The Madonna and the Manatee

*

Ash only texted me four times that day, and I was careful to respond quickly. They were all cheery and light--no yelling or cursing--and she seemed happy with my responses. When I got home that night, things seemed normal. Mostly normal. Her kisses were still mintier than usual, and she'd gotten lemon chicken from the Greek place. She was ordering a lot of takeout, but I wasn't about to pick a fight over it. I found myself searching Ashley's eyes for that satisfied gleam. Maybe it was there? I wasn't sure. As tired as I was, I thought I might be seeing things.

In the bedroom, I caught the scent of Febreeze again. "Honey, it smells funny in here. Did you spray something?"

"Yeah. I think one of the neighbors was smoking. It smelled really strong."

Weird. A couple of the neighbors smoked weed, but we usually smelled it in the hall, not the bedroom. I shrugged. Mystery solved.

Sunday morning was more of the same. Waking up at six, taking a shower, getting dressed in silence. Looking at Ashley, snuggled up in the pale green sheets, looking like some sort of mermaid or maybe Botticelli's Venus--albeit clad in a flannel nightgown. I blew her a kiss and left for the office.

Later, it occurred to me: The sheets on Saturday were yellow and on Sunday they were green. I shrugged. We were pretty regular about changing the sheets, but we weren't on any particular schedule. I guess Ash had just decided that it was time for fresh bedding.

That night was the same--minty kisses, carryout from the diner on the corner, a hint of Febreeze, a dreamless sleep. Maybe a smug look on her face? The next morning, a quiet shower, a silent goodbye and a kiss blown to my wife, dead asleep and nestled in white sheets.

At work that day: Fuck. White sheets.

I couldn't think of any reason Ashley would change the sheets for two days in a row. Well, not any reason I wanted to consider. Add in the Febreeze and the--maybe--satisfied look, and it looked like Ash was upping her revenge game. If she was doing what I thought, this went way past the disappearing pants, all the way into the land of irreparable marital damage.

For a moment, I questioned if I really wanted to know the truth, but I realized that this was one case where ignorance definitely wasn't bliss. I couldn't live with my suspicions, and--if they were true--I was pretty sure I couldn't live with my wife. Before I could second guess myself, I did a bit of research and a bit of ordering on Amazon. $206 later--including expedited shipping--and a couple of spy cams were winging their way to me.

I prayed that my suspicions were wrong.

That night: Minty kisses, Moroccan carryout, Febreeze and rose-colored sheets. The satisfied look was definitely there. I looked in the hamper, but it was empty. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

On Monday, the wave of editing crested and started to recede. The queue of stories started shrinking. The end was in sight.

The mail room sent me a message at 11 to let me know my package had arrived. By noon, things were slowing a bit and my team barely looked up when I told them I had to run out for an appointment. The cameras were disguised as a smoke detector and an alarm clock, and installing them in my bedroom was a breeze.

Ash texted five times that day.

At 5:15, I got a message that the cameras had been activated. Apparently, my wife had gotten home early. An hour later, I got the last text of the day from Ashley.

I wanted to know the truth, but if the video contained what I thought, I would soon be starting a process that I'd hoped never to have to go through. I dawdled over my work before deciding that I wouldn't watch the video until the next day. If my marriage was over, the end could wait for one more night.

I texted Ash to let her know I'd be home at 8:30. I wondered if she was going to be pissed off, but I couldn't bring myself to care all that much. My emotions were dampened and hazy, almost as if I was feeling them through a fog. At eight, I stumbled home.

That night: Minty kisses, carryout pizza, Febreeze, satisfied smile. Yellow sheets again. That made sense, as we only had four sets of bedding. It also explained yesterday's run to the laundromat. Tossing and turning in bed that night, I realized that, regardless of what happened, I never wanted to smell Febreeze again.

The next morning: Ash curled up in bed, radiant in the morning sunlight. I looked at her for a long time. I'd miss this. Between my insomnia and my dread, I was still deep in the fog. I embraced it; when it lifted, I realized, there was an ocean of pain waiting for me.

I dressed and showered in silence. I blew Ash one last kiss goodbye.

At work, things had mostly settled down. It would probably be two or three more days before we were finished, but we could see the light at the end of the tunnel. At 11, I told the team I was going to the quiet space, a conference room that the company had outfitted with couches, chairs, and a couple of small tables. It was basically the corporate version of a college study lounge. It was also the only place where I could watch the videos from my bedroom in relative privacy.

