Just Once... An Ending

Just Once... An Ending

This is my ending to Kalimaxos' recent story, "Just Once... If You Don't Mind?"about a wife who leaves her husband to spend six weeks in South America with her lover, a doctor with whom she works. If you haven't read his story, I suggest you do before reading this one.

Day One

Leslie sat next to me on the loveseat, as I tried to absorb the contents of my wife Marcy's farewell letter. Well, farewell for six weeks, at least; whether it was a farewell forever was yet to be decided. Obviously, at least to my way of seeing things, and despite what she had written in her fucking letter, she had been cheating with Trey in the hospital or the Red Roof Inn across the street from the hospital, for some time already. This trip would let her do it without the guilt and the sneaking around, according to her. Plus, she had arranged a neighbor, who was a 30-year-old married, sexpot slut, Leslie, to "entertain" me during those six weeks. The whole situation was surreal.

"So, Rick? What do we do?" Leslie had asked, after I had read my wife's amazing "farewell" letter to me.

"It's too soon. I just read the letter. I need to think," I replied. Marcy and I had been married, and in love, for 25 years. Was I ready to throw that away without a fight? Maybe; maybe not.

"Did you read the letter, Leslie?" I asked.

"No, of course not. What goes on between a husband and wife is private," she said.

"Not even a peek?"

"Well...no, not even a peek," she teased.

"Here," I said, handing her the letter. "I'd like you to read it." Leslie took the letter from me, and she read it.

Leslie and I sat together on the loveseat, me lost in thought, and Leslie, well, I don't know what the hell was transpiring in Leslie's mind, but at least she was quiet, and patient. Finally, I spoke, "Leslie, would you like to stay for dinner? If so, is pizza okay?"

I called, the pizza came, and we ate the pizza in silence. I oscillated between flashes of anger and extreme sorrow, even despondency, but I kept it to myself. Leslie, however, like Marcy before her, was able to read my face. She knew what I was going through. She looked at me with a sympathetic regard. I began to realize she was possibly quite a likeable person, interested in more than just having me jump her bones.

"Another beer?" I asked, breaking my silence for a second time.

"I'd prefer wine, if that's okay," she said.

I smiled. It was my first smile since I had waked to find Marcy gone, with no note. My smile surprised Leslie, but it stunned me. Why did I smile? The easy explanation is the absurdity of Leslie's nervous politesse; after all, she had come bearing a bottle of wine and it was still half full. The likeliest explanation was that my smile was due to the simple pleasure of enjoying a normal, quotidian event, such as sharing food with a pretty woman. Well, Leslie was not just pretty - she was both sexy, and gorgeous.

I rose from my chair, and got another beer, Leslie's bottle of wine, and a crystal glass for her wine. The crystal glasses had been a wedding gift to Marcy and me, 25 years ago, and we only used them on special occasions. I figured today was as special as any day: The day my suspicions proved true, and the beginning of the end of my 25-year-long marriage with the girl I loved.

After dinner, and since I'm in my late 40's, I retired to the living room to watch some TV (yes, we middle aged people still have TVs, and what's more, we actually watch them). Leslie rose too, asking if I'd like something.

"A glass of Scotch, please," I replied, "and thanks. Help yourself to whatever your taste is," I said. Leslie poured herself a glass of dry Sherry.

After I had finished my eight-ounce glass of Scotch on the rocks (Leslie had filled up the glass, and added ice without even asking me), and Leslie had quickly fetched me a second glass and after I had downed that, as well, I felt human enough to talk.

"So, tell me, Leslie: Is Vincent okay with you being here, looking so amazingly fetching?" I asked.

"Call him Vinnie, please, and yes, he is, as long as I tell him everything later, assuming we get up to a little bit of mischief," she said. There it was: Out in the open.

"That's unusual in a marriage," I remarked, stating the obvious.

"Yes. Yes, it is. Are you okay with it?" she asked.

"How other people conduct their lives is their business. I don't judge," I said. "So, I guess Vinnie likes being a cuckold?"

"He loves it, Rick. Sometimes I think he craves it," she said.

"If I may ask, how did it start?" I asked.

Leslie explained. She was twenty-two when they married, eight years ago. Vinnie was 28. She worked at an upscale bar in the Wall Street Area, and she was constantly hit upon. Obviously, she would flash her wedding ring and politely decline. When she got home she complained about it to Vinnie, and his reaction surprised her.

