There is no sex in this story.
This is a repost of a 2008 story that has been reedited.
*
I have never been a face-to-face kind of guy. I resolve all of my problems with satisfaction, but never by confrontation. I am happy and comfortable with that, however, I have come to find out that this is a concept that my wife cannot grasp. I am Ted Briscoe, and I have been married for ten years to Angela. Angela is no raving beauty with enormous breasts and long blonde hair, just an average brown-haired, brown-eyed housewife. We have twin daughters, who are still in grade school. I work as an insurance salesman, not exciting or impressive, but I make a good living and the residuals that are accumulating, will take care of my retirement.
I assumed we got married because we loved each other, but now I am not so sure. Angela seemed to be comfortable with the way things were for the first few years. I guess it was the novelty of being married and having a family. We attended company and neighborhood social functions with the children whenever we could. Lately, Angela has seemed to be impressed with the husbands who have important or dynamic jobs. It didn't seem to be the money as much as the prestige that went with the job. She wasn't this way when we got married and now it seemed to be growing. I was getting the feeling that she was becoming less and less impressed with my status in the working world or as a husband. To her, my job was nothing to brag about. However, the big problem seemed to be with my non-confrontational attitude, when it came to handling problems. I usually took the low and quiet resolution to most difficulties, which aggravated her. She seemed to feel that a real man should face his problems head-on and win by intimidation. This is a concept I could not swallow. I guess that is what had brought on my present dilemma.
Please understand, I am not a wimp and I am not a cuckold. I may not come across as very manly, but I will not be shit upon. I will, however, back away from a direct confrontation with an adversary. My methods sometimes appear to be unbecoming of a real man, but I am more interested in the results than the appearance. What people think of me is unimportant, as long as I get the upper hand. Many things I do, a real man would not stoop to, under any circumstances. There are things more important than pride. My wife finds this unacceptable.
Today I am sitting in my car, around the corner from my house. The kids had left for school and I had left for work, twenty minutes ago. My job is flexible so taking off at odd times is no problem, as long as I get the work done. What I am waiting for does not occur every day, and I am here in anticipation. I had no coffee at breakfast so that I wouldn't have to worry about taking a leak. After twenty more minutes a black and white police car slowly cruised down the street and stopped at my driveway. Frank Parrella, one of the cities finest got out and waved to his partner as he drove off. A minute, later Frank walked through my front door.
You can see the difficulty of my situation. How does a man with my character flaws contend with his wife having an affair with a police officer? Who do I report it to, and how do I corroborate it? I am sure that most people will not approve of what I am planning, but I am not like most people and I do not live to satisfy most people. Everyone who wears the blinders that show the attributes of real men will condemn me. I don't care because I want results.
When I was in grade school, I suffered from the same weak personality traits I have now. I don't think I developed them, I think I was born with them. I am sure that there is a scientific name for them, but I never bothered to look it up. Of course, I never had any therapy or anything like that for it. I made a good friend in the fifth grade named Charlie Higgins. Charlie was just my opposite. He was big, ugly, and always in your face. He wasn't really smart and I discovered quickly that he couldn't read. We spent a lot of time together that year and by the time we entered the sixth grade Charlie was reading as well as anyone in the class. He always remembered the special tutoring and the fact that I did it without anyone else finding out. Charlie stayed by my side until we hit the tenth grade. It was nice, because no one ever bothered me, with him close by. Unfortunately, Charlie also liked girls, and before the years' end, he had one knocked up. He quit school, married the girl, and got a job as a brick masons helper. Before long, Charlie was the father of a baby girl. I kept track of Charlie, but we did not maintain a close relationship.
I stayed low key after Charlie left, but as fate would have it, became the target of a jock bully: Troy Manning, in my senior year. I did everything I could to avoid him short of running away. I could never beat him in anything, whether it be physical or verbal. Troy enjoyed heaping public humiliation upon me: in the hallways, and on the school grounds. Being one of the school's biggest jocks, meant he had received several nice football scholarship offers. As with all jocks, his pride and joy was his varsity jacket, which he wore, every day, whether it be hot or cold.
