Melting Away Slowly Pt 03

Copyright 2009, All Rights Reserved

Scenes from Chapters 3 & 4 to provide some plot continuity for Chapters 5 & 6.

***

You know, one of the things that happens when your wife seems to find you undesirable is you ask yourself, why? As I prepared, I wondered again, for the, I don't know, maybe thousandth time, what was wrong with me?

I hadn't changed in my hygiene practices. I showered every morning, and shaved most days. I used deodorant, and kept my nails (both hands and feet) clean and trimmed. I brushed my teeth twice a day, and went regularly to the dentist for cleanings, and to the doctor for check-ups.

I took a few medications, but just the normal things for cholesterol and mild high-blood pressure that almost everyone our age was taking. Nothing with side-effects like B.O. or bad breath.

Not to sound too self-satisfied, but I thought that I was at least as well groomed and physically attractive or more so than the majority of men my age.

I just shook my head. It was a mystery.

***

Now on my back, Pearl worked her way back down my body, including my hands and fingers, ending with another minute or two on my feet. I have to confess, I'd never gotten a full body massage before, and it was a wonderful feeling.

But so far, nothing had happened, or been said, that would imply anything more than a massage.

"Mr. Mark," she looked at me very closely, gauging my reaction, "are you cop? You try 'trapment' on Pearl?"

"No, Pearl," I replied, "I'm not a cop. I'm a teacher."

"Good," she said, then whispering to me, "You got extra $25 tip for Pearl? I give Mr. Mark excellent hand-job, make you real calm and relax. Is most healthful to relieve stress."

She took the towel covering my groin off, and started by washing my penis.

Boy, oh boy, did that make him happy!

"Mr. Mark, you are having beautiful cock," she said, examining it with an expert gaze, "Nice, long and thick, but not too big to hurt woman."

A positive assessment, although given the source, I didn't have a clue whether to believe her or not.

***

I could still hear her cutting words from Christmas in my head, "If he can't control his urges, then I wish he'd go find someone else to take care of it... I rationalized it in my mind: I was doing exactly what Martha had wished. She was getting her way.

There was also that little voice whispering into my ear, that voice that speaks to anyone, the shoplifter, the car thief, or the whore monger, the first-time rule breaker, saying: hey, that wasn't so difficult — you got away with it once, why not do it again?

***

Stephanie just smiled in my direction and didn't say a thing.

"After you mentioned it the other day, I decided to sign up for the 'Beginning Ballroom Dancing' class," I said.

"Mark, that's great! Oh, you don't know how happy that makes me. I was afraid that I would be the only older person in the class, and none of the boys would want to dance with me," she exclaimed.

"Hey, 'old lady', I bet all those young guys would line up for a chance to dance with you," I teased, sensing the serious concern beneath her bantering tone.

Stephanie didn't know it, and would have been shocked if I'd told her, but she had made my day. Just seeing her lifted my spirits.

***

"Did you hear Bob talk to us about how important practice was? How for every hour of instruction we should practice at least an hour on our own?"

"I don't know. You need the right music, you need a place to practice, you need a partner..." I was resisting the inevitable now.

"Got the music. Bought it this morning. Got a room," at which point she held up a key to a classroom, and then she pointed across the desk at me, "and I got a partner. No more excuses."

We had left the door open, to allow the air to circulate. As we were finishing, to our surprise, someone started clapping.

There was Bob Williamson, our instructor, standing in the doorway, with a huge smile on his face.

"At least some of my students listen in class," he said, laughing, giving Steph a wink, as he turned and walked towards his office.

***

Melting Away, Slowly... Part 3

Chapter 5.

Around the beginning of February, I was frankly getting horny again, and decided that another visit to my friendly Asian masseuse, Pearl, was in order.

Just the anticipation of getting another blow-job was putting a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Even Martha noticed,

"My, oh my, Mark. You're awfully chipper this morning," she commented at breakfast, "What's going on?"