The only other person there was Kim, one of my coworkers. She was curled up in an armchair by the windows, completely ensconced in her laptop. I took the couch on the far side of the room. If the videos showed what I expected, I wanted my back to the wall.

My plan was to listen to the videos, not watch them. I reasoned that seeing Ashley in the arms of another man would make it impossible to forgive her, and I didn't want to close off any options--including reconciliation--before I knew what I was dealing with. So I put on my headphones, queued up the video from the smoke detector, and hid the screen.

From the sounds of things, it was as bad as I imagined: The camera was motion activated, so it started recording when they walked into the room. I heard the sound of rustling clothes and laughter, then an oddly familiar voice saying "Suck my cock, baby." Ash's tinkling laugh, then the sound of a zipper and her seductive voice saying "Oh, it's sooo big." Wet sounds, punctuated by his moans: "Just like that," "Yes...," "Wrap your lips around it," "Bet Charlie's little dick doesn't stretch your lips like this," "Does cucky boy fuck your throat, slut?" and, finally, "Get those clothes off and get on the bed!"

Somewhere in the middle of the blowjob, I recognized the voice. It was Winslow fucking Hubble. My vision blurred and I closed my eyes. I felt the tears slipping down my cheeks.

I was crushed, yes, but also confused. I'm not going to say that Ash works with an office full of Chippendales models, but in the vat of testosterone poisoning that comprised Pierce, Bateman, there was no lack of ripped bodies, strong chins, and chiseled features. But instead of pulling a slab of office beefcake, Ash had chosen the flabbiest, greasiest reject from the shallow end of the gene pool to fuck? It didn't make sense.

The soundtrack gave a clue to Winslow's appeal. Judging by the moans issuing from my wife and the squeaking in the background, he and Ash had moved on to the main course. After a moment, he started in again: "I bet little Chuckie doesn't stretch you out like this...You're so tight..."

I didn't expect Ash to jump to my defense, and she didn't disappoint. "Oh, my god, you're so big! You're stretching me...fucking me so deep!" She had never been an especially vocal lover, but apparently Winslow Hubble inspired her to new heights. Her wails rose, louder and louder, punctuated by her protestations that she had never been fucked so hard and long. Stretched so wide. Winslow prodded her along, demanding to know if my cock was smaller, my fucking less polished, my mastery of her body less accomplished. And Ash gave him what he wanted.

It's not easy to hear that you're a waste in the sack, and it's especially difficult to hear yourself being negatively compared to a worthless bag of shit like Winslow Hubble, but the worst part came towards the end. "Tell me, slut! Tell me what you're going to do!" Winslow panted.

"I-I'm gonna...gonna--"

"Tell me, slut! Tell me you're going to feed your little cucky boy--"

What?!?

"I-I'm gonna--feed him your cum!"

Wait, what the actual fuck?

Winnie give a loud groan and Ash echoed him with a series of shrieks that rose to an operatic crescendo the likes of which I had never heard from her before. Her screams pierced my ears, driving away thought. Leaving fragments.

Better than me?

Cucking?

Screaming orgasms?

Creampies?!?

I felt frozen. Empty.

Their heavy breaths played out in my headphones.

In my ears.

Panting.

I looked up at the clock on the wall. I dully stared at the numbers, at the second hand sweeping around the face. Only twenty minutes had passed since I started the video. My brain stuck on the number. Repeated it. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes to end my marriage.

Twenty minutes.

Wait, twenty minutes?

Twenty minutes. Given the time it took them to get undressed, the blowjob, the arranging on the bed, how much time was left? Five minutes? Ten?

How fucking good was Winnie?

Was the guy hung like a Clydesdale? Did he know some long-forgotten Eastern secrets for making women cum like freight trains? Was there a sexual genius buried in that chubby, pompous body?

In my ears, Ashley and Winslow were still panting. Then he spoke. "So, are you going to do it again?"

Ashley's voice, light and playful. "What do you think?"

"I think you're a dirty little trollop. Feeding my spunk to your husband."

It hadn't happened, of course. After work, I'd been too tired for sex, and Ashley's minty breath told me that she'd been careful to brush her teeth before I got home. Still, the thought of it...the thought that she was joking about it in our bed with that mass of stupidity and condescension. I felt my stomach clench.

