February Sucks for Walter Mitty

"He didn't—"

I put up a hand. "How many times have we talked about how despicable it is when men use violence and aggression to seize what they want without the consent of those around them? But that's EXACTLY what Marc LaValliere did on Friday. And you—a woman who preaches equality and claims to prize commitment—you turned your back on your faithful husband and used toxic femininity to get what you wanted."

"Toxic femininity!" She sputtered. "That... that's not even a thing!"

"Sure it is, Linda! What would you call it when a woman uses her body to seduce a random guy, even at the cost of her family? When she publicly humiliates the man she claims to love? Hides behind the children when it benefits her, but ignores them when they get in the way of her bagging a random stud? If that's not toxic, what is?"

"It's not about toxicity. It's... it's about choice!" She straightened. This was firm ground. "It's about freedom! MY body, MY choice!"

"Linda, let's ignore the fact that you're taking a slogan that was coined to support a woman's right to choose an abortion and using it to justify fucking an asshole who drives an Escalade. Let's just ignore that for a second. You claim that you have the right to pick up a guy in a bar, go home with him and screw his brains out, regardless of my desires. Is that more or less your position?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Let me finish. You talk about choices. Well, you also chose to get married to me. To build a life. To have babies together. When you made those choices, you weren't drugged. I wasn't twisting your arm. Right?"

"Fine. Yes!" She glared at me.

"Linda, those choices—to fuck a trophy cock and to have a family with me—can't coexist. You have to choose one or the other. For most of our marriage, you picked our children and me. At Morrison's, you picked the strange cock. And, because you changed your choice, I'm changing mine."

"You have no right—"

I slapped the table. "I have EVERY RIGHT!" I glared at her. "I have a right to say 'My body, my choice,' too! I have a right to choose a woman who will stand beside me to defend our marriage. Who will walk away from sex with a handsome stranger in favor of a life she claims to cherish. Someone who shares my values and has a shred of integrity."

"Fuck you and your integrity!" Her face was looking purplish, and I wondered if she was about to stroke out. "You don't have the balls to deal with this, so you—you—you're running away like a hurt little boy!"

"And you're hiding your behavior behind your children and some vague idea of being a free-spirited, independent woman of the world. Let's be clear here: You claim that women are the equal of men—and, for the record, I agree. But if that's true, they also bear an equal level of responsibility. Have you ever heard the phrase 'With great power comes great responsibility?'"

"What is that—some Obama quote?" She rolled her eyes.

"Nope, it's from Spider Man." Linda sneered, and I smiled back. "Granted, Stan Lee's not a feminist theorist or renowned social critic, but he's relevant here. You demand equal power in our relationship, but you refuse to take on equal responsibility. You want to be a big, strong woman making her mark in the world, but when it suits your purposes, you're happy to hide behind the prejudice that a woman is automatically a better parent just because she has a uterus. You want society to ignore your body in the boardroom, but you're more than willing to traffic on it in a club or the bedroom or the courtroom. You want the great power accorded to an equal partner, but you don't have the guts to take on the great responsibility of dealing with that power honestly."

"That's bullshit! I just refuse... refuse to let a man define me! You're not my master. You're not my warden!"

"Enough!" I snapped. "You think you're a radical, but at the end of the day, you're just another woman who got wet watching two boys fight over her and spread her legs for the winner. Nothing could be more basic. More boringly traditional." I sneered at her. "Here's a clue, Linda: Feeding an itchy pussy at the expense of your committed relationship doesn't make you a radical rebel. It doesn't make you Che Guevara. It doesn't even make you Gloria Steinem. It makes you a shitty wife, a shitty mother, a shitty human being, and a SHITTY FUCKING FEMINIST!"

To be honest, it went downhill from there.

Epilogue

A couple of days later, I moved home—into the guest room, of course. While I would have preferred to avoid Linda completely, her work still required her to come in from nine to five, and she was leaning hard on Mrs. Porter—who was still pissed at her—to handle the kids in the mornings and afternoons. Emma and Tommy were suffering, and it was time for me to step up.

Once I was back home, I quickly resumed my old routine of juggling work and childcare. As for Linda and I, we managed to avoid fighting in front of the kids—mostly by completely avoiding each other.

I consider that a win.

Meanwhile, my various legal proceedings continued their slow march forward. It turned out that I had, indeed, left some DNA on LaValliere's ring. That, combined with the security cam footage from Morrison's parking lot and back hallway, firmly established that LaValliere, Moizoos and Smith had cleaned my clock. They lawyered up and managed to plead down to misdemeanor third degree assault, which carried a small fine. On the bright side, they also had to pay my hospital bill. And, by the time the next season rolled around, LaValliere had been traded.

I hear Detroit's even colder than Buffalo.

The assault conviction came in handy when ten of LaValliere's victims—including me—filed a class action lawsuit for intentional infliction of emotional distress. Moizoos had dutifully recorded LaValliere's nights at Morrison's, and his videos—complete with commentary—ended up getting played in court. The plaintiffs all walked away with seven-figure settlements. In my case, it was the low seven figures after Bailey took his cut. He also took a chunk of the six-figure settlement we got from Morrison's for their complicity that night. Needless to say, the video of the bouncer's little love tap came in handy.

I'm still trying to figure out where Bailey falls on the lawyer/friend spectrum.

Linda hired a lawyer, who—I assume—took one look at the whole mess and advised her to sign the papers. She eventually gave in, and we set about the process of learning to co-parent. Our conversation at my parents' house made it clear that we were both carrying a lot of baggage, and it was affecting how we acted around the children, so we started seeing a counselor to help us build a less toxic relationship. It took a lot of time and a lot of screaming, but we've found a way to relate to each other with civility, if not warmth. We put the kids in therapy, too, but children Emma and Tommy's age tend to be pretty resilient, and we eventually got to a place where we all could be in a room together without the monsters from the past rearing their ugly heads.

I never saw any of the other couples after that night. I heard rumors that Dee and Dave had split and Jane and Phil were having problems, but I never bothered to follow up. To be honest, I don't really care.

And so, a year later, I found myself minus a wife, but plus a fat bank account chock full of Mark LaValliere's money—most of which I poured back into my business. I was still the primary caregiver to my kids and—miracle of miracles!—they had moved on from Frozen. They were now completely enthralled by Wall-E.

It's a good movie. I give it six months before I learn to hate it.

Life has gotten a lot better. While I'm still working through some things from that night, I'm also building up a new group of friends. I can imagine a time in the not-too-distant future when I'll be ready to date again—at least on the nights when Linda has the kids. But not all the scars have healed: I still hate watching the Bills, and have become the only Dolphins fan in my neighborhood. The prejudice is real.

* An earlier version of this story credited "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" to Walter Thurber. As several commenters pointed out, James Thurber wrote that particular story, and this version has been corrected to reflect that. Some commenters also pointed out that, in addition to the Ben Stiller film adaptation of Mitty, there's an earlier Danny Kaye version. I haven't seen it, but I have been assured by the Literotica community that it is well worth watching!