I looked at her, for a moment wondering if she knew or had guessed that I was taking her admonition to heart and getting my animal urges taken care of somewhere else. But nothing that would indicate such knowledge showed on her face. And to be honest, I didn't think that she was enough of an actress to fool me.

"Nothing special," I said, thinking that doing something for the third time probably reduced it from being 'something special' to just mundane and routine.

"A lovely day," I posited, and smiled.

Martha took another sip of her coffee.

"How is your class going? I don't remember; did you say what are you taking, and I just missed it?" she suddenly seemed to be trying to take an interest.

"Oh, it's fine, just fine," I said, avoiding her second question.

I was saved by the bell, so to speak.

Martha looked at the clock, and stood up, gathering her purse and keys, and heading out to her car in the garage.

"Got to go! I didn't realize how late it was," she air kissed at me, as if that were a substitute for the real thing, as she departed.

With Martha gone, I sat there for awhile thinking, finishing my cup of coffee and the onion bagel and cream-cheese that I ate most mornings for breakfast.

I had started going online and reading stories about cheating spouses, and one of the points that a number of authors made had to do with how the cheating spouse received a certain satisfaction out of 'putting one over' on the other. I guess that at that point, I was feeling that special 'I've got a secret and you don't know about it' smugness.

Because I would go by the massage place first and then directly to school, I packed everything I would need for the day and for my dancing class that evening in the car. It took me two trips, and five minutes later I was pulling my car out of the garage and hitting the road.

I turned that radio on to one of the 'oldies' stations and was happily humming along as I drove on the city streets.

As I approached the storefront that housed the massage parlor, I almost pulled into the driveway, when I realized that there were police cars with lights flashing behind the building, and a number of what could only be unmarked cars congregated blocking any exit from the front doors.

Fortunately, I noticed in time and just drove on past the building without slowing anymore than the normal 'rubber necker' would, seeing what was obviously a police raid.

My heartbeat was racing, so I pulled over into a shopping mall across the street, where I could see the massage parlor. I was shaking all over, as I sat there in the car. After a minute, I recalled that I kept an inexpensive set of binoculars in the car for emergencies. This wasn't precisely an emergency, but I pulled them out nonetheless.

From my vantage point, I could see the cops bringing out the woman from the front desk in hand cuffs, and placing her in the back of one of the unmarked cars. Then came a small group of Asian women, including Pearl, also handcuffed, who were also distributed into the back seats of the plain Crown Vic's.

I continued to watch, and a couple of minutes later, a step-van type vehicle pulled up to the front. Then the door opened, and I could see about five men, a couple in suits, others in t-shirts and jeans, but all handcuffed, being put into what I now recognized as a prisoner transport.

It struck me right then: If I'd finished my breakfast just a couple of minutes earlier this morning, I would have been one of the 'johns' snared in this raid. It would have been MY name in the paper as having been arrested for soliciting for prostitution, or whatever the charges were.

What were my emotions right then? First, I was so relieved that I hadn't been caught. Then the thought crossed my mind — was I on a list of clients anywhere? I tried to remember. I was fairly sure that I never used my full name (and they hadn't cared) and I always paid in cash, so there wouldn't be any credit card transactions. Were there security cameras, I wondered? I didn't remember any, and would it make any sense for a place like that to be taking videos of their customers?

Sitting around there in the parking lot wasn't doing me any good, so I finally got myself together and drove to school, where I sort of hid in my office until class. I got through my classes that day, and even went through the motions at dance class that evening, but it was obvious that I was preoccupied.

During the break during class that evening, Stephanie pulled me aside.

"Are you alright, Mark? You aren't yourself this evening. Is everything alright?" she demanded.

"Thanks, Steph, but everything is fine," I smiled as I tried to gloss over my inner fear. "Just a little tired, and worried, but nothing terribly important."

Stephanie came up close to me, and took my arm. She looked up at me, with caring eyes.

"You know that if there is anything you need, that I can do to help you, don't hesitate to let me know," she said, in one of those voices that left you with the feeling that she was not just going through the motions, but with a tone that told me she really meant it. I really appreciated that, although how she could help with this, I don't know.

