The Wife Who Gave It Away - Melody

All sexual activity in this story is consensual and occurs between mature adults over 30. There are no minors.

This is a true story, at least 98% of it. I've changed the names but the details are spot on. Please read them, then you can make a judgment on these two characters, Earl Hascal, and his nymphomaniac wife, Melody. My spouse and I were only married a few years, when these two unforgettable characters entered our lives at least once a week, then one day, they were gone, like the moon disappearing during a total eclipse.

THE WIFE WHO GAVE IT AWAY - MELODY--REVISED

It was a clear day in October but it wasn't the first time I'd seen Earl. On our infrequent trips to Beverly Hill Mall, I noticed a heavyset whiskered man I thought was the singer Kenny Rogers. It wasn't unusual to see celebrities in the mall. We'd met John Voight on a previous outing, Jesus, he was handsome. Once we saw Cher slumming with Michelle Phiefer, Cher had a pancake face made for makeup, Pfeiffer was fragile and stunning in her simplicity. The Century City Mall has more celebs than turtle doves in a Christmas tree.

My wife and I got introduced to Melody and Earl while we were all visiting 'Texas Tommy's, a Western clothing store with everything from saddles to shoes, boots to buckles, and anything tied to a Western theme. On that fateful afternoon, I noticed a blond lady with two tits that looked like they belonged under the wing of a fighter jet, looking through the blue jean skirts on a rack just inside the door. As a connoisseur of tits, there was no chance I'd have missed her. I might add that my wife has a great set of natural tits that have always given me solace when marriage problems arose, no matter how mad she might have been at me I could always reach out and caress her and feel rewarded.

What did Melody look like? She was a honey blond, reasonably attractive, and about 38-40 years old, five foot six or seven, good legs, a tight ass and a sort of Texas flair about her, her hands were always in motion and she moved well. Most men would have noticed her.

Melody was married to Earl, a big, tall, burly guy, probably 55 or older, it's sometimes hard to tell a man's age when they are hefty and they have a slightly red complexion. There was not a wrinkle in sight. Of course the wrinkles were probably hidden under the beard and whiskers.I'd mistaken Earl for Kenny Rogers, although after a strict comparison Earl was taller and carried at an extra 50 pounds, but Earl had the same facial setup that Rogers wore when he acted in the 'Gambler' film on TV. I don't think I ever saw Earl without those distinctive facial whiskers but I never heard him sing although he did have a distinctive western twang.

I turned around, taking my eyes off Melody, who was heading towards the try on room with a dress in hand. Then I noticed this big guy, Earl, talking the ears off my wife. He was covered with smiles and was loquacious. He had obviously solicited my wife's opinion on her choice of a western shirt. Florence considered herself a designer and was busy going through the folded shirts and holding them up, one by one, next to Earl's big face, and she seemed pleased to have a new follower. Flo matched up a light blue pattern that picked up the color of Earl's eyes, and about that time, Melody appeared.

Earl introduced us to his wife, whom I'd previously assumed was a hooker trolling the mall in search of afternoon clients. When Earl greeted her, she smiled, mouth opened like Marlyn Monroe, and joined our group with the rapidity of a snake bite. If some of my remarks sound cruel, they are just off hand impressions, all in all she was a very nice likable person.

Once we were introduced, the two couples melded into one group, like a small school of fish; we moved together through the store, examining every aisle. Melody found a crystal horse pendant with a leather cord. I grabbed an oversized mocha wallet with an embossed cowboy with oversized boots jumping into the air. Earl picked out a blue jean dress he insisted he would buy for my wife and a fringed leather jacket for himself. To his disappointment, they didn't have the jacket in his size but promised to try to order one. In the meantime, Earl found an extra large wide belt.

We took our items and lined up behind a previous customer in front of the lone cashier. It took a while to check out because the customer ahead of us had a credit card that didn't scan. Finally, the cashier got a piece of plastic wrap, put it over the card, and it registered. The customer ahead of us was finally processed, and we were the next in line to make our purchases.

Once we paid, Earl, as friendly as a big bear, handed the blue jean skirt to my wife and suggested we all adjourn to Starbucks and have some coffee and get to know each other. I wasn't very interested, but my wife and Earl seemed to be the couple leading the parade. Melody and I followed them into the coffee place.

