Briset

[Author's Note: I regard "Brisket" as a complete story, and I never planned to do a sequel to it. But I know that many readers were interested in how Helen could have behaved the way she did, and I began to have ideas about how to tell that part of the story—so here it is. This won't make any sense unless you have read "Brisket" first.]

*

I had to laugh, when I thought about it. Life without Helen was almost the opposite of life with Helen: I was unhappy and lonely, instead of basically happy and contented. I mostly had to cook for myself and ate pretty badly, instead of enjoying Helen's wonderful meals. And I got laid a lot—whenever I wanted, in fact—instead of having to beg for it. The sex was usually damn good, too.

The last part of this perhaps calls for an explanation, though I suppose the rest of it is pretty obvious. Matilda Jacobson had a civilian job in the precinct I worked in. She was 38 and divorced, and she'd always flirted with me.

I was happy to flirt back, though it never meant anything. Matilda was tall and stacked, with platinum blonde hair, obviously dyed, and she showed plenty of that body off with her short skirts and tight sweaters. She wasn't actually very pretty—her face was rather plain—but she did have a great body. Most of the guys in the precinct, married or not, would have fucked her in a minute, but for some reason I was the guy she was interested in. When a couple of the other officers asked her out she always said, "sorry, you're a great guy but I don't date cops."

The day after I tossed Helen out on her ass my partner, Jim, asked me why I was so down in the dumps. We've been in a squad car together for almost ten years and we know each other very well, so I told him the story. Well, the outlines at least—all the details of how extensively that bitch had cuckolded me I kept to myself.

I knew the rest of the squadroom would know about it in no time—and sure enough, by the end of the week guys were patting me on the back with a somber look in their eyes, saying "sorry to hear about your bad break," and making sure I was joining them for a beer or two after every shift.

What I didn't expect was the doorbell to ring on Sunday afternoon two weeks later and to find Matilda standing on the front step. She had a casserole in her hands; and she was wearing white short-shorts, a tight pink top that showed off her fabulous tits, and a very determined look on her face.

"I thought you might need something," she said with a grin, not specifying what the something was that she had in mind. She followed me into the kitchen, put down the casserole, and gave me the hottest kiss I'd had in years, pulling my body tightly up against hers.

After about a minute I gently broke the kiss, holding her away from me, and said, "that was a nice surprise, Matilda, but what exactly is going on here?"

"Do you have to ask?" she said, smiling, gently stroking my cock through my pants.

I pulled away and sat down at the table. "Okay," I laughed, "I can see what you have in mind. But I'm not sure about why. I thought you didn't date cops."

I don't date cops," she said, "at least most of 'em. But I'm ready to date you any time, Rob. All that flirting all these years wasn't for nothing. But you've been a happily married guy, and I don't get in the middle of people's marriages.

"Now, however, it seems that Helen is gone and the marriage is over. So..." she licked her lips and blew me a very sexy kiss. "I thought it was time to get to know you better!"

Between her outfit, her kiss, and her words, I was developing a major hard-on. But that still didn't make me a total idiot. I said, "Matilda, not that I'm not flattered—and interested—but I'm hardly a good bet.

"I've just gotten done with throwing my cheating wife out of my life; there's no way I'm ready for any sort of new romance."

She smiled and kissed me again, this time gently. "I know that, Rob. This is not about romance. This is about no-strings fucking with a woman who has been attracted to you for years. Are you going to put the casserole back in my car and send me away?"

We spent nearly three hours in bed, and she fucked me four times. Well, actually three-and-a-half, as I just couldn't finish the last time. But every minute of it was a pleasure, and after the first little while I wasn't thinking about Helen any more.

Matilda had sex the way I had always wished Helen would: wildly, energetically, freely. She had big tits and she loved me stroking and licking and sucking them. The lips of her pussy were small and tight, and she went crazy when I ate her out and sucked on her clit. Her lips around my cock felt unbelievable, and she was perfectly happy to leave them there. And she fucked like a porn star—or at least close enough to wear me out.