I returned home that night still a bundle of nerves.

For the next couple of days I kept an eye out, as if I were expecting the police to come up to me in class and put handcuffs on me, leading me out while reading my Miranda rights.

I kept envisioning it:

"You are under arrest, Mark McDonald, for getting whacked-off and receiving oral sex. Come with us peaceably or we'll have to use force," was how it went in my nightmares.

There was a small blurb in the paper about the raid, about a paragraph long, calling the woman behind the desk, Madame Li, but revealing her real name as Judy Wong. She owned and operated the massage parlor and was charged with operating a house of prostitution and procurement.

It mentioned that there were five women arrested for prostitution, but their names weren't even listed individually, and as for the 'johns' — they were booked for solicitation and released on their own recognizance.

In the end, it didn't seem as if anyone was too concerned about shutting down my little local massage parlor. I was relieved that it appeared that there weren't going to be any repercussions for me.

But it focused my mind on the risks that I had been taking for sexual relief. Would it have been better for me to exchange the private humiliation of having my wife deny me intimacy and sex, for the public humiliation of being arrested? I should have known that if it was so easy for me to find out about the availability of sex there, it would be just as easy for the police.

It made me despair.

***

You know, it's amazing how life goes on.

After what I regarded as my close call, missing being arrested at the massage parlor by minutes, I got over the fright and back into the normal rhythm of my life.

These days though, my dance class had become something of the high-point of my life. We had finished with the "East Coast Swing' and were moving on to the 'Foxtrot', and Bob hoped that we would get through the 'Waltz' and maybe one additional dance step by the end of the semester.

For me, the pleasure of spending a couple of hours a week with Stephanie was providing at least some of the kind of intimacy that I used to share with Martha. It didn't bother me to have all of the young women in the class lined up to dance with me either.

Stephanie took me aside during our break one evening.

"Mark," she told me laughing, "you know that all of these young coeds in our class, when they are waiting for their turns to dance with the men? They sit there admiring your wide shoulders and your tight little buns! They say things like 'not bad for a professor.' "

"And how do you know? Why are they telling you?" I asked her, thinking that she was pulling my leg.

"Because I tell them that I completely agree with them!" was her response, laughing even more herself.

How that woman does make me blush. Thankfully we were standing outside, where the lights were fairly dim.

One of the reasons that the dance class was such a pleasure was our instructor, Bob Williamson.

Bob was patient and encouraging, and let everyone work at their own pace, which helped. We learned our basis steps first without music, as well, so that we weren't struggling to 'keep up' with the music until we had the step well in hand. And it was still tough then, the first couple of times that we tried to dance to the music. I guess we guys were lucky in a way — because of ratio of men to women; we were dancing virtually all of the time. The extra woman could dance as well, but they would have to either do the steps solo, or with other women, which created problems as you can imagine.

Once before class, I ran into Bob at one of the local restaurants, and he asked me to join him. It gave me a chance to get to know him a little.

"Bob, how did you get into ballroom dancing? When I was growing up, I wasn't even aware that anyone was still doing it. It was as if it had disappeared along with old Fred Astaire movies," I mentioned.

"My mother and dad both did ballroom dancing, so I started when I was pretty young. My dad actually worked as a High School teacher, but my mom had a studio where she taught dancing. We could never have lived on her earnings, but it let her bring in some money while being home according to her own schedule," he began.

"I danced and didn't think anything of it, until I was about 11-years old. I thought that everyone's parents spent the weekends at clubs or social events. It wasn't until later that I realized that my parents were there because they were being paid to provide good dancing partners for the men and women who wanted to dance, but didn't have a dance partner of their own," he laughed.

"But, about the time I turned eleven," he got serious, "some of the kids at school found out about me, and started the teasing and taunting. You know how that goes. So I stopped dancing, and took up the normal boys sports and activities — baseball, football — the more acceptable activities at the time."