We got on the coffee line, which appeared to be taking forever. Finally, I was able to pick up the tab as we waited for the Barista (what a stupid, snobby name), who asked us to shout out our names so he could write them on the paper cups with a felt pen. I said my name was "Leroy," which it wasn't, and Earl said, "Kenny." My wife, who is too honest to a fault, said, "Flo," and Melody said, "Just put 'Mel' on there, Honey," as she pumped up her chest enough to nearly explode her bra.

Holding on to our hot coffee cups, we found a place to sit. Earl commented that we had swapped the long line in 'Texas Tommy's' for the long line in Starbucks. Earl said he was a close friend of the owner of the western store, and had helped him plan out the store display.

"I'm sort of a shadow manager," he said, "I check on the condition of the store and report back to the owner."

"You know Mr. Tommy?" I said.

"There isn't a Mr. Tommy," said Earl, "he's an Armenian guy named Levic."

"Wow," I thought, this guy seems to know what he's talking about. Melody kept looking around the crowded room and would join the conversation every few minutes to contribute pieces of her varied life experiences. Before we'd finished the hot coffee, we learned that Melody recently had a second breast enlargement and was telling my wife, a natural 32DD, of a place where they made custom-fitted brasiers only one town away. This was welcomed information as a bra that will fit a narrow back, 30-32 inches, is hard to find.

Earl only wanted the best for his wife, or should I say, the best for his wife's tits. This custom tit tailor cost about three times as much as a good quality bra. I'm not talking about a $19.95 Playtex bra, but a fancy lace Wacoal bra costing $65-$85. Melody's custom bra was a vast improvement on what was available in Nordstrom or Neiman, but cost close to $200.

"How long do the implants last?" asked Flo.

"Hon, you gotta think of them like tires on a truck. They get worn out every few years, and ya gotta replace 'em."

We soon learned that when Earl wasn't watching 'Texas Tommy's', he was a contractor currently employed as the site manager for a Chinese building and architectural firm constructing several custom homes high on a ridge overlooking the city.

Melody was working at a local Real Estate broker's office studying to get her Salesperson's License. As Melody was learning the ropes, I offered to give her help if she needed any advice.

What was I doing? I was an Economics teacher at The Community College and had real estate experience. I passed the Real Estate Salesman's Exam several years ago. My wife volunteered weekly to work with Alzheimer's patients at the nearby nursing home and freelanced as a home decorator for several local builders, 'Cragan Corp' and 'Bert Miller Associates.' Earl nodded his head, saying he'd met them at a builder's association meeting.

That's how our friendship started. Earl was warm, protective, and generous to a fault, like a big Teddy bear. He was always ready to pick up the bill. Of course if he picked up this week, I'd pick up next. Since he and Melody were big drinkers, a dinner out meant a sizable bar bill. My wife didn't drink, and I was only good for a tall beer. When it was my chance to pay, I felt I was supporting two alcoholics, Melody and Earl. That was probably unfair, but I would have paid a much smaller bill if we'd each paid for what we'd consumed. But sometimes ya gotta take the bad with the good.

Still, despite the inequity in alcoholic consumption, we continued eating out with them, over the next couple of months we dined at different steak houses. I have to admit, these two were fun to go out with, one story after another and improvisation, like the night we walked past a strip club on the way to the restaurant parking lot. Earl said,

"Let's go in," before I knew it, we were inside the club, Earl and Melody were downing whiskies, and the dancer's titty tassels were rotating like a helicopter.

A sign on the strip club's wall stated that Friday nights were Amateur Nights, and to my surprise, Melody thought she and my wife should try out. The prize was $100, hardly a big consideration, but if the girls wanted to wave their tits around for a bunch of strangers, I thought the whole idea was rather comical and a good icebreaker for my wife who tended to be rather prudish. Of course, Melody's idea never came to fruition; my wife got cold feet, or was it cold tits?

One night Earl invited us to their home. Earl said he had something he wanted to show me. We had been curious about where they lived and we agreed to visit.. I expected Earl to have quite a fancy home, but it turned out to be a small rental apartment on the wrong side of town, two blocks away from the industrial zone.