Our first fuck must have barely lasted three minutes, but that was time enough for Matilda to come so hard she left teeth marks in my shoulder. The second time we did it doggie, my absolute favorite, and she purred and moaned and twisted around beneath me while I pumped in and out of her. We did a 69 with her on top, and I couldn't get enough of her—her hot mouth on my dick, her squeals as I licked her pussy, the feeling of her great big tits rubbing all over my chest. You get the picture—it was great.

After a shower, we dragged ourselves down to the kitchen and ate Matilda's casserole (edible, but not much better than that—a far cry from the great dinners that Helen always made), and then she kissed me and said she had to get home and feed her cats.

"Matilda," I said, hugging and kissing her, "that was unbelievable. You are the sexiest woman I've ever seen." (A polite exaggeration, but I thought it was the right thing to say under the circumstances.)

She smiled and said, "that was everything I dreamed it'd be, Rob. I'll be looking forward to a repeat performance."

Then she saw the hesitant look on my face.

"Don't worry, honey," she said. "I'm not making any promises and I'm not asking you for any. I know you just dumped Helen, and you must feel like you don't even know which way is up right now.

"So all I'm asking is that the next time you feel like bouncing around on the bed, you give me a call—okay?"

And with that she stuck her tongue down my throat one more time, grinned at me, and left.

****************

Since then I've been fucking Matilda pretty steady, at least a couple of times a week. It's been more than a year now and I haven't gotten tired of it in the least. To know that I can get laid whenever I want, and that the lady in bed with me wants to be there and loves what I'm doing—it's just fantastic.

She'll do me any way I like, though she likes riding me the best. I like it too, with those great tits bouncing around for me to squeeze. But she'll give me head when I want it, and do it doggie-style or try some crazy all-twisted-up thing if I want to get exotic. She just loves sex, and is ready to go whenever I feel like it.

You might think that that's all a guy needs to be happy—but those of you who have ever been happily married will know it's not true. Matilda was a terrific fuck, but we didn't have much to say to each other. She wasn't as bright as Helen, and not nearly as funny. When we went out to a movie or something, she didn't have the interesting things to say about it that Helen had always had--so our conversations got rather boring, to tell the truth. And, of course, she and I didn't have years of being together, with memories of raising two great kids and vacations and family adventures.

Above all, we simply weren't in love with each other. From time to time I'd hint at the fact that I didn't think we were destined to be soulmates, and she always reassured me.

"Listen, Rob—I have a great time with you, but you're not the man of my dreams either. You're a guy I like a lot, who treats me nice and who really knows what to do with this" (giving my dick a squeeze).

"I'm having fun and I'm pretty sure you're having fun too. After 12 years as a divorced lady, I'm not looking for more than that. Until George Clooney shows up on my doorstep, in any case."

****************

So, that was the good part of my life: screwing Matilda. And the one extra benefit that came with it: not having to chase women, hang out in bars or go out on dates in order to get laid. The sex was right there for me, one quick phone call away.

The rest of it pretty much sucked. I can't tell you how much I missed my life with Helen, back before I knew what a cheating cunt she was. Her great cooking, and her company. Just being around her, sharing all the smiles and the inside jokes that develop in a marriage over 25 years.

That doesn't mean I wanted her back. Even after my rage cooled down a little, I was constantly angry at her; and constantly curious, chewing on it incessantly, trying to figure out how a happily-married, basically undersexed woman could turn into an adulterous whore. Was it me, was there something about me? I never did get anywhere in trying to understand it.

Linda and Ronnie were great. Both of them were obviously devastated, and I'm sure they were furious with their mother, but they managed to be loving and attentive daughters to both of us. In fact, Ronnie was the one who saved Helen's life, though I only heard about it that later.

It happened on the Saturday after the Monday I threw Helen out. That Thursday my lawyer's process server found Helen at work and served her with divorce papers, charging her with adultery. I wasn't in the least interested in fucking around with any "irreconcilable differences."

In any event, sometime Saturday night Helen swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills; then she changed her mind and called Ronnie, terrified, and Ronnie hung up and called 911. They took Helen to the hospital and pumped her stomach and she pulled through, after a scary day or so in ICU with the girls asleep in chairs next to her bed.

