The tale continues (mature audience for language and sexual situations)…
Dain left work, stopping at Poole’s Tavern in Northville, home of the best fish and chips he’d ever had, to contemplate his next steps.
Several hours later, the fish and chips sat in his stomach like a lump, while the single beer he’d ordered had turned into more than he could recount; but at least he had formulated a plan—what he would come to refer to in the days ahead as The Plan. It was a simple plan. Carrying it out would prove difficult.
Dain glanced at his watch to find that it was after eleven o’clock. He paid his tab and left.
By the time he got home it was nearly 11:30. With the house dark, he wondered as he wandered through the haze of alcohol with The Plan circulating through his thoughts, if he might find a Dear Dain letter on the kitchen table, or worse, on his pillow next to a chocolate mint, telling him that Betty had found someone else and was leaving him, leaving out that she was leaving him for another woman. Dain sighed. So many leavings.
Dain found Betty in bed, lights out sound asleep: at least she’d spared him the humiliation of abandonment, apparently preferring to continue to humiliate him behind his back.
In that moment Dain thought of waking her to make love to her, to try to win her back by reminding her of the one thing her lover could never provide her—a throbbing… His penis—always more grow than show—perked up, hopeful; but then his loathing resurfaced, loathing for her lie of omission, that she’d taken another lover, and that her preference was for one of her own gender. When had she discovered this preference for pussy, or had she always known, marrying Dain to lie to herself, as well as to him, her family, and her colleagues?
Dain cursed himself for asking, as if the answer might make a difference, bring him some measure of solace.
She’d gone to bed without him, without calling him on his cell to find out why he hadn’t come home. For all she knew, Dain was laying in some hospital, comatose, the result of being t-boned by a drunk driver on his way home, while her head had been buried between the thighs of another woman. Maybe that was what she’d hoped, that Dain had abandoned her in death, sparing her the task of telling him that she was leaving him for someone else—the identity and gender of whom she could keep to herself.
Dain felt the fish and chips shift uncomfortably in his colon, like a baseball making its way through his alimentary canal, and thought briefly about spending the night in the guestroom, not because he wanted to spare Betty the potential vocal displeasure of his anus.
Fat chance, he thought. It’s my bed even if I’m no longer sharing it with my wife.
Besides, he didn’t want to tip her off that anything was amiss, that he knew of her cheating. If The Plan succeeded, the slut who was Dain’s wife would never know that she’d been found out. Better still, Dain would never have met her; and best of all, he’d never know the pain he now felt.
Dain slipped out of his clothes and into bed beside the lesbian he never knew; Betty shifted and moaned softly, probably dreaming of her blond lover pushing a vibrating dildo into her: no fuss, no dripping man muss.
Shit, he thought, despising the image that was a fantasy of his own making. Suddenly his marriage had become all about him.
Dain woke up spooned against Betty’s backside with an erection the size of Florida. It took him a moment to recall yesterday’s events, the video of Betty with another woman, the hours spent at Poole’s drinking beer after beer to deaden the pain that wouldn’t deaden, and finally, The Plan.
He pushed himself away from Betty, loathing his penis for its desire. It had no conscience or morals. It forgave as easily as a puppy.
Blues-rock guitarist, George Thorogood: “Stand still, honey. I’m gonna lick your legs like a puppy.”
“I don’t think so,” Dain muttered.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Betty said, rolling over to face him. Dain wondered whether she’d felt his erection wedged between her voluptuously cheeky cheeks.
“Nothing.” Dain despised himself for his lie. Part of him wanted to spill what he knew, confront her with her disloyalty, see the shame on her face, listen to her stammer as she sought to make excuses for her betrayal, even as his penis wanted to spill something of its own. But her knowing that he knew would change nothing.
Eddie Valiant: “Weren’t you the one I caught playing patty-cake with old man Acme?”
Jessica Rabbit: “You didn’t catch me, Mr. Valiant. You were set up to take those pictures.”
Riiight. And then, Has it really been twenty-six years since Who Framed Roger Rabbit hit the silver screen?
She might apologize, assure Dain that she’d break it off with her accomplice in debauchery. But it wouldn’t erase the images indelibly etched in his mind. It wouldn’t change the fact that she’d chosen another lover over him, and likely would’ve continued seeing her if she hadn’t been found out—continued to make a fool of him.
“No,” she’d whisper to her partner, “He doesn’t know, our secret is safe. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Not calling him by name would make him less real, less a person. Less her husband. “Yes, I’ll see you again Thursday night… I can’t wait to feel your tongue inside me.”
Dain’s colon twitched: last night’s baseball was telling him it wanted to be set free, into the cold, white porcelain yonder.
“What are you going to do with that nightstick of yours?” Betty asked, a hint of what Dain guessed was only wanton seduction, probably to hide her shame, if she were capable of it, or more likely, to further bury her malodorous lie, that she was still performing her wifely duty, as if that made her deceitfulness okay. Maybe she wanted the best of both worlds: that which only Dain could provide, and that which only another woman could give her—to touch her in ways that only another woman knew. Dain quickly discounted that theory, since he’d never craved the touch of another man.
But Betty’s lie was greater than Dain’s, greater than and more hurtful than Dain telling her that the new jeans she’d brought home from Macy’s didn’t make her backside look big when in fact they did. He loved her bulbous ass, whether clad in snug fitting denim or naked and jiggling as she padded barefoot to the bathroom for her morning shower. Men are far more visual than women, although several of Dain’s female Facebook friends seemed to contradict that presumption with posts of handsome young men sporting well-defined pectorals and six-pack abs. All of the corresponding comments ooh and ahh over these images. Dain never understood that abs description. He once joked that, upon turning forty—just last year—his six-pack had turned into a twelve-pack, and that he could look forward to a keg when he turned fifty. A six-pack was made of flexible cardboard, while a keg was made of stainless steel or aluminum. But Dain digressed.
Does anyone ever think that they’ll get caught cheating? he considered. Probably not. If they did, they’d likely never commit the heinous act, except in their head. But then there’s Matthew 5:29—“If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into Hell.”
Dain tried to recall if he’d ever, since marrying Betty, fantasized or lusted after another woman.
No. Which only made Betty’s sin all the greater, and Dain wasn’t one to judge others. Until now.
Dain swung his legs out of bed, feeling the blood drain from his penis. The pain of having been wronged began to reassert itself. “Nothing,” he said again. “I’ve got to get ready for work.”
Then he left for the bathroom, before Betty could voice her confusion: never before had her husband passed up a chance to make love to her.