February Sucks - Jim Wakes Up

I recently read that there have been more than 30 stories added to GeorgeAnderson's brilliant story, February Sucks. Here's another one.

One key reason I believe the story resonates so deeply is because GeorgeAnderson's Linda character is enormously appealing while at the same time is incredibly vicious, indifferent, and unrepentant. She mixes cruelty with a sweetness and submissiveness that makes her especially hurtful and horrifying. Even knowing this, we can't help but find her lovely. A character drawn this well is a great achievement for any writer and, as can be seen, is driving many of us nuts.

In this alternate ending Linda is still Linda, but Jim wakes up a bit.

This story does not stand alone. It starts shorty after the scene at the club where Jim is mesmerized with Ellen. In the excellent original, this is a pivotal event where Jim realizes he was almost guilty of the same thing Linda had done. Linda realizes what she did might have been a tiny bit more hurtful that she had realized. With moral equivalence established, they move on to rebuild their future.

If you are one of the very few who haven't read the original, please do before reading this.

GeorgeAnderson's words are quoted (usually in parentheses or quotation marks) and paraphrased throughout.

There is no salacious sex in this story.

Jim Wakes Up

And so, it's presumed, this is where we turned the corner and our marriage began to heal. As L.W. said, it was the end of one relationship, but the beginning of a new one. But there were many days when that was not apparent and the path wasn't forward. And it didn't help that for her it was a incredible experience, right up there with marriage and having babies, followed by a small unnecessary "rough patch" caused primarily by my inability to be the "excellent man" she thought I was. ("He is an excellent lover, you are an excellent man.")

******

I came in through the front door, the wave of heat contrasting from the chill outside and the smell of dinner offering a reassuring sense of home and family, the kids and their mom laughing over something funny that preceded me, all turning to look at me, smiling, cheerful greetings, following laughs, good news about the feared math quiz, Linda kissing me passionately but quickly, then reaching up to a top cabinet to get me a wine glass. A moment of satisfaction that I was right to preserve this.

And there it was. The same graceful arch of her back and neck as her hand reached higher and pushed her to her tiptoes, the flowing hair I saw when she danced with Marc. He was taller than me and most other men, so the image of that posture was uniquely matched to dancing with him.

******

"Your call, babe," she said when I asked which of two movies to choose for movie night. Not just the same words, but the same flippant tone, and cadence she used at the club just after I asked if we could leave soon, because I needed her alone with me. That was just minutes before she walked out on me to get fucked, having so many orgasms she lost track.

I had to get up and retreat to the bathroom. Linda looking at me quizzically like she was trying to understand what triggered whatever was showing on my face. You'd think I was 65 with a prostrate problem, the number of times I had to step in the bathroom, my only private place. I was sometimes shocked at the pain the mirror reflected when I thought I had it hidden.

******

Her description of her time with Marc when she first came home--when she thought it was like describing an amazing physical activity, like a tennis match--could not, would not, leave me. They say you can't sincerely smile without your eyes. You can't not smile or frown without them either, and her eyes never stopped smiling even as they grew in alarm over my unreasonable and unreasoning reaction, and as her brow knitted and she tried to look concerned. Her eyes reinforced that no matter what I said, thought, or did, she was not sorry and that it was more than worth it.

And that letter:

"All the choices were already made."

"I was keenly aware of his size and strength."

"I felt overwhelmed and possessed"

"He gently stripped me."

"I was as aroused as I have ever been."

"Even at his most forceful, I never felt forced."

"Forever was exactly what I wanted."

"Marc was kind and considerate to me the whole time."

"It was something I wanted as much as he did."

"It was by far the best sex I've ever imagined, let alone had."

"I briefly thought of texting you to let you know I was safe and tell you I loved you, but I was just too tired."

It went on and on.

I had asked for it. And there was no winning. I would have been angry if she tried to downplay her passion, but what she wrote could not have hurt more if she had worked on it with that design in mind. And it was clear she was wetter and more turned on than I ever made her, by the time she finished writing it.

