is that my sweet canary is back and singing in the mines again. It may be just a fart to you guys, but to me it's the Hallelujah Fucking Chorus.

THE END