A couple of weeks after Helen was out of the hospital my daughters came to see me for the weekend; and on Sunday before they left they sat me down for a little talk, which they'd obviously planned in advance.

"Daddy, Ronnie and I have a big favor to ask you," Linda began.

"As long as it doesn't have to do with ... with your mom, you know I'll do anything I can for you," I replied.

They glanced at each other. "Well, Dad, actually it does have to do with mom. She, uh, tried to kill herself three weeks ago."

"What?!" I shouted.

Linda told me the whole story, and then she said, "here's the thing. Until you divorce mom she's still on your health insurance. She's started seeing a therapist, to understand why she tried to commit suicide and why she, uh, did what she did with those other men.

"But if you divorce her, she'll lose her health insurance and won't be able to see the therapist. So Dad--would you be willing to wait on the divorce?"

I sighed to myself. Clearly I wasn't going to be able to win this one, not with both my daughters pleading for their mother's welfare. And I could see they were right.

So my lawyer drew up a legal separation agreement instead, and Helen got to keep her insurance and see the therapist. I didn't really give a shit--it wasn't my money, it was the insurance company's. And as much as I hated her, I didn't want Helen to try again and actually kill herself.

****************

The holidays were brutal--how could they not be? Nothing like Thanksgiving or Christmas to rub your nose in how your family has been torn apart.

For Thanksgiving, the girls and I agreed to have our meal with Stephanie Olderman and her kids--she'd thrown Joe out and he was living in an apartment in town. Their daughter Ariel and son Peter had been friends with our girls for years, so we were a family-like group of six at dinner in Stephanie's dining room.

But, needless to say, it wasn't the same. For one thing, neither Stephanie or any of the kids could cook like Helen did. And more important, all of us were so aware of who was missing and why. We tried to be thankful for what we had, and some of the evening was fun, but when Linda and Ronnie and I drove back to the house we were all silent and morose.

And Christmas was worse, at least for me. The girls felt they should be with Helen, since she hadn't had them at Thanksgiving, so I drove down to my brother's place and had the holiday with him and his family. I love my brother and his wife, and their kids are cute (they're all ten years younger than mine)--but again, I couldn't help thinking of what this holiday should have been like, and would have been, if not for my whore of a wife.

But when New Year's Day had come and gone, I began to feel a little bit better. It had been more than three months; I was still alive, I was getting laid, I still had my job and my wonderful daughters and my friends. I would be okay.

My partner Jim and his wife Patty were great. They had me to dinner at least once a month, laughed and joked with me, even teased me out of feeling too sorry for myself. I know they were both furious at Helen--and just as shocked as I had been--but we didn't talk about her much.

Stephanie Olderman and I had lunch or dinner quite regularly, and in April we fucked a couple of times. Unlike me, she didn't have a regular bed partner and she was horny as hell, in addition to feeling insecure and unattractive.

We talked about it for a while beforehand--did we really want to do this, messing around with a friendship that meant a lot to both of us? But in the end it felt right, so we spent a weekend in bed at her house, and again a couple of weeks later at my house.

And you know what? It wasn't so great. Stephanie was certainly attractive--less busty than Helen (let alone Matilda) but still shapely--but the complicated situation kept both of us from really relaxing and enjoying it. It felt just a little bit too much like sleeping with your sister (or your brother, in her case).

After the second weekend Steph said to me, "you know, I'm glad we did this, Rob--even grateful. Because having a guy in bed with me poking me with a big fat hard-on at least let me feel that I'm not an old, over-the-hill housewife.

"But at the same time, I don't think I want to do it again. I really want us to be friends, and I think it will work better if we drop the 'benefits' part."

I had to agree, and so we went back to being buddies and a mutual-support group, as she finished divorcing Joe and I kept trying to figure out the single life.

****************

The second time around--a year later, that is--the holidays without Helen were a lot easier. Linda and Ronnie had to divide their time between her and me, and the girls and I couldn't help thinking about what used to be, but we still had fun and it felt more like a family.

I guess I was finally getting used to the idea of being a single guy, at least for the foreseeable future. I was even thinking a little about starting to date. It was clear to me that Matilda and I had no real long-term future, as delightful as it was to have all the sex I could handle, so I wondered about whether I could find another real romance at my advanced age (I was less than two years away from turning 50).