Ashley let out a sound halfway between a giggle and a moan. I could hear her smile. "Does it turn you on? Thinking about him eating your cum out of my pussy?"

Winslow chuckled. "Your perfect husband. Every Thursday, I watch him and Marty, having their little chats and looking at all of us like...like they're judging us. Like they're so clever, so much better. I wonder what he'd say if he knew that I was here giving you the business."

She snorted a laugh. "Don't you dare!"

"No worries, my dear. I'm not going to do anything to jeopardize this. Or my marriage, for that matter."

I opened the computer and hit pause. The camera was centered on the two of them. Winslow was red-faced and sweaty, his mouth open, his eyes half closed. Ash was laying beside him, the sheet pulled up to her collarbone, her eyes glittering with smug satisfaction.

That goddamn look.

I couldn't get my mind around it. The joy. The orgasms. The casual cruelty.

Twenty minutes?!?

In our years together, I felt like I'd learned a few things about Ashley, including the fact that she wasn't a quickie kind of girl. Sex with her--even our faster weeknight sex--was a slow burn, with lots of languorous foreplay and teasing. The idea of tearing her clothes off and turning her up to eleven in less than half an hour was pretty much unimaginable. Either Winslow was some kind of sexual wizard or something else was going on.

I needed to watch the video. From the sounds I'd heard, my marriage was already over, and I couldn't imagine that much more damage could be done. Hell, I thought glumly, maybe I'll learn something new.

I slid the video bar back to where they first walked into the bedroom. Just over nineteen minutes. Then I hit play.

I've heard stories about the Nixon/Kennedy debate. How people who heard it on the radio were convinced Nixon had won, while those who watched it on TV were sure that Kennedy was the victor. Watching Ash and Winslow, I finally understood the phenomenon. Let me put it this way: Some people say that there's no such thing as bad pizza or bad sex, but after watching those 19 minutes, I'd suggest that they eat at Sbarro, fuck Winslow Hubble, and then come talk to me.

From the start, Ashley was in charge. Seeing her with Winslow, I realized that I was watching a master class in seduction. Every look she gave him, every little smile and smirk was designed to convince him that he truly was an irresistible lothario.

And it was all bullshit.

When she pulled his cock out, I gave a surprised laugh. The man was...well, let's just say he wasn't gifted. And watching Ashley blow him was a mix of heartbreaking and hilarious. The heartbreaking part was obvious--my wife was on her knees, making herself subservient to a man who was vastly her inferior. On the other hand, Winslow's one-sided monologue was ridiculous, adding a note of unintentional humor to the proceedings. I've never understood the logic of asking questions of a person giving you a blowjob--do you really expect them to talk with their mouth full (or, in Ash's case, occupied)? Yet, Winslow prattled on, demanding that she tell him about his superior size, his incredible attractiveness, my inferiority, my wife's sluttiness.

The word "cuck" was used liberally.

I think Ashley was hoping to finish him off with her mouth, but Winslow had other ideas. He pulled himself from her, lifted her onto the bed, and yanked off her slacks and panties. Dropping his pants, he slid forward and started pressing into her. "I bet little Chuckie doesn't stretch you out like this...You're so tight..."

Asshole, she's not tight, she's dry.

A look of distaste flashed across Ash's face, but she quickly got back into character. "Yes, you're so big," she crooned. "So deep! Fuck me, baby!"

"Deeper than he ever went," Winslow panted. "Stretching you out!"

"Yes, yes, baby!" Ashley moaned. Her voice was muffled a bit, as she was taking off her top. "Fuck me hard!" she exclaimed as she folded the blouse, took off her bra, and calmly set them aside on her end table. "Ride me!"

"Your little cuck doesn't ride you like this, does he? He doesn't fuck you this deep!" Winslow grunted as sweat drizzled into his eyes. "I own this pussy!"

"Yes! Yes! It's your pussy!" Ashley sang as she tugged his face into the crook of her neck. At first, I wondered why she pulled Winslow down, but when his face was buried, it became clear. When he could no longer see her, Ash didn't have to school her expressions. Although she continued to proclaim his mastery of her body and bed, her eyes were focused on the middle distance, her expression blank. I knew that look: Ashley was a million miles away, mentally reviewing her shopping list, planning a meal, or imagining herself on a beach somewhere. This wasn't a look of bliss or orgasmic joy. It was the look she had when she was suffering through something mildly unpleasant, like having blood taken or cleaning the sink trap. It was, I imagined, the look she wore at the gynecologist's office.