"He actually wanted me to take one of those men up on the offer to take me out when my shift ended at 2 AM. So finally, I agreed, and the guy returned for me, right on time, at 2 AM. He asked me to stay dressed in my cocktail waitress outfit, and not change into my street clothes. My skirt was super short, and my blouse was low cut, giving the customers lots of chances to see my boobs, covered with my lace bra. Well, the guy was set on having sex with me, and eventually I returned home to Vinnie crying, without underwear, and with my clothes a little bit torn."

"What did Vinnie do?" I asked.

"That's the thing: he wanted to know if we had fucked, and then he wanted a full blow-by-blow description of what happened. To my surprise, shock even, he was not at all mad, but in fact totally turned on by my detailed description of what had happened. Before you ask, no, I wasn't raped. I was reluctant, but I got into it, the rough sex and all," Leslie said. "Mostly I was worried that Vinnie would hate me and want to divorce me. It was a huge relief that he was the way he is," Leslie said.

She continued, "He loves hearing about how other men seduce me, or how I seduce them, blow by blow. He's the happiest when he can watch, but most men, we've found, aren't into that. It's been going on for years, now."

"How are you with it all?" I asked.

"It's complicated," she said, and then she clammed up. I realized it was time to change the subject.

"Another drink?" I asked.

"I'll get them. You just sit and admire my ass," she said, as she swished it, walking to the kitchen. I had to chuckle. She did, in fact, have an ass well worth admiring. Women are built different than men, and the wiggle in their walk is an inevitable result of biology. The pelvis has to rotate to allow a woman to walk. That said, some women have a pronounced wiggle, some women have an average wiggle, some have a diminished wiggle, and some have practically no wiggle at all. Leslie had a pronounced wiggle, and you just had to love it.

I began to work on my third Scotch. What a strange construction, I thought, "began to work on." More appropriate might be that I began to enjoy my third Scotch. The problem was that, as I was dealing with the shock of events the day had brought, Scotch seemed more like an anesthetic, than an enjoyable beverage. Leslie continued with Sherry Wine.

"I'm sorry if you think I pried too much vis à vis you and Vinnie. If you don't mind, can we talk about my wife Marcy, now?" I asked.

"I was wondering when you'd get around to that. Marcy is, after all, the elephant in the room, now, isn't she?" Leslie rejoined. "Let's see, what should I say?"

"Why don't you start with what you think of Marcy?" I offered.

"As a person, as a woman, or as a wife?" she asked.

"As a woman, at least to begin," I said.

"Okay. I'll start with the obvious. She's pretty, and sexy, and it's no wonder men are attracted to her. She's also smart, and ambitious. She's raised two lovely children, who seem to be well adjusted, to boot. She's obviously a talented homemaker, and from the little I've experienced, she's a good cook, to boot," Leslie began. I was nodding as she spoke.

"Also, however, she's been frustrated living in a modified "Mommy Track." She has talent, and my guess is that she wishes she had done more with her life. She has middle-aged angst." Leslie saw my face, and quickly added, "It's not your fault, Rick. Surely, you've heard of mid-life crisis? Men get a young mistress, or a sports car, or something. Women don't have those options, or at least not without a huge cost. Marcy knows that, but she's doing it anyway, and since she respects you, she's being open about it," she said.

I spluttered my Scotch when Leslie said Marcy respects me! "A fine way to show respect, making me a cuckold!"

"Haven't you cheated on Marcy during the last 25 years? Or are you some kind of a saint?" Leslie asked. "I'm counting prostitutes, buddy."

"Men have needs, Leslie. It's different," I said. "I was overseas, lonely, and horny. I still loved Marcy with all my heart, and all of my soul. You can't compare that with what Marcy is doing!"

"Why not?"

"Because she's a woman, goddam it! It's different for women. They're the ones who give birth, for Christ's sake. You want me to raise someone else's children? I'm humiliated by her actions."

"Marcy is no longer the age of bearing children, unlike me, for example," Leslie calmly said.

"That's not the point!" I was screaming in frustration at this point.

"No, you're right. The real point is that you think of your wife as property. More precisely, as your own property. If she gives herself to another man, it's a betrayal," Leslie said.

"Damn straight," I replied.

"Whereas, if you dip your wick in another woman's honeypot, that's a totally different thing. It doesn't mean anything, because you're not Marcy's property," Leslie said. She omitted saying QED.

"That's a false symmetry, Leslie," I replied.