"Suddenly, though, that changed for me," he was grinning as he told me, "When I was 16 year old, I was invited by one of the girls in my class to go with her to her 'coming out' party. I know it was a surprise to her, heck, it was almost a surprise to me, but I remembered all of the steps to the dances that I'd learned, and started dancing her around the floor.

She, and even more her mother, were completely wowed. Her mom said that we looked like a couple of professionals out there, compared to the others. In fact, I ended up dancing with every one of the girls at that party, with them all begging me for more."

"I discovered that for me, at least, dancing was my ticket to having more women that I would have ever dreamed possible. And, just between you, me and the lamp-post, I wasn't just nailing the girls, but a fair share of their mothers too!" Bob said, laughing at the memories.

"So I guess you could say I got back into dancing to pursue women! Of course, I finally grew up a little and realized that I loved the dancing for its own sake as well, which is when I got serious about it. I started putting in some real effort, went to a really renown teacher, found a great partner, and we started competing. We do pretty well, too," he concluded.

"You have a regular partner?" I asked, probably sounding a little dense.

"Oh, sure, best looking woman with whom I ever danced. In fact, I'm not as dumb as I look — I married her," he explained.

"And she comes with me wherever I go. She understands the effect of dancing on women, and she doesn't leave me alone with those hot, sensuous, horny women! She makes sure that SHE is the one in my bed every night. No complaints here, you understand," he said, sitting back, looking rather content with his lot in life.

"But Mark, what about you? I took up dancing to get women; what motivated you?" he asked as an afterthought.

"Bob, how can you ask that? To attract women, of course! Just like you," I replied, laughing at my joke, but knowing that it was kind of true, even as I said it.

***

It must have been Friday, the seventh of February, and having practiced dancing with Stephanie that afternoon, I had just gotten home, and hadn't even thought about starting dinner, when Martha walked in.

"Hello, honey," she said as she walked past me to put her briefcase and phone down on the kitchen counter. She looked around and stated the obvious,

"You haven't started dinner yet?"

"No, I just got home a couple of minutes ago myself," I informed her, while certainly not telling her what I had been doing.

"Good. Then we can go out for dinner tonight. Do you know we haven't gone out to dinner together since before Christmas? In fact," she said, as if she had just noticed, "we haven't done very much together at all for a long time."

Time to give things another chance, and see if Martha was concerned about the issues developing in our marriage. Or, even if she did, whether she was inclined to do anything about them. I would give it the old college try.

"That's fine with me. Did you have anyplace in mind," I asked, beginning the process of deciding on a restaurant that would suit both of us.

We ultimately choose a local Mexican eatery that combined good food, reasonable prices, and killer Margaritas.

Pepe's Place was as good as we remembered it to be, and we had a pleasant enough dinner. We both had one of their special Margaritas, which used one of the 'select' tequilas that have become available in recent years, which has a somewhat smoky taste to it. A couple more of those and we were feeling no pain.

Martha talked to me about her job, speculating on when the Vice-President would announce his retirement. She told me about some of the gossip she'd picked up at her Bridge Club about various people and places around town. She even mentioned the scandal of a police raid on a massage parlor that was a front for prostitution!

I, for my part, mostly listened, and told her about the classes that I was teaching — mostly about the students, since she didn't understand the first thing about the subjects — and gave her what updates I could on a couple of faculty members who she knew from campus get-togethers.

Questions about the class I was taking, I deflected. My dance class was my secret, my independent life.

As we drove home, the Margaritas were having their effect on Martha. She was pretty happy, and was waxing sentimental, recalling good times that we had earlier in our marriage, times before the boys had grown and left home.

We pulled into the garage, and after I pushed the button to close the door, I went to Martha's side to help her into the house. She put her arm around my neck, as I lifted her up on to her feet, and when she was standing, I kept hold of her hand to make sure she didn't stumble as we came into the house.

We made it to the living room, when she put both of her arms around my neck and pulled herself close to me. I was wondering if I was to be the beneficiary of her annual mercy fuck, or something.

"Mark," she whispered into my ear, "You're a hell of a guy, and a great husband. I love you. Thanks for taking me out to dinner."