Few of these unbidden flashbacks prompted rage toward Linda. That was mostly gone. Instead, they prompted unrelenting chronic pain and an overwhelming sense of loss. It was debilitating at times.

I loved Linda more than ever. Maybe not a healthy love. It was consuming. I couldn't take my eyes off her. A large part of her beauty was how she moved, her sideways looks, the way she twirled a long lock of hair with her right index finger as she sat cross-legged on the couch watching a movie. She often did this, and sometimes bit her lower lip, when she was thinking especially hard. I wanted to keep her like this. Was willing to pay almost any price to keep her.

We both felt sex was in the spotlight those first weeks and months. It had to be, because it was what she humiliated me for and, according to her letter, it was where she had achieved a sexual timeless state of moksa. ("It seemed like forever.") So how could that not be a hard thing to follow? ("The best sex by far...")

She tried. But it was fraught with difficulty for both of us. If she showed a willingness to try something new, was it something she experienced with Marc? If I tried more aggression, was I trying to compete with Marc? ("Even at his most forceful, I never felt forced.") Either of those thoughts horrified me. She said our sex was an expression of our love. ("That's far more valuable to me than even the greatest sex.") The emphasis on "love," of course, especially emphasized it wasn't great sex.

I was meant to feel pleased in those moments that I was supposedly an "excellent man," compared to The Excellent Fucker. It was the faintest possible praise, like the ribbon for finishing last in an elementary-school race. Had she spent any time with him not fucking, whose to say he wouldn't also emerge as The Excellent Man? I had a feeling he would, from her giddy descriptions about how he treated her, about making her breakfast, and waiting for her to approach our front door. ("He was chivalrous and gentlemanly.")

It was soon clear, that it was unlikely I would ever have unthinking, relaxed sex with Linda again. On our first time together after the night of The Excellent Fuck she had written me a note. "I know it wasn't anywhere near the best sex we've had," she said. True. But then she had to add, "Let alone as good as what I had with Marc." She couldn't stop herself. She had to brag. Had to bring it up. Her pride and joy over that night just leaked out in unintentional phrases and looks, as most amazing experiences do.

My ability to just enjoy sex was significantly diminished with this news that every move was being measured against Linda/Jim personal best and world-record Linda/Marc best. She couldn't help constant reminders that this first record was the only one we had any chance of getting close to. The other was out of our reach, by far. ("You might never have been a sex god, but you were always attentive.")

The final realization that our sexual relationship was permanently damaged and would never be right again was, as usual, unnoticed by her, but devastating for me.

In my distracted and hopeless state I had fallen behind at work and had to work late for several weeks and over two weekends to catch up and save my job. Emma was sick with a very bad cold that turned into the croup. I brought her mattress into our room so we could listen to her breathing as she tried to sleep. Linda and I were both up often, attending to her, holding her, giving her medication, debating whether to take her to Emergency. It was times like these that solidified my strong desire to stay together.

It also postponed sex for more than a week, but Emma was finally able to move back to her room and was soundly sleeping. We were exhausted, lying on our bed but not in bed, realizing the hardest time of the illness was past and maybe some period of sleep was coming. Linda had showered and was wearing her thick and ratty terry-cloth robe. Finally, with a sigh of exasperation she found the energy to stand beside the bed and drop it on the floor. Few things are more beautiful than that simple operation, so I opened one eye to watch. ("He gently stripped me, almost worshiping me as he did.") No underwear. Apparently she was too tired to put any on or hang up the robe. She curled on the bed sideways, facing away from me. It was several more minutes before she found the energy to climb between the sheets. ("He laid me on my back in his bed.") I turned off the lights and climbed in too.

