"Diary of a Mad, Sad Man"

"Careful, fuck-face," Conner snapped at me before telling Amy: "If he scratches my equipment I'm gonna be pissed."

Amy said something that made him laugh. He smirked at me.

"Your wife says she wants to watch while I kick your ass. She said it would make her horny."

I forced a grin, trying to play it off as a joke, and concentrated on moving the speaker. Conner continued romancing Amy while I heaved and sweated and finally managed to get the subwoofer onto the truck.

It took about three hours to pack and load everything. When the apartment was empty other than the furniture and appliances he was leaving behind, Conner told me to clean up so he could get his security deposit back.

"I'm headed to my new crib so I can be with my sexy new roommate," he said. "My girl's hot, ain't she?"

I croaked: "Yes, she's ... she's very beautiful."

"Damn right she is." Conner jerked his thumb. "Now, get this place clean and then move all my shit into the house. I'll see you over there"

My bottom lip quivered as he gripped his guitar and sauntered away.

After tidying the apartment I drove home, physically and emotionally wrung out, knowing I had a lot more hard work and heartache ahead of me.

Amy supervised the unpacking; I again had to carry everything myself. Conner's music equipment went in the garage. I choked up as I folded his underwear and arranged it in the top drawer of my old dresser in the master bedroom. The permanence of the situation really sank in when I set up his toiletries and toothbrush next to Amy's on the master bathroom sink.

That night, I cooked dinner while the lovebirds relaxed and watched television. Seeing them together broke me. I cried into the stir-fry. I wanted them to taste my tears.

I reported dinner was ready, and they drifted into the dining room hand-in-hand. Amy stopped and gestured toward the table's three place-settings.

"What the fuck is this? I told you this was a job for you. You're, like, our waiter; you don't eat with us. Take that fucking plate away and go stand in the kitchen — but keep checking back to see if we need anything."

As I scurried away, Amy told her lover: "Stupid fuck; thought he was gonna sit down with us. He just don't get it."

Dinner lasted nearly an hour, and the whole time I stood in the kitchen feeling like a sad fool. I limped into the dining room every few minutes to see if they needed refills, per Amy's instructions. It had been an excruciating day moving Conner into our house. My feet throbbed and my back was killing me. I longed to sit down. But Amy had told me to stand, so I toughed it out.

I kept reminding myself: If Amy wants to treat me this way, I should rejoice. At least I'm fulfilling her wishes, which means I have a place in her life. Her cruelty isn't her fault. Anyone would have major problems if they had a childhood like hers. She still wants me around; that's the main thing. I can't save her if she's out of my life.

Amy and Conner enjoyed post-meal cigarettes before moving to the living room. I was clearing the dinner table when she called: "When you're done with the dishes, come do my feet."

I'd given my wife dozens of foot massages but it was embarrassing to humble myself that way in front of her boyfriend.

"He does this great," Amy told Conner as I lathered her left foot with lotion. She brushed my nose with her right big toe and lit a joint. "When you're done with me, do Conner."

So I did. His manly feet were unsettling. He kept me at it for more than an hour while he cuddled with my wife, gazing at the TV through half-closed, stoned eyes.

"This is great." He sighed as I worked lotion into his heel. "It's good to have a flunky around."

Amy smacked her lips. "I got his ass trained." She stared at me. "Don't I? You'll do anything for me, won't you?"

I blinked back tears. "Yes, Amy, I want you to be happy."

"What about my baby?" She nuzzled her cheek on Conner's shoulder. "Don't you want him to be happy too?"

I bit my lip. "Yes, I just want you both to be happy."

Conner nudged my hands with his foot. "What would make me happy right now is if you'd shut the fuck up so I can hear the TV. Get back on them toes."

I was finally dismissed when they went to bed just before 2 a.m. I plodded to the guest room, set the alarm for 5:45 and hit the sack, completely wiped out. I closed my eyes but Amy's squeals from the master bedroom kept me awake.

The next morning I returned to my brokerage firm. I was bleary-eyed and exhausted, which gave me good cover for my flu story. Everyone stayed away, thinking I'd infect them.

I got home from work a few minutes after 6. The house was a complete disaster. I hung my coat in the closet and started cleaning.

My new life had begun.

It was downhill from there.

About a week after moving in, Conner commandeered the guest room. I was serving breakfast in bed when he broke the news by imitating Lumbergh from the movie "Office Space."