India ink comes in a nice little square bottle with a short spout. Of course, it is indelible. I had no trouble getting a hall pass and it was a piece of cake squirting the entire bottle of ink through the vents of Troy's locker. You don't have a lot of control in an endeavor like this, but I was successful enough to make the jacket unusable for the rest of the year. Of course, varsity jackets cannot just be replaced by going to the corner store. Poor Troy had to do without it. No one ever figured out who trashed it. Unfortunately, the harassment didn't stop, and then Troy started wearing his varsity sweater, as I anticipated. It wasn't as impressive as the jacket but he still used it to strut around in.
The first part of the set up was completed. The next day I went to school with a new bottle of India ink and a sock with three golf balls inside. I am not into pain and I am not masochistic, but extreme measures were necessary to correct my injustice. Since Troy's locker was near the boy's room, I planned to be lingering, just by the door when he discovered his prized sweater had also been trashed. He was furious, and all of the kids in the hall couldn't help but notice his tantrum. I stood by the restroom door with a shit-eating grin on my face hoping he would look my way, and sure enough, he did. He needed someone to take his rage out on, and I was baiting him on. He stormed over, pushed me into the restroom, and slammed me up against the wall. All the boys in the lavatory ran out into the hall with the rest of the crowd. He was more noise and bluster than anything else, and I was a little disappointed in his flaky attack because that meant more work for myself. He didn't leave a mark on me.
Beating oneself on the head and face with a sock full of golf balls is drastic, to say the least. It would have been easier to get someone to do it for me, but I was determined. It only took a few minutes and I was swollen enough to know I would have two black eyes and a very bloody nose. Unfortunately, due to some miscalculations, I also knocked one of my canine teeth loose, to where it was almost coming out. It would take several minutes for my eyes to start darkening and that was Okay. The golf balls went out the lavatory window into the shrubs below and the torn sock went into the trashcan. I sprawled myself out on the floor in one of the stalls. A few minutes later, a student came in and found me. The school nurse decided it was better to send me to the hospital emergency room.
Troy Manning was not only suspended, but he also lost all of his scholarships. My tooth healed up fine and my face completely healed by the time we had to take senior pictures. No one messed with me for the rest of the year. Troy denied everything, of course.
Frank Parrella was my new Troy Manning.
Two hours later, the black and white stopped in front of the house. Frank came out the front door and I watched as my loving wife gave him a departing kiss. She had a bathrobe on. I waited for about five minutes and entered the house. The shower was running as I suspected it would be. The bed was still messed up and her clothes were on the floor. She kept a trash basket beside her nightstand, with a light blue plastic bag tucked into it. Inside the plastic bag were two used condoms, neatly tied. At least she was practicing safe sex. That was all I needed to see. I quietly left the house and went to work.
When I got home from work that evening, I ducked into the garage and removed the blue bag from the trashcan. I put the two condoms into a zip-lock bag and placed it on top of my workbench, where I was sure Angela would not find it. The swimmers were all dead by now, but the DNA lives on. By the end of the second week, I had ten filled condoms. It was time for the next step of my plan.
Frank never came to the house on Fridays. I found out that he visited his mother at a retirement home downtown that day. His partner dropped him off at 10 am and picked him up about 11 am. I had several clients in the building and it was no problem setting up an appointment with one of them. Old people all look forward to the company, even if it is an insurance salesman. The retirement building had a security camera at the entrance to the underground garage but that was the only one. Very few of the occupants drove, so most of the cars using the garage were visitors of some sort.
I took a long lunch one afternoon and went out to the interstate. There were several adult video stores by the entrance ramps. The first two places had only videos but the third one also had toys. For twenty bucks I bought a set of jumbo anal beads. I asked the sales guy if he had any recommendations and he said use lots of lubricants. That sounded good to me. A marinade injector and a foot long piece of fish aquarium tubing finished off my shopping list. I was ready to go.
Angela had been getting surlier ever day. Her disdain for me was growing steadily. Wednesday morning was important for my plan. I usually avoided her jibes and digs, but today I responded. As I was finishing breakfast, she made a snide remark about the fact that I didn't have sex with her anymore. She took a few digs at my manhood. It was the opening I was looking for.
"I am sorry darling. Even though your lover uses condoms, I still don't want to take the chance of getting a sexual disease. I hope you understand."
She stood with her usual smirk on her face, just looking at me. It was only in the past few months that she viewed me that way. She wasn't saying anything. It was like she was daring me to say more.
"I don't think you realize the severity of the situation you have put yourself in."