Within a few minutes I was at the moment just before full sleep where the reality of life was fading and the unreality of dreams was creeping in. I saw her in the hospital holding newly born Emma. Linda looked up at me, delighted. Her face was puffy, her hair a mess, and the mascara she insisted on applying even after her water broke, was smeared down her face, especially below her left eye. It was a moment of pure joy none of us gets more than a few times in a life, and my two girls were both perfect. And then into my dozing came another of her looks, on the dance floor, not at all the same look, but it was just as uniquely intense, all-consuming, and rare. It was for her, one of those moments, just as she had said it was. ("I felt overwhelmed and possessed.") I was instantly wide awake and almost writhing in pain. I had to get up; had to move. It's hard to lie still in pain, and I needed a drink.

As I started to turn, I realized Linda had moved, spooning against me as she often used to do, her left foot lightly hooked over my left calf. If I got up I would disturb her and I considered how tired both of us were and how counterproductive it would be to get up, get a drink, pace, and then what? And the old familiarity of that position got to me. I relaxed, and stayed where I was.

She was almost imperceptibly rocking against me. Maybe in reaction to my movements as I was startled from my dream, but so subtle I wasn't sure she was aware of it or even awake. After a few minutes I was very hard and I slowly slid my boxers down. ("I was as aroused as I have ever been.") She immediately pushed back against me, but still not with enough movement to be seen above the bedspread. ("I responded to him, fully and completely.")

We were too tired to move any unessential muscles any unessential distance and I slowly shifted to see if I could slide inside. She was very wet and as I easily slipped in, she started to make those almost inaudible sounds that I found so arousing. We flexed against each other, too tired to do much more. It should have felt like the most pathetic possible sex, but the feeling was electric. They say the mind is the most powerful sex organ and I can't describe how much I wanted to be part of her. How perfect she felt.

Though hardly moving, her whole body began to slightly wave toward that center into me. I don't know why or what broke, but tears were rolling down my face in a steady stream. My head was far enough away from her, there was no risk of her seeing or feeling them. You couldn't have sex, with less physical contact. Her breathing took on more urgency and her movements increased slightly. She moaned and pushed hard against me, never looking up. I wanted to touch her with my hands, but felt it would break some spell that only I was feeling. Our movement was so still so slight I thought she might fall asleep at any moment and it would all stop.

But I soon realized, with some hope, that she felt something too. As slight and slow as it was, she was moving very intentionally, rotating on me, finding places for my cock to touch her inside; pressing back hard, then pausing; pulling out and then just slightly penetrating herself with the tip for a series of slight strokes; then several slow, deep shaking thrusts that pushed me into the mattress; rotating her pussy far forward, then back and slightly to both sides, finding new ways to bend me up into her G spot, then holding there with a slight quiver, squeezing with her Kegel muscles; several slow, long thrusts, then again, holding me at a deep spot, and with the lightest possible touch, rotating so the very tip of my cock head moved almost imperceptibly across what might have been her cervix. And those very light sounds, sighs, shivers, and intakes of breath.

I have never been more in love and for a few minutes I was, finally, lost in it. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was because of how different it was from anything she had described or that we had done.

But as she continued, it was more and more without me until my part disappeared. I had to stop even my subtle strokes--it only messed up the rhythm for both of us because she was not trying to anticipate or share answering movement with me. I could not see her face or her body except for a slight view of her hair and the back of her head, barely visible in the dark room. Her face was pressed into her pillow and turned away from me. But sometimes you can know a thing as clearly as if you saw it or were told it. My wife was lost in memory or a dream. Maybe I should have broken the spell by talking or even asking her what she was thinking, but it seemed cruel. And I was too damned tired to take on any new pain. ("Everything in me was just reacting to him, like an instrument reacts to a musician.")

This insight changed the experience for me and the tears stopped. The pain was once again beyond them. To my complete surprise, she soon came. Astonishment is a better word, though still not strong enough. It was the first time in years she had come from vaginal sex (with me--I now have to add caveats like this). It seemed impossible to have happened from the minimal movement. And it was a thundering, wet, wet orgasm that sent her thrashing for a surprisingly long time and like nothing I had ever seen from her before. She jerked spasmodically and it made her move all across her side of the bed, pulling the sheets and blankets abruptly off me over to tangle with her. Just when it seemed over, a new wave came, followed by a short small one. Absolutely new in our experience. She had kicked me with her heel above my right knee so hard I later found a bruise. The sounds she made were strange and unknown. Almost animalistic.