"Yeah ... I'm gonna need you to go ahead and move down to the basement. I'm converting the guest room into my X-Box cave, so you're gonna need to get the fuck out — and if you could get that done today, that'd be great. M'kay? Thanks a bunch."

I bowed my head while Amy cracked up.

After doing the breakfast dishes, I tried to cram all my stuff into the basement utility room but the space was too small. Amy made me throw out everything that didn't fit.

My wife never was warm and fuzzy with me, but since Conner moved in she treats me with open disdain. She rarely talks to me unless it's filtered through a sneer. She's lost whatever tiny bit of respect she had for me, because what kind of man would agree to this arrangement?

Our New World Order household isn't easy, but it didn't take long to learn the routine. Most nights when I get home from work the house is a mess. They just throw shit everywhere, flick ashes on the floor and leave dirty dishes in every room. The toilets are often unflushed, with droplets of Conner's piss splattered on the toilet rim and floor tiles.

I have about an hour to spruce up the house and fix dinner. They want it on the table by 7 p.m., so I've learned to multi-task, cleaning up after them while keeping an eye on the cooking.

Amy's usually home alone or eating out with friends on Tuesdays and Thursdays while Conner rehearses with his band Cyclops. Amy thinks they're great, and so does Conner, but they suck. They've been together four years and have played only two gigs — and one of those was the drummer's brother's middle school graduation party. Band practice is basically an excuse for four losers to get together and do coke while butchering the same five AC/DC songs. But it gets the dickhead out of the house two nights a week, and that's fine with me.

My wife and her lover quickly got used to having a servant at their beck and call, and their cruelty bubbled to the surface. I just went along with it, swallowing the humiliation, focusing on Amy, dreaming about whisking her away from this world of sin.

I soon began to harbor another vision: Wiping that smug look off Conner's face by putting a bullet in his head, or rat poison in his mashed potatoes.

A few weeks after Conner moved in, I got slapped for the first time. He had ordered me to fill his car up with gas, but I got distracted with my other chores and forgot. He had to stop at the gas station on his way to band practice. When he got home he backhanded me across the chops. I sobbed while Amy looked on, beaming.

Now, they regularly slap me for the most minor infractions. Sometimes Conner will hit me for no reason and say something like, "that's for being a little bitch."

They keep coming up with new rules. Once after Conner slapped me, Amy ordered me to thank him. I did, and from then on that became the standing requirement.

One evening, I mistakenly called Amy "honey," which pissed off Conner something fierce. After he beat the shit out of me, he told me I was to refer to my wife as "ma'am," while he preferred "sir."

Amy didn't like the idea. "Ma'am makes me sound old," she said. "Call me Mistress."

"Yes Mistress." It just rolled off the tongue. Conner slapped me again. Mistress cackled.

Another rule: After the dinner dishes are washed and the kitchen cleaned up, I report to them for their nightly foot massages. They'll smoke herb, do lines, make out and watch TV while I rub their feet until my hands ache. Usually they keep me at it for at least an hour each, sometimes longer.

They generally ignore me while I pamper them, but sometimes if they're in a cruel mood — which is a given when they're on coke — they'll fuck with me. One of Conner's favorite tricks is to clamp the roach clip on my nose, and every now and then one of them will flick it. They die laughing at the faces I make while trying to concentrate on their foot massages.

Then there are my sexual duties. Unfortunately, they don't involve my wife.

This responsibility was added to my plate one evening about a year ago, when Conner summoned me to the master bedroom.

I stood at the foot of the bed, where my wife and her lover cuddled.

"You called, sir?"

"Yeah, I got a little problem. Your wife here just started on the rag, and I'm fucking horny. Now, how do we fix that? Can you think of anything?"

My blood ran cold. I knew exactly what he was insinuating.

Amy sat up, exposing her tits. "I'd give him a blowjob, but I feel nasty when I'm on my period." Her eyes ripped through me. "So you do it."

I felt queasy. "Oh, please, Mistress, I'm begging you, don't make me do that."

"She ain't making you do it, fag — I am." Conner threw back the sheets, revealing his huge cock. "Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, but you're sucking my dick tonight. What's it gonna be?"

We did it the easy way, although there was nothing easy about it. His dick tasted like chicken and smelled like fish. I just closed my eyes and tried to get through it. After a few minutes he grabbed my ears and started fucking my throat, causing me to gag, choke and gurgle with each thrust. It was pure hell.

