Against All Odds
A story of lost love, coming of age, cheating, addiction, and trying to turn back time.
First, I apologize for writing a book on my first effort. Second, I should have really finished before I started releasing the chapters. I had no clue the story would get any attention. I knew going in, Loving Wives was a potential mind field, but I was unprepared for the volume of comments.
Taking in all feedback in the aggregate was a massive learning experience. Thank you everyone!
1)The story was way too long
2)To brave in the point of view changes
3) Too much overlap and repetition in the story
4) God forbid too much sex
5) Deplorable characters (I really tried to make each flawed and two-dimensional, with redemption always possible, but I was shocked at the judgments people made. This is noted for the future)
6) I'm a totally shit writer
7) Enough positive feedback to ignore those that claimed #6
8) And all the rest
Yes, I used the dreaded "Hater" term. However, their feedback was as important in the total as the positive. My beef is the vehemence and vitriol. I just don't understand meanness. I know we live firmly in the 'grievance culture,' but oh man, does it come alive in the Loving Wives category!
I did delete some nasty feedback but left most intact. Why not.
With all the feedback in mind, I became paralyzed to finish the story. I considered starting from scratch with a total rewrite. Or changing my notes for the finish. To turn left and try to make the haters happy.
What did I decide?
To die by the sword with which I started the story in the first place. It was my first work, so I kept writing how it came out. It's still too long and needs an editor, and I still need a lot of work with this craft.
I desperately looked for an editor before I published. I struck out in this. I did get one piece of advice that said to publish something, and you might find editors. I did, in fact, get some offers, and I will call upon them for my subsequent work.
Thank you, everyone, for the ride ...
Now - an important news flash. This story was ultimately about addiction. This last entry deals with this. There is very little sex, and for those that want burning bitches will be disappointed. Addiction is a hard reality in our society and can wreak considerable wreckage on families. There is a path ...
Thank you for your indulgence in reading this crazy big thing I created.
Marc Dwayne
Part Four
Dave Lost and Going Down Fast
After Mel left, I remained at the table. The tears had slowed, and I was trying to hydrate with beer. Now almost drunk, I eyed the cocaine on the coffee table, but the futon was like a menacing demon, wet with lust; it was mocking me. I couldn't get the images out of my head. I caved and grabbed the cocaine mirror. They had left enough for me to get hella high really quick. The futon was still making sex sounds at me,
"Oh Ryan, you're so huge, fuck me, fuck me with your big cock!"
I was tweaking from the line of coke but also relieved it seemed to quell the mocking futon. I grabbed more beer and realized I would probably have to drink fuck-dicks brand Mel probably got for him. That's going to be fun.
For a second, I considered cleaning up, but that thought made the futon start to buck and bounce, with naked demons emerging to dance on the bed in time with the sex sounds. More coke! More beer! I put on some downtempo music. The thought of Dubstep made me want to vomit. I was high; the beer was barely cutting through the coke. It was black hash time. I revelled in the ritual of rolling the perfect hash spliff. The slow heating of my big chunk of rare black hash from the Middle East. It had mold and a gold seal. I was a hash man in the era of plentiful engineered turbo bud. I needed its small buzz. It was warm, and the smell was delicious. I rolled two perfect spliffs.
Works of art
, I thought. Mel had always chuckled at how fastidious I was rolling spliffs. She said it reminded her of a Japanese tea ceremony.
Fresh cold beer, I had four of my Indian pale ale left. I lit the spliff, inhaled its pungent aroma and let the smell waft into my face. I slowly rolled my hands into my face like a sage burn, pretending the smoke was cleansing me. I was barely holding off the demons. They had multiplied. Some were crouching in the corner of the loft. At least two of them were on the futon, humping each other. Two more were playing my bass, sitting on the desk. As terror was filling my frontal cortex, I downed another beer and realized I had arrived at a completely numb state of mind. Hallucinating, obviously, but numb.
In a flash, I re-lived the last two years of my life while being sucked into a vortex of denial. I knew what was coming. I'd been here before and fought it with every ounce of my being. I wanted to get angry immediately, but the denial surge was all-encompassing.
She still loved me. I had hallucinated the entire thing. It was a one-night stand! She didn't give me sloppy seconds. She didn't lie to me. She would come back. She would choose me. She still loved me.
Wave after wave of denial kept coming, and the more I fought, the bigger the waves became. The demons were all cackling. Now all of them were humping on the futon. Just as I was about to succumb to my insanity, I surrendered. With a noticeable whoosh, the waves of denial passed through me, and I was left with a moment of clarity. Acceptance pulsed through me. I knew this was a phantom; this is how the stages went. I experienced them all simultaneously but knew each would need its moment on the stage. The order could never be truly changed.