We parked on the street when we arrived. Melody showed us into the living room where Earl was sitting in a big brown leather chair, nursing a glass of whiskey. The apartment was decorated sparsely but felt homey. Earl quickly admitted he'd lost the big house under the terms of his divorce. "But who cares," he said, "Properties come and go, here is something much better," and Earl stood up, "Look, I wanted your opinion on a painting I just acquired. As if on cue, Melody took Flo in hand and walked her into the bedroom to show her some newly bought clothes,just us boys left in the living room.

I sat down on the sofa facing Earl. He poured me a generous glass of Jack Daniels and threw in a few ice cubes. He handed me the crystal-cut-glass tumbler, then got up and walked over to the wall where three paintings hung. He turned on the small light attached to the top of the gilt frame.

"So what do ya think?" he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you recognize them?"

"Tell me about them," begging the question.

"Christ, man, they are Picasso's. They're worth a cool million if they are worth a penny."

I got closer and asked, "Are they really, wow?"

"Of course they are. Look at the signature."

Sure enough, there was a smudged signature in the right corner.

"Look," Earl got up, visibly agitated, and grasped the painting by its frame. He lifted it off the wall and turned it over.

"Look, damn it, there is the official seal."

And by God, there it was, a big red stamp like a diploma with French writing that, from what I could understand, I didn't read French, it was a government authentication signed the Picasso Authorization Center and, then there was a chain of provenance signed by Claude Ruiz-Picasso, who Earl said was a son or grandson, court-appointed in charge of such things.

"Look," said Earl, "let me advise you: if you don't buy art, you should start to buy gold coins, wait till the price dips, and then buy 'em. The price always goes up. I've got a suitcase of gold coins hidden in the apartment, don't I, hon?" Melody nodded.

The girls had returned. I was astounded at the turn of events.

Now Melody was wearing a low-cut blouse that left little to the imagination. I was regretting that Flo had put the kibosh on the amateur strip tease contest.

About that time, I was ready to ask to see the hidden suitcase full of gold coins, but I thought better of it because I feared I might be a suspect if they were stolen.

Later that evening, while seated together, we learned that Melody was also a divorcee with a grown daughter who was a dope addict.

"His first wife," said Melody in a low voice, "had become a lesbian."

I don't think Earl heard that comment; I realized he was probably a little deaf, but he piped up in a loud voice,

"I have a son, I left my classic Harley Davidson Fatboy motorcycle with him. Wait till you see that. I also have an adopted son who is a native American Indian. A drunk driver killed his family in an automobile accident, but the kid survived. Had no place to go, so I adopted him."

"Do you still keep in touch with them all?"

"From time to time," said Earl. Melody nodded.

"My son has had some problems. He always has his hand out. The Injun is doing fine, works for a moving company in," and he named a city a few hours distant.

I didn't press him on his son's troubles or anything else; people are entitled to start a new life. I gathered Earl and Melody had been married at least five or six years, but there were no photos of that happy event on the bare mantle, just the genuine Picasso's hanging above.

Time passed like sand through an hourglass, and after several months, it seemed my wife and I had become best friends without knowing much about the couple. Little by little, we felt we knew who they were but did we? It was like seeing through dirty glasses; everything is blurry until you clean them, and then hopefully, everything comes into focus. Earl and Melody were still a little blurry.

The next week we resumed dinner out with the couple. The 'Jethro Steak House' had added a small band for entertainment that weekend and the place was jumping. We were in the middle of our dinner when an unruly drunk bumped into our table, spilling our drinks.The waitress and one busboy escorted him out and the manager apologized for the intrusion. The table was cleaned and fresh drinks were provided.

Earl seemed annoyed by the disruption. He started talking about how he could kill someone with just one finger. A skill Earl said he'd learned as a Navy Seal. The big guy looked to have the body of a sea lion; that he was an expert swimmer didn't seem strange.

At some point, Melody excused herself to go to the bathroom, and a few minutes later, I realized I'd left my wallet in our car. I excused myself and went out to the parking lot where I saw some tall guy standing next to Earl's car. Suspecting he might be about to break into it, I carefully crossed a few aisles of the parking lot to get a better look. I saw the guy was leaning on the car door with his hands on the roof. I figured maybe he was taking a piss. Then through the open car window I saw some gal's blond hair bobbing up and down inside the car. It looked like someone was giving the guy a blow job. A strange thought came into my head: could the blond be Melody?