As I may have mentioned, Ashley's body haunted my dreams, and with good reason. She was a vision, a classic work of art. Botticelli's Venus. Leighton's Actaea. Playboy's Marilyn Monroe. A woman's body, with perfect, firm breasts, a slight tummy and a waist-to-hip ratio that pretty much defined the golden mean.

Winslow, on the other hand, was barely recognizable as human. Pale cottage cheese flesh, greasy and a little gray-toned. Seeing the two of them together was like watching a manatee trying to mate with a statue of the Madonna. A horrifying juxtaposition of classical art and Japanese tentacle porn.

I couldn't help it: I burst out laughing, even as the tears still wet my cheeks. Here was Ash, getting her revenge on me for some imagined slight by doing something so utterly unpleasant that she had to mentally absent herself. And here was Winslow, imagining himself as a master of the universe, taking the spoils of war from a lesser male as he loudly proclaimed his sexual superiority over the poor bastard he was cucking.

And here was me, the poor cuck watching his wife dealing with what was clearly the sexual equivalent of taking out the garbage while she loudly exhorted her companion in an attempt to hurry him up. In a flash, I understood why Ash had chosen Winnie: It wasn't lust or desire--in fact, it was exactly the opposite. She'd chosen him because he was easy, available, and unlikely to turn into a long-term relationship. Most importantly, Ashley knew she wouldn't enjoy sex with him. Had she picked one of the square-jawed beefcakes from her office for her revenge, she would have slid the scales of justice in the other direction, from divine retribution to venal infidelity. So, rather than fuck for joy, she fucked for duty; rather than choose a partner who attracted her, she chose someone who filled her with revulsion.

She'd hurt herself in order to hurt me.

I understood Ash's reasoning--on some level, I even respected it--but I couldn't get past it. Watching her grit her teeth as Winnie pushed inside her, I realized that she frightened me. Throwing out a closet full of pants was extreme, but it also a little funny, and it had become a silly story that I sometimes told friends after a few drinks. But in the process of turning Ashley's justice into a comedy routine, I had allowed myself to gloss over the darker aspects of it. The fact was that my wife had undertaken a very destructive action, in full awareness that it would put a strain on our marriage and on our finances. That it would make me--a man she claimed to love--feel unsafe in my home.

Now she'd inflicted another severe punishment, many times worse than her raid on my closet. Everything else--the fact that I didn't deserve to be cuckolded, the fact that I might never have known about it--was irrelevant. What mattered was that she'd ­done it. And that, judging from that fucking look of satisfaction, she'd never had a moment's doubt about her decision.

What other punishments might she consider justifiable? Seriously, what's the next step after infidelity? Maiming? Amputation? Bunny boiling?

And what if we had kids? Could I take a chance that they might one day become part of one of her revenge schemes, pawns in her need to balance the universe?

Or, worse yet, what if they, too, became victims of her justice?

Looking at Ashley's expression as she lay beside Winslow, I realized that I didn't feel safe with her anymore--not in my closet, not in my relationship, and not in the bed that she had defiled. While I appreciated that she had changed the sheets, it didn't make up for the fact that she'd let that pig, that sloppy mass of pus and privilege, into our home and into her body. If she'd done it Friday, as I suspected, then she'd already screwed him in our bed five times. She was going to do it again today.

I realized I couldn't go home that night, or at any night in the near future. Given what I'd seen, I'd have to confront her--and, given what she believed about my supposed infidelity and her desperate need for justice, there was no telling what her response would be. What's the proper revenge for divorce? And what does it look like with another 50 percent tacked on?

The only question was when I should alert her. The angel on one shoulder voted for texting her immediately. He proclaimed that the quality of mercy is not strained, that forgiveness is divine, and that I should let her know before she screwed Winslow again. The devil on the other shoulder whispered that, just because I didn't want to punish her didn't mean that I shouldn't let her punish herself.

At 5:20, my phone vibrated.

At 6:30, I sent her a text, complete with video clips. I told her that I'd be staying with Aaron, one of my coworkers. Two days later, I started divorce proceedings.