In that brief moment, I surrendered to my loss. Melissa was gone. I was not enough for her. I was not right for her. She never loved me or, at the very least, no longer loved me. I did a line of coke, then a coco puff in a cigarette.
I would need to quit that, too,
I thought. I took a big gulp of beer and lit the second spliff. Comfortably numb and still swimming in the phantom of acceptance, I laughed out loud at the cliche of losing her to a fucking porn cock. Holy shit, just that alone was enough to short-circuit my brain. Do you laugh or cry? I guess I had a small dick after all. Oh well, nothing I could do about that. I then had a fleeting thought and, in kindness, hoped this Ryan dude was more than just a hung stud. I hoped he made her laugh and could see her like I did. I mean, really see her. See the real Mel. The woman I was still hopelessly in love with.
With that thought, the demons went into full orgy mode. Denial exploded all around me, and my heart shattered again into a thousand little pieces. This was not happening! This was a nightmare! I was going to wake up and have Melissa asleep beside me, and we would make soft love and then have our Sunday chill day on the futon. With my sigh, the demons on the futon all started to have orgasms. Cum was flying everywhere. They were all chanting in unison, "fuck me with that huge cock. It's twice the size of my boyfriend's cock." then, in a chorus, the demons chanted, "Tiny dick, tiny dick. Dave has a tiny dick." I started to cry in deep heaves of despair.
I had downed at least ten beers and was stone-cold sober. There was no more coke, and I desperately needed to be drunk and pass out. I went to the fridge and said, "fuck it," and started to drink dick wads shitty beer. Three of them did the trick. I staggered to the bedroom. Eyed the bed and realized Mel had made the room all sexy and clean but had obviously not fucked there. At least not last night or not by the time I arrived. I stripped naked and laughed at my pudgy hairy body and wished I had a porn cock like Ryan. I tried to masturbate, but my dick was dead. I turned out the light, thankful for the darkness surrounding me. The demons were still fucking on the futon, but the old wooden walls were enough to shield me from their screaming. Darkness, oh-so-beautiful darkness, merged with denial, and I eventually fell into a deep, troubled sleep.
Sunday at the Loft
I woke with light leaking into the lone window through the closed slats of the blinds. The window faced south, so it took a while for the sun to rise and get the right angle to paint the hazy sun lines on the bedroom walls. It was around ten am, and for a brief instant, I thought I just woke up from a nightmare, but the emptiness beside me brought reality back with a vengeance. I moved my head and groaned at such a loud noise. How could a pillow make such a sound? I closed my eyes and started to shake as I couldn't catch my breath. A coldness emerged from my feet and rose upwards like being slowly put in a barrel of ice. When it reached my heart, my eyes shot open, and I took a gasping inhale of breath and fought back the terror that I was feeling. Holy fuck, this hurts, I thought. I took some deep, slow breaths. A trick I used before public speaking or being on-stage. Slow and deep in and out through my nose. As I calmed down, I slowly rose and got my feet on the floor. The rays were painting stripes on my head, and my eyes were blinking from the direct contact. I needed some Advil.
I put on shorts and a white T-shirt. My lazy Sunday uniform. Why change it now? I got up, ambled to the bathroom for the Advil, went back to the fridge, and opened one of the home wrecker's beers. It was cold and bitter. I popped the four Advil's in my mouth and downed the beer with one big swig. In seconds, my head was happy. My stomach, not so much. I was hungry but knew food would not be part of my life for a while. I would eat the bare minimum that was needed. I knew the drinking would have to stop, but not today. I put on coffee as the plan was to alternate between beer and joe until the afternoon. I got my phone, and sadly, I hadn't received any texts or messages. The silence was in keeping with my mood. The phone was in low battery mode. I had forgotten to plug it in, but then I had to face the Futon again. The charger was on the table beside the scene of the crime. At least the demons were gone. I couldn't go there yet, so I got a charger from my knapsack and plugged my phone in by my desk.
It was then that I noticed it was a bright and beautiful day. As the sun rose, it drenched the entire loft in brilliant sunlight. By eleven AM, there was not a cloud in the sky. No wind, just blue sky. The contradiction of the day and my current state of mind made me instantly angry. Denial was still in play, but the phantom of anger had come to save me. I sat there and drank coffee, angry. Smoked a spliff, angry. Drank a beer, angry. I could not believe how good it felt. Then my phone buzzed on my desk. That made me angry. I stomped over the desk, and it was a text from Melissa.
"Can I come over?"
I just held the phone and stared at the text. My anger was gone in an instant, and I was consumed by the overwhelming emotion. Of how deeply I loved this woman. I started to deny that I was heartbroken. Then deny I was jealous of her new boyfriend. She was young; she should be free. Then, the anger came back to save me.
I texted, "If you want, no one is stopping you!"
I paused, trying to hold back more tears. I thought,
save me anger, save me!
I sighed and texted, "When?"