And then Linda and Ronnie came for a weekend again, in the spring of that second year, and I knew something was up. Something I probably wouldn't like.

I was right--and it was Helen, of course. "Dad, she's starting to get her life back together a little and she wants to see you."

"What the hell for? She can't be in any possible doubt about how I feel about her!"

Ronnie sighed, and came over to sit next to me on the sofa, her shoulder pressed against me. "It's her therapy. It's going really well, she says, and Dr. Oliva says it's time for her to come talk with you--to explain, and apologize."

That made me snort. "Explain? Like I give a rat's ass what possessed that bitch to--

"Sorry, girls. I shouldn't have said that. But why should I care why your mother did what she did? She did it, she destroyed our family--end of story. I don't need to hear her apologies, and I don't need to listen to any lame-ass explanations either."

The girls patiently explained that the conversation wouldn't be for me, it would be for Helen. "She needs a chance to own up to what she did, Dad. I guess it's kind of a way of closing the door on it. Dr. Oliva told her that whether or not you forgive her is up to you--but that whether she takes responsibility for her mistakes is up to her. And she wants to do it."

"So I'm supposed to sit and listen while she gets all teary-eyed and tells me she never meant to hurt me? Fuck that!" I got off the sofa and walked out of the room.

But they wore me down in the end, of course. You have daughters? Then you know what I mean. I love them, and they still love their mother (which is as it should be, despite everything), and it's hard to say No to them when it's something they really want.

On the second Saturday in May, at 2 in the afternoon, Helen's beat-up old Volvo station wagon pulled into the driveway. I hadn't spoken to her or laid eyes on her in more than 17 months.

****************

I stood in the open front door and watched her as she looked around at the house and the yard, reminding herself of the place she'd lived for nearly 20 years. As she came up the walk she stopped, seeing me standing there. I could tell she was afraid to come any closer.

"Hello, Rob," she said quietly.

"Hello, Helen. Why don't you come sit in the back yard." For some reason I had decided I didn't want to let her see the inside of the house. So without a word I walked around the side of the garage to the back, assuming she would follow me.

We sat at the old wrought-iron table with chairs on the back patio. I'd gotten a couple of sodas and now I poured one for Helen, reaching over to put it in front of her. She looked thinner and older, a bit more worn than I remembered. But she was still a very attractive woman, something that pissed me off as soon as I noticed it.

"Thank you for letting me come, Rob," she said after a couple of silent minutes. "I'm sure that you weren't very enthusiastic about the idea, and I appreciate it."

"Just don't give me a lot of bullshit, all right? I'm willing to let you get things off your chest, like the girls said you needed to do. Just do me the fucking courtesy of not lying to me. Tell me the truth or shut up and get the hell out of here."

She nodded. "I will--no lies, no bullshit. And Rob? I'm sorry--more sorry than I can ever find a way to say. For everything I did."

"Yeah? Well, that's great. Everything's just peachy now, you know, Helen?" I realized I was getting angry--more upset than I had anticipated. I took a deep breath and said, "sorry. I'll be quiet--just go ahead."

Afte a few moments she said, "you need to know that what I did wasn't about you, Rob, or about our marriage. I'm sure you must have wondered about that--wondered what you did wrong.

"But it was me. A door got opened by mistake and I fell through it, and I wound up living in two worlds at once; the one with you and the girls, and another, crazy twisted-up one where I acted like a whore."

I snorted, but kept my mouth shut. Let her tell her goddam story, however ridiculous it sounded.

"You remember seven years, ago, the summer my mom and dad died?"

Of course I remembered. Her father had a sudden stroke and dropped dead in his back yard on a beautiful June afternoon. Her mother was beside herself with grief; she stopped wanting to live, and less than three months later she passed away in her sleep. It had been devastating to all of us, but especially to Helen, their only child.

"And then that fall, not more than a couple of weeks after my mom's funeral, Arlene was hit by a car?"

I nodded. All three of those deaths had been in the same short period of time. Arlene and Helen had been co-workers in the catering business and very close friends.