I went back to my car and looked for my wallet which had fallen off the front seat. After a few minutes, I found it had fallen on the floor. I went back inside.

No, it couldn't have been Melody. There she was, sitting at the table, drinking her whiskey and looking as innocent as a newborn babe. That's when her eyes looked up and met mine. After that, I wasn't so sure.

Earl started a new story. He recounted that a few years after 9/11; he was on the back-up replacement team that went into Pakistan to kill Bin Laden. When the first team lost its helicopter, Earl's team stood by in a hangar at a secret location, awaiting word to join. Fortunately, the first team was able to lift off in their second warship..

After Earl confided that story, my respect for him grew by leaps and bounds, and I was pleased when he insisted that he had to swear me to secrecy. I was so proud. My buddy was a real American hero.

Earl was still on call as a military consultant. He'd disappear now and then for a few days at a time. These were secret missions, and he could not discuss the details. Still, he did say he was advising a clandestine Cuban military group in Miami who were hell-bent on killing Castro, but our government preferred to stall them and wait for Castro to die a natural death. Earl was meeting with them in a high school gymnasium and teaching them hand-to-hand combat.

While Earl was away on a mission, we offered to take Melody out for dinner, but on that occasion, I was busy with something, so Florence drove over to their place and picked up Melody. I had plenty of work to do, and our constant socializing was draining my free time.

Flo had planned to take Melody to one of our usual restaurants, but Melody first wanted to visit a new shop to buy some lingerie. This 'new store,' on the main street of an industrial area, was a 'sex shop.' Besides condoms, lotions, and dildoes, the lingerie section boasted panties that were slit at the bottom to allow easy access, and bras whose cups were cut out to expose the wearer's nipples. Melody picked out several sexy duos, and my wife was shocked.

Instead of going to one of our usual eating places, Melody insisted they try the 'Bicycle Club.' Flo thought it was an eating establishment, but my wife said it turned out to be "a sleazy bar that gave out free tacos with overly sweet alcoholic drinks." My wife, inexperienced in such situations, eventually figured out that it was a 'pick up place,' I don't mean 'pick up' in the sense of ordering dinner and picking it up. Instead, men were arriving looking for single women available for sex at the motel next door or on a rug or blanket on the floor of their vans in the dark parking lot outside.

My wife was younger and, in my eyes, more attractive than Melody, but Melody had a sexual aura about her, like the hooker who entertains the entire football team after a victory. I assumed Melody was using Flo as the bait. My wife got tired of saying "No" to strange men who approached their table, offering the girls free drinks.

Flo was embarrassed, and excused herself, leaving Melody alone at the table. Flo went to hide in the bathroom. Melody met someone while my wife was gone, and disappeared for about forty minutes. When Flo returned to their table, there were six empty cocktail glasses instead of two full glasses. Eventually, Melody returned through the back door from the parking lot, looking a bit disheveled. Her horse pendant was missing, and Flo noticed a long streak of something wet and gooey on her blouse.

Melody said, "I spilled some hot sauce on my blouse," but the streak was not red or green. My wife, not wanting to be tarred with Melody's behavior, thought it was time to leave. Flo didn't ask questions about the goo spot and didn't relate the entire story to me when she came home that night. Perhaps it was embarrassing. It took a while before she told me what had transpired.

About ten days later, Earl returned. He called to say he had discovered a terrific seafood place on the coast. It was about 40 miles away, so we all left in his car. He explained his absence, telling us an armed guard took him to a nearby military base for a briefing; in fact, there was a Marine Base nearby.

I was sitting up front in the car where I could smell Earl's aftershave lotion, but with the roar of the highway, I couldn't hear what the girls in the back seat were saying. Then, about halfway there, Earl abruptly pulled off the road, stopped just past the exit, and waited.

"Are you okay, Earl?"

"I just wanted to ensure no one was following us," he responded.

It turned out this was his modus operandi, confirmed by Melody, and he did this all the time. When he was working on a secret undercover job for the FBI, he told her that he always had to be sure that no one was following him. Why 'they' would be following him, he never explained.