At this point, with near perfect timing, my phone dinged. Automatically, I looked at it. I had a text from Marcy. Jesus. Why? I opened it:

Marcy: I feel awful about our phone call. I really do love you, Rick. I love you more than I can say, and I already miss you terribly

Just as I was about to hurl my phone across the room, another text quickly followed. This one had a picture of a smiling, topless Marcy. Marcy has a great smile. Her smile alone could melt the heart of Darth Vader, or Voldemort himself. How could I, a mere mortal without a magic wand, or even a light saber, stand a chance against that smile? And below the smile were those boobs. Those fabulous, wonderful boobs. Best tits in the state, easily!

Marcy: You always wanted a picture of my boobs, and here finally is one for you (I hope!) to enjoy. That is, unless you're already bouncing Leslie's naked, supple, luscious body all over our bed. If you are, please also remember me, lover. Don't forget me. I adore you

"Okay, this is strange," I said aloud.

"What is?" Leslie asked.

"Well, after that rather cold and distant letter from Marcy you gave me, and after we had phone call interruptus, because she's been fucking that wife-fucker senseless in her wanton adultery, I get these two texts," I said. I handed my phone to Leslie.

Leslie studied the two texts as if there were going to be a quiz or something.

"Well?" I finally said.

Leslie spoke, unsure of herself. "She's worried, Rick. She's worried she's losing you."

"She should damn well be worried. She may have already lost me, the bitch!" I replied.

"Methinks you speak in anger and hurt. You know you still love Marcy. This is pure torture for you, isn't it?" Leslie said, in a sweet, and understanding voice.

"Yes; yes, it is."

"Great picture though, isn't it?" Leslie said. "Marcy truly has beautiful breasts."

I looked at the picture. Marcy had her usual dazzling smile, and her boobs truly were gorgeous, and then it struck me: "It's not a selfie. Someone else took it. That son-of-a-bitch wife-fucker is taking nude pictures of her now! It's a good one, too. Jeez; not only does he steal wives, he's a fucking good photographer, too! Damn him. Damn him to Hell!" I said, and not in my polite tone of voice, either.

Leslie quietly freshened my tall glass of Scotch. I was already drunk. I looked at Leslie with new eyes. Somehow that picture of Marcy's naked boobs had triggered some tripwire switch in my brain. "You know, Leslie, I'll bet your boobs are just as pretty." I was no longer showing my anger.

"Not by a long shot, my good man. I wish it were so, but alas, Marcy's boobs have mine beat by a country mile," my hot-to-trot neighbor MILF said to me.

"Some great philosopher once said that the beauty of a woman's tits lies in the eyes of the lusty man beholding them," I said, trying (and — to my surprise - succeeding) not to slur my words.

"I can't argue with great philosophers," Leslie said. "I'm just a simple slut who wants your body."

"I learned a great phrase in my college French class a long time ago: 'Tout peut s'arranger. Il n'y a qu'à demander.' It translates as: 'Anything can be arranged. You have only to ask.' In that spirit, my dear simple slut, as you call yourself, can I see your naked boobs, if you don't mind?" I said.

Leslie smiled at me. "Here? Now?"

"No time like the present," I replied.

Leslie stood. She stood still for a good thirty to 45 seconds, looking indecisive. Then she shrugged, and she slowly, painfully slowly, lifted off her dress, revealing to my hungry eyes her fabulous body, clothed only in a black, lace bra and panty set. Leslie stared at me, nervously, and ironically shyly, looking deep into my eyes.

"Sorry," she said. "I can't do this. When - if - you want me for me, and not for some sick revenge on your cheating wife, even if that's how she's packaged it for you, then know this: I'm there for you."

I looked at her. She saw something in my face, maybe it was the sadness of the weight of the world on my shoulders, I don't know; but she clearly saw something.

"Maybe tomorrow. I'll drop by tomorrow, and we'll see how things go, okay?" she said. "Now you should go to bed, and sleep off all the booze you've had, okay?" It wasn't so much the words she said, it was the sweet, loving, caring tone of her voice that resonated in my soul. Nobody can be tender the way a loving woman can be.

I think it was at that moment, when she said that, that I fell for her. I fell hard. I stood up, barely, wobbling on my feet. I grabbed her arm and gently pulled her into me, and I kissed her. We kissed. She kissed me back, and we kissed again. And again. She opened her mouth, I opened mine, and our tongues danced. I slipped my hands under her panties and squeezed her ass, and she raised the passion in our kisses. I gave a good, hard shove to her panties and they fell to the floor. She stepped out of them, as if she had not a care in the world.

