In my original plan for
The Madonna and the Manatee
, the wife, Ashley, was going to be a bit character, basically a shallow foil to set up the ultimate confrontation between the main character and the man who cuckolded him. As I wrote it, though, I decided that I wanted to create someone with more complexity and a bit more depth.
I went a bit overboard.
After I published the story, an inordinate number of readers commented that they wanted to see a lot more Ash. I never really planned to return to her, but those comments struck home. I began to wonder if I could create a more richly developed character who did some truly grotesque things. Someone evil, but still somewhat charismatic. A character you hate, but could also love a bit, too.
To really get this one, you'll probably want to read Madonna and the Manatee first. That said, this is one of those cheating wife POV stories, and it's also pretty long...
Trigger warnings: Barbies, wandering fingers, finance douchebags, clean freaks
*****
Ashley's Story
Copyright B. Watson 2023
So here I am:
Two years after my depressing affair,
One and a half years after my divorce,
One year into therapy,
22 words into writing my story,
And I think I've got writer's block.
I told Dr. Thompson I'm not a writer by nature, but he insisted. His idea--minus the shrink gobbledygook--is that, by narrating the history of my life, I might be able to find a way to move it forward. As if my life is a fairy tale. As if I'm just a character.
As if, by writing about the worst mistake I ever made, I could write myself a happy ending.
I think it's bullshit, but Thompson's the one with the doctorate and the 4.8 rating on Google reviews, and I'm the one who hired him, so I guess it's on me to give it everything I've got. That said, there's no way in hell anyone's going to see this--most definitely including the good doctor. It's one thing to admit your ugliness and cruelty to yourself--usually at 1AM, with a glass of white in your hand and three more in your stomach--but it's totally different to lance that wound in a beige room with Mondrian prints on the wall and a guy who looks like William H. Macy sitting across from you.
This story isn't about the proud moments of my life. It's about dark days and stupid decisions and regrets.
So many regrets.
As for my happy ending, forget about it. Clarity doesn't change the past, and it isn't going to change what my life is now. For some mistakes, there's no takebacks, no do-overs, no olly olly oxen free. There's only honesty, regret and--hopefully--understanding.
At least, that's what I'm praying for. Because I desperately want to know why.
*
So there I was:
By the third time I had sex with Winslow Hubble, I'd gotten it down to a routine: blowjob, missionary, a quick orgasm for him, a few minutes of pillow talk, and he was out the door. I had it streamlined it to 44 minutes, including conversation and getting him dressed.
The post-sex cleanup actually took longer than the cheating itself, which was fine with me. After all, I loved cleaning and I hated fucking Winslow, so why not spend my time on the thing I like the best?
Priorities!
Straightening up after Winslow's visits was like a meditation. Changing the sheets, spraying air freshener, showering, putting hospital-grade disinfectant on pretty much every surface he touched...the rhythm of it soothed me. Helped me get back my feeling of balance.
This was especially true on day six, the last day we had sex.
That afternoon started the same as the five previous days: I led Winslow to the bedroom, where I promptly sank to my knees, unzipped his pants, fished out his penis, and started sucking. When it came to blowing Winslow, speed was of the essence--I wanted to spend as little time as possible looking at his dick and thinking about what I was doing.
That isn't to say I phoned it in. I was strongly motivated to give Winslow my best--after all, if I could finish him with my mouth, it meant less time, less cleanup, less Winslow. In the back of my head, I was hoping I could get rid of him and start cleaning in under fifteen minutes.
I'd chosen Winslow for my revenge because he was easy to manipulate, but when it came to blowjobs, the man showed a surprising amount of backbone. Just like the other five days, he managed to yank himself from my mouth, jerked me to my feet, pulled down my skirt and panties, and pushed me onto the bed.
As the old saying goes, no plan survives first contact with the enemy, but I had contingencies in place: If I couldn't rush Winslow along with my best blowjob, I'd do it with amateur theatrics. As soon as he was in me, I treated him to more moans, swearing, gasps, and shrieks than the gunshot ward at Bellevue hospital. This, too, was a routine: My bedroom performance with Winslow was about as spontaneous as a TV laugh track.