Amy gasped. "God, that's fucking hot. Skull-fuck that fat little faggot."

Her betrayal burned hotter than hell.

Finally, Conner pulled his dick out of my mouth and pumped it with his fist until arrows of cum lashed my nose, forehead and hair.

After Conner's spasms subsided he planted his foot on my ribs and shoved me. I tumbled off the bed and slammed onto the floor.

He chuckled. "Leave that splooge on your face all night."

"I hear it's great for the skin," Amy giggled.

Conner grunted at me. "Get the fuck out of here."

I ran from their bedroom and blubbered into my pillow all night. I swore I'd buy a pistol the next day and blow his fucking brains out. By morning the feeling had passed, and I was my normal, pitiful self again.

Although I have a high-stress job, the office is the only place I can go to relax. The stock market rollercoaster is nothing compared to life at home. I need the escape. But as soon as I get to work I find myself aching to be near Amy. Round and round it goes.

I thought I had been dealing with it okay until recently. I don't know why I've been feeling so anxious lately. Maybe I'm finally getting tired of it all. I work long hours at the firm earning money for them, and then when I get home I wait on them hand and foot, bowing, scraping, brown-nosing. In return, they treat me like dog shit and laugh about it. I'm always the butt of the joke. I always get the shitty end of the stick. And like the sap I am, I just fake a smile and thank them for the abuse.

I look in the mirror and see a pathetic toad; a short, fat loser. Who would want to spend New Year's Eve with me?

It's 11:43 — 17 minutes to go.

It's a sad-sack solitary party down here in my sad-sack basement cubby hole. The décor is early sad sack: A mattress on the floor, three plastic milk crates for my clothes, a laptop, and the ironing board in the corner, where I worked my ass off earlier today making sure Amy would look perfect at the party. She kept changing her mind, so I ended up ironing four different outfits. She finally settled on one of the many "little black dresses" in her closet. This one has taffeta trim, and it's a pain to iron.

The delicate job was made more difficult because Conner kept interrupting me. I was halfway through Amy's dress when he bellowed from upstairs: "Smedley!"

How I hate that nickname! Conner came up with it a few months ago. He says I remind him of Smedley the short, fat elephant from the Cap'n Crunch commercials.

I carefully draped Amy's dress over the ironing board so as not to wrinkle it and rushed up the stairs. Amy and Conner expect me to scamper when they call me — yet another rule they've imposed along the way.

I rushed into the living room, where Conner was sprawled out on the couch, clicking through TV channels. As I approached him, he drawled, "Pull the shade down, Smedley, the sun's in my eyes."

"Yes, sir," I bowed to him and swiftly carried out his order. Then I stood before the man who had stolen my wife and did a quick scan to see if he needed anything. His iced tea glass was full. Two fat joints and the lighter were arranged in the ashtray. His smokes and cell phone were on the table in front of him. The asshole was all set.

I cleared my throat. "Will there be anything else, sir? Mistress has me ironing her dress, and I've also got to shine her shoes before she gets out of the bathroom."

He didn't look away from the TV. "No, go, and make sure my shoes are shined, too, Smedley."

"Yes, sir. They're already shined and ready for the party, sir."

"Oh. Good. Then go."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." I turned on my heel and headed downstairs.

I continued ironing Amy's dress, gently touching the tip of the iron to the wispy material. I quailed when I heard Conner's voice again: "Smedley, get your fat ass up here."

He sounded pissed. I set down the dress and iron and bolted up the stairs as fast as I could. Within seconds I again stood before the man of the house, twiddling my fingers and shifting my weight from foot to foot.

He rattled the ice of his otherwise empty glass. "Is there some new rule I wasn't made aware of? Do I have to get my own drinks around here now?"

"N-no, sir, of course not, sir."

"Well, then, dick-nose, I've got a little problem. See, I got cotton-mouth, and I go to take a drink and I get ... this." He jingled the ice again. "Nothing to drink. Empty glass. Whose job is it to fetch refills, Smedley?"

I blinked. "I'm so sorry, sir, of course it's my job, please—"

"Shut the fuck up and get your fat ass over here."