She never looked toward me. If there was anything she tried hard to control, it seemed to be to not look at me.

After her breathing finally calmed, she fell asleep without saying a word or reaching back with a touch, the blankets still in a tangle and all on her side. I supposed I could have thought it a breakthrough, but it drove me into my darkest place and for the first time, I longed for the only thing that could end this misery.

Although our emotions could not have been more different, by the time of her orgasm, we were both thinking about the same thing: Marc fucking her. ("I don't think it was 'just sex' for Marc, either; if it had been, it wouldn't have been as good.")

I was too proud to attempt to use her to finish and got up and did my thing, seeing my pitiful reflection in the bathroom mirror, feeling the unspeakable loneliness of my future.

She had written, "I have no idea how long we had sex. It seemed like forever, and forgive me, Jim, but forever was exactly what I wanted." She may have wanted forever, but I was the one who got it that night of The Excellent Fuck. I couldn't imagine shaking this horror for as long as I lived and to anything beyond.

***

She knows what she did hurt me, but it shouldn't have, at least not very much. So her fault in all this appeared to her to be quite minor. She sees herself as a bit of a martyr to her love for me, patiently helping me resolve my issues, caused by my flawed psyche; saying encouraging things she didn't mean; hiding her frustration and resentment; writing encouraging notes. ("Yes, now I've driven a Maserati. I've had sex with another man who is very good at pleasing a woman.") But she didn't need a Maserati, she said gallantly, she could get by with the old, smoke-belching economy car that was me. She was Florence Nightingale and I was a mental patient obsessed with trivial unimportant things.

An unparalleled experience as incredible as The Excellent Fuck would forever be a cherished memory. What really frustrated her was my inability to understand that this had nothing to do with me. Why was I inserting myself into the great memory and trying to ruin it for her? After all she had done with and for me, it was beyond selfish for me to wish she hadn't taken that one night off. She couldn't imagine her life without that joy in it. ("We would be fine, and I could still enjoy the memory.")

Would I be jealous if she said some man was a better gymnast? Who could do things with his body on the pommel horse that I can't? That some guy was way better than me at Calculus and she found him amazing? That some man gave better massages? Was a better surgeon? Was I offended that she thought Marc was a better tight end? Why would I think I could match his experience and variety? What delusion would make me think no one else could surpass me in bed? And why did it matter so much? It was her memory, not mine.

On some level I think she thought I should be proud. She was chosen and she came back. I won when a guy like me really shouldn't have. If that wasn't love, what was?

She was ready to get on with the rest of her life. And now she was fully aware of what an important gift the rest of her life was. Professional football players liked to fuck her. I was very far from their level. And that made me very lucky and a guy who should be filled with gratitude, not petty jealousy.

Linda's view of her night off as a few, far-too-short hours of "me time" that had no impact on our life before or after, was a consistent part of her thinking that did not change. And for a long time after the night of The Excellent Fuck, Linda showed an amazing naivete about the consequences of what she did in a most public and cruel way. That our story would radiate from our friends to their friends and to theirs and on and on seemed to escape her. I half expected to get a call from a tabloid; she acted like it was discreet sex, not a highly public, vicious cuckolding that would shock almost all who heard it and cause the story to spread far and wide.

First it had reached work: very soon after that night, I'm sure for both of us. We never talked about it, but for her I'm sure there was a general, "you go girl!" vibe with smiles and chuckles all around. Hard to believe she didn't at least do something like open her eyes wide and fan her face and chest (and other places) to show how hot it was, as her female friends gathered around. Hard to believe they didn't push, push, push for more details. And it's impossible to believe they didn't eventually get a lot of them. You can't help but communicate something about an experience you feel is that extraordinary.