So there I was, staring at the ceiling, moaning my moans and gasping my gasps, when I noticed that something looked different. Did Charlie buy a new smoke detector?
My thoughts were interrupted by Winslow's hand sneaking across my butt, moving toward the edge of my asshole.
Not gonna happen, pal
, I thought as I seductively slid his hand back up to my chest and used it to rub my nipple. Winslow got the hint, but I'd barely had a chance to return to my analysis of the smoke detector before I felt his other hand slide down. I was wondering if I could use the same move again, when he went for broke and jammed his finger up my ass.
Do you ever look at yourself and wonder
"How did I get here
?" Or, more specifically, "
How did I end up with a sloppy trust fund baby jamming half his finger up my anus while I tried to make him come as quickly as possible
?"
I know--it's an odd question.
The thought flickered through my brain as I threw Winslow to the floor and started screaming at him to get out of my apartment. I think he had his pants on by the time I slammed the front door, but I'm not sure. All I knew was that, if he stayed in the apartment a second longer, I was going to kill him.
I spent the next few hours cleaning the bedroom, gagging, changing the sheets, gagging some more, and taking a long, hot shower with antibacterial body wash
while
gagging. The cleaning and gagging didn't give me much time to explore the existential crisis caused by Winslow's wandering digit, but I've had a lot of time since then to think about it--and then a lot of time in therapy to analyze all that thinking. Two years later, I'm starting to get a handle on it.
I'm pretty sure it all began with Barbie.
*
To a disinterested observer, my reaction to Winslow's low-level anal play may seem a bit extreme--I'm told most women don't respond to a little butt-fingering by going full WWF, throwing their paramour across the room, and threatening to claw his eyes out.
The thing is, I've got a quirk. Not a condition, exactly. More like a little issue.
I like things clean.
When I was a kid, it was a problem. I grew up in a house full of boys, so as far back as I could remember, I was surrounded by dirt. Dirty dishes. Dirty clothes. Dirty sports equipment and football cleats, dumped all over the house.
My parents kept up as best they could and I pitched in when I got older, but no matter how fast we cleaned, my brothers messed up the house even faster. My parents threatened and punished, but even I knew they were a soft touch. I think my brothers
tried
to clean up after themselves, but it was always "I'm just leaving my mitt here for a minute" or "I PROMISE I'll put my shoes away later!" With four boys, a few minutes here and a few laters there translated into a living room that looked like the town dump.
Between my cleanliness issues and my brothers' filth issues, I was effectively exiled from the living room, the kitchen, and any other room that the boys occupied. Luckily, there was one place in the house where I could always escape the mess: my bedroom.
Not that I was completely comfortable there, either. My mother, bursting with excitement about FINALLY having a daughter, had decorated it in her version of the perfect little girl's room--pink canopy bed, frilly lampshades, lacy curtains and fussy Provincial-style furniture. For me, it was a different kind of mess, a slightly more acceptable form of clutter. Needless to say, I wasn't a fan.
I dreamed of clean lines. Barren surfaces. Neutral shades.
When I turned nine--the official age for picking out your bedroom furniture in the Collins household--I made a plan to transform my mom's girly gulag into my perfect fortress of solitude. Step one was a trip to Ikea.
Oh, Ikea!
This is where I wish I was a better writer. I wish I had the words to express the joy I feel when I go into Ikea. I'm reminded of a quote from Alex DeLarge: "Oh bliss! Bliss and heaven! Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. It was like a bird of rarest-spun heaven metal or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now. As I slooshied, I knew such lovely pictures!"
Granted, Alex was a fictional thug talking about Beethoven and I'm a disgraced divorcee talking about Swedish furniture, but the spirit's the same. I'm pretty sure I don't have a drop of Scandinavian blood in my body, but my little preteen heart beat with purest rapture whenever I strolled through the store's perfect little bedrooms, each carefully arranged with an ideal amount of minimalist furniture. Everywhere I looked, it was straight lines and uncluttered spaces.
To be honest, Ikea