I inched toward him. This was no fair. I had just checked his glass when I served him only minutes earlier and it was full. And I even made sure to ask him if he needed anything, and he said he didn't. I realize it's my responsibility to check on their drinks, but there's no way I can always get to it with the impossible workload they heap on me, especially if one of them takes huge gulps and finishes quickly.

No matter. There's no such thing as fair for me. My role around here is to be Smedley, the ATM and whipping boy for whatever annoys them. That's the deal I agreed to. So I swallowed hard and waited for what I knew was coming.

He pointed. "Head down." I lowered myself to the designated spot so he could slap me without having to move from his lounging position on the couch.

BWWWAAAAP! He rang my bell. I doubled over and sobbed.

"When you see my glass getting low, refill it, shit-for-brains."

"Yes sir." I gently took the empty glass from his grasp, trying to sniff back the tears. "I'm so sorry, sir."

I scurried to the kitchen, fixed his drink, rushed back to the living room and served the king his tea. He took a long swig and handed me the half-empty glass. Nothing needed to be said; I retraced my steps for yet another refill, which I served with a fake smile.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

"No, fag, go."

"Thank you, sir."

Sigh. I'd just thanked him for calling me a fag.

I trekked downstairs. No sooner had I picked up the iron, my master's voice rang out a third time: "Smedley!" I huffed and stamped my foot. At least this time he didn't sound mad. I hurried to respond nonetheless.

"Yes, sir?"

"Chips."

"Oh, yes, sir."

I shuffled off to the kitchen, and within seconds my wife's lover got a heaping bowl of potato chips served with a submissive smile.

I was almost finished with Amy's dress when I was again interrupted, this time by my adored wife's voice: "Smedley. Get up here." Instead of being perturbed, my heart leapt.

As always, I melted the second I saw her. She had just gotten out of the shower and wore a towel wrapped around her head like a turban. She looked like an ancient queen in her satin robe and headdress, relaxed on the couch next to Conner, who had finally sat his lazy ass up.

I stood before them. "Yes, Mistress, you called?"

"What are you doing?"

"Um, ironing your dress, Mistress."

"What? You haven't even started on my shoes? What the hell have you been doing down there, playing with that little dick of yours?"

I dared not tell her I hadn't finished because Conner kept interrupting me. "I'm so sorry, Mistress. I'm almost done with the dress, and it shouldn't take long to do your shoes, Mistress."

"Well, hurry up, Smedley, you need to do my toenails."

"Oh, yes, Mistress." I could hardly contain my glee. Other than foot massages, giving pedicures is one of the few times Conner allows me to have physical contact with my wife. I didn't want to act too happy about it in front of him. My face still stung from his earlier slap; I didn't want another one.

I finished the dress and shoes posthaste, rushed back to the living room — making damn sure Conner's iced tea glass was full, along with Amy's 7Up — and then sat at my beautiful wife's feet, cotton balls in hand.

"Mistress, what color would you like?"

Amy was kicked back next to her lover, who had just passed her a joint. Before answering me, she took a long hit, blew the smoke up in the air, had another draw, and with her lungs still full, croaked, "Passion Red."

When you're hardly allowed to touch your own wife, something as mundane as swabbing off her old toenail polish can be thrilling. Far above me, in the land of the gods, Amy shared the doobie with her boyfriend. Her robe was hiked up and I could see her magnificent pussy, although I only caught furtive glances, lest Conner catch me gawking and knock the shit out of me. Amy made no effort to conceal herself, leaning against her lover with her foot extended while I toiled away unnoticed. I removed the purple polish from her toes and began applying Passion Red without either of them glancing my way.

When they finished their joint, they started getting frisky. I tried to concentrate on my wife's toes while they snogged but she was making it difficult, twisting her foot to and fro in response to Conner's caresses. Finally, they broke their embrace.

"We can't fool around," she said. "He's got to finish my toes, and then we got to get ready. It's getting on 6:30 — the party starts at 8."

Conner glanced at his watch. "Damn, it is getting late." He turned to me. "Hey, Smedley, when you're done with Amy's toes, make sure my shoes are shined up real nice."

He obviously hadn't been listening earlier when I told him that I'd done his shoes, so I cheerfully informed him again: "Sir, your shoes are already shined up real nice for you, sir."

"Oh. Well, listen, when we're gone I want all my tools polished and put away. And give that garage a good cleaning while you're at it. I was working on the Mustang today."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." I gritted my teeth. That was a two-hour job.