"Tomorrow, Rick. Tomorrow. I love the way you kiss," Leslie said. She left her dress, put her panties back on, and she exited through the front door, wearing only her shoes, panties, and her bra. I never did see her boobs that night. Her pussy looked great, and quite inviting, as did her bare ass, and it was enough fuel for a mild ejaculation a half hour later as my imagination ran wild. Luckily, my pathetic orgasm and all the Scotch whisky I'd consumed was enough to let me fall asleep. Blissful sleep. I could hear my dead mother's voice speaking to me: Things will look better in the morning, she was saying. As usual, my mother, even while dead, was dead wrong. Poetic, right?

Day Two

I awoke sad. I thought about my mother, who had died a horrible death a few years earlier, and such thoughts still made me sad. This time, however, I was profoundly sad, much sadder than usual, as if I had suffered a great loss; it was all I could do to keep from crying. My arm reached out for Marcy and her reassuring warmth. She would always cuddle me when I did that, and even while she slept, she would kind of purr as she leaned her boob into me. God, I loved those moments, yet, as I reached out to touch her, all my hand found was the cold covers. Then I remembered: she was out fucking, on her fucking six-week trip to South America and wanton debauchery.

I shuffled off to the kitchen and made myself some coffee. I made an entire pot, and some toast, got out the marmalade, and a yogurt. Then I aimlessly moved to the couch. I stared at the empty screen of the TV, as I emptied my mind of every thought I had, except for my deep sadness. The despair I felt simply refused to leave, or be defeated. It was all I could do not to cry. I actually heard the song in my head, with a slight modification of the lyrics:

Big Boys Don't Cry. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

The path that I'm walking

I must go alone

I must take the baby steps till I'm full grown, full grown.

I sighed deeply, rose, went to the kitchen and returned with a coffee, perfectly spiked with Martiniquais rum. I returned to the couch and resumed my intense study of the television screen, its blankness staring back, reflecting the superficiality of my very existence. The perfectly spiked coffee was reassuring.

My phone dinged. I had a text.

Marcy: You never answered my text yesterday. I hope you liked the picture? I love and miss you, my hunk. ❤️ 💋

This time, I answered.

Me: I liked it. It wasn't a selfie. Who took it?

Then I added another text.

Me: How about a naked full frontal?

Marcy had never let me take any risqué pictures of her, which is why it should have been a special treat to get one of her boobs, but all I could think about was that she was letting her adulterous lover have what she never gave me. I did, however, enjoy the picture of her naked boobs.

Marcy: I'll see what I can do. Please don't give up on me, Rick 💕

I decided to have beer and chips for lunch, finishing the entire bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. I was on my third beer, hunting around for another bag of chips and not finding one, when the doorbell rang. I realized I had never even looked in the mirror, and I ran a hand through my hair before I answered the door.

"Howdy, neighbor," Leslie said. She was wearing a ten-gallon hat and a sundress. She looked hopelessly sexy.

"Howdy," I said, returning the friendly greeting. Leslie somehow knew, right away. Perhaps she saw how dimmed the light in my eyes was. She knew I was depressed, or at least full of despair. Leslie bravely tried to cheer me up, but failed. After a few hours, we kissed again, and she left. Before she left, however, she followed up on Vinnie's invitation to dinner, and told me to come by promptly at 6 PM the next evening. "We won't take 'no' for an answer, and be on time," she said.

"I'm always on time. It's one of my many personality flaws," I replied.

"Good. Remember, we know where you live," Leslie said, trying to sound threatening.

"Yes, Dear," I replied. Leslie giggled and skipped back home, this time fully dressed. After she had left, it occurred to me that I still hadn't yet seen her boobs. It didn't matter, I suppose, since I was too dejected to appreciate them, anyway.

Day Three

I woke in a good mood. Don't ask me why. As I brushed my teeth I thought about Marcy. Was she giving Doctor Fuckface a wake-up blowjob even as I brushed the back of my teeth? Who cares? Not me. Maybe it's all the truth: Marcy wanted a fling after all these years with me, but underneath it all, she really does love me and miss me. Seriously? Well, let's go with that for a day and see how the idea sits. Take it all at face value, for once, and stop thinking so much about myself, and my own hurt.