Didnt Measure Up

June 17, 2005

The cab pulled up at the entrance to our first floor condo. Disappointment was etched into my tired body. I got out and dragging my single roller suitcase behind, I started to my front door. I had my mental list of excuses, rationalizations and justifications all prepared for my loving hubby. I'd bang him for the next six weeks, every night. He'd forgive me my fling, I was sure of it.

Spotting my best friend Suzy waiting for me at the front door, I was surprised to hear her say, "Clarissa Monfort, you've been served." She handed me a folded legal document.

I could only stare blankly. "Suzy, I thought you were my friend," I stuttered out.

She replied, tears forming in her eyes as she answered, "I was. I mean I am," adding, "you know I moonlight as a process server for the county. This is just part of my job, damnit. Hell, I even asked for the task, 'cause better from me than one of those horny guys I work with. The ones that'll call you a slut or a ho and spread your home address and phone number around."

She looked at me then and pleaded, "You gonna let me in? We need to talk. Ken's divorcing you. He told me so, just before he left."

We both went inside our condo. The place was dark and there was dust in the air. On the dining-area table was a single LED table light, still on, illuminating envelopes and a small box. One envelope stated, 'LETTER TO MY SOON-TO-BE EX-WIFE. The second held 30 full-color glossy 8x10 photos of me 'in action' plus DVDs of me as a sex-slut to other men. The third envelope held Ken's divorce application, pre-signed and notarized. The little box held Ken's wedding ring.

Suzy said, kindly, "If you agree and just sign, the papers will read 'irreconcilable differences'. But, he said, if you fight it or try to take him to the cleaners, he'll go with 'serial adultery' and 'deliberate transmission of STDs.' He says he can prove it, too."

I started to sob. Useless, I know, but the reality—instead of the fantasy I'd been pursuing—was devastating. All my carefully-planned excuses and plans to screw my husband with loving sex into next year, shot to shit.

The letter had a printout from the Internet, titled OPEN LETTER ABOUT FLINGS. A quick read reveled that every one of my excuses, rationalizations and justifications had been listed. I'd had my post-marital bargain, trading frivolous lies for a truly wonderful man, I now recognized. Too damn late, of course.

A 2nd letter revealed Ken had deeded me the condo and his car, plus paying off all my credit cards and adding to our—now my—checking and savings account. He took the high-road; no divorce-revenge fantasies for him. He just demanded that I sign off on the divorce papers, send them back and get me free of him. Not to contact him or try to find him.

He even wished me well in my quest for other men that actually did 'measure up' to my new expectations.

He also cautioned that I get myself tested for STDs, ASAP.

Why delay? I signed, right there, on the spot and Suzy tucked the papers in the prepared mailer Ken had left. She'd put these in the mail to Ken's attorney this afternoon.

Suzy asked, "Clarissa, why? What did you do? Besides becoming a cheating slut for huge cocks, that is."

What did I do?

I thought back about 3 weeks ago, when I told my hubby he just didn't measure up.

I'd become friends with some single ladies and other divorced ones, all having either husbands or boyfriends.

They bragged about their men, all the time. Most of them were in a sort-of semi-official swing club and shared spouses all the time, they told me.

Melissa, jet-black hair and tits out to 'there', swore her long-term boyfriend had a 10"cock and really knew how to use it on her, going most of the night.

Willow, the long, tall blonde, said she had a husband who could fuck her every night with his huge cock, 6 times every night, going really deep into her womb and flooded her with cum, each time.

Redhead Carrie talked about her boyfriend and swore that he was as big around as a beer-can or a baseball bat and could last all night, stretching her out and making her squeal with orgasm after orgasm.

Song told me about her Chinese muscle-man, bending her over the bed, sporting a huge cock and able to bang her all night long.

Others also detailed about the sexual performance of their men, alone or in the swing club. Kristen and Witta both had big, black guys and each swore their boyfriends were 11" long, thick and could fuck for hours.

One night, I couldn't stand it and, after Ken did me just once, then napped for a bit, I measured his cock and it was only about 3", soft and thin. I suddenly wanted a big, thick, long-lasting cock for a little while, just as a change.

It didn't occur to me that I'd just measured him after we'd had sex, and that this was his soft, relaxed state, while he was asleep.

I wanted what they all said they had.

One woman wouldn't lie to another woman, would she?

So I called my girlfriends and made arrangements for a long weekend, to 'borrow' their men and have really good sex with all of them. It was easy, I thought. Just a brief trip 'to see my sister.' A bit lie, but Ken would never know.

When I left him to take that sudden 'long-weekend trip,' I probably slipped up, though. I remembered getting snooty and oh-so-superior, telling him that, in matters of sex, men like him just didn't measure up and I needed a few days to 'find myself'.

Then I left.

I was only supposed to be gone for 3 nights, but, when I was 'sampling' a couple of the black guys and one big white one, somebody must have slipped a date-rape drug into my cocktail, because, when I finally woke up in a sleazy motel, another week-and-a-half had gone by.

I know that I did a lot of drugged-out-of-my-mind sex, because I'd been left with 30 or so glossy color photos and a small stack of DVDs. I 'starred' in all of them, and my lust to fuck in every position and with every combination and race of men showed through clearly in the photos. On the DVDs, I groaned, moaned, shouted, sucked, cried out and humped bareback like there'd been no tomorrow.

One of my black fuckers even told me what had been in the cocktail I'd been served. A little homemade GHB, to loose my inhibitions. A little Ecstasy (Molly) to make me want to love everybody. A little Meth, to keep me awake and frantic to have lots of sex. Mix with pure DMSO, for easy transmission across the skin—after the first oral cocktail—I didn't even have to drink anything, just wear a little skin patch twice a day.

I might have been a drugged-out sex slave for months, but the guys ran out of patches, then 'got ghost' and departed After, of course, making and distributing the color photos and burning all the DVDs.

Despite the evidence of the DVDs, I didn't remember much of what happened with the men who had me, for those long 12 days and nights. All I did remember was that I liked what I'd felt. I wanted to do it all with my man, as soon as I got home.

I'd become a cum-slut for fantasy cocks!

Worst of all was that nearly all the un-drugged sex really wasn't worth it. The husbands and men were just that, men. Average men. No huge, thick dicks. Most lasting one time per sexing. Only a couple came twice.

The guys with the big dicks only knew how to brag about their size, then shove it in and fuck, coming in a couple of minutes.

My new girlfriends lied, blowing up their men's reputations and performance in the sack. Lies I believed. Lies I acted upon. Gullible me.

"So, Suzy, here I am, back at home, but with no husband to greet me. You know where he is? I've got to start loving him again. I need to win him back. I'm still young, I can seduce him. I can get back to where I was before, can't I?"

Suzy just looked at her friend. Looked good and hard. It was clear Clarissa was still at least partially still in self-serving fantasyland. Still telling herself lies ... lies just stated as rationalizations, justifications and excuses ... then believing all those lies.

She said, "Clarissa, your reputation in this town is shot to hell. Those photos and the DVDs are copied all over the place. On the Internet, too. Not just with your ex-husband. Everybody who has a job to offer has at least a few discs, and the big hiring folks have them all."

"Face it, girlfriend! The only work you can get now is escorting, whoring, being a porn star or as a corporate whore."

"Right after you left to have your fling, one or more of your friends must have talked, because Ken's reputation in town took a nosedive, too. Everyone he knew, including his former friends and the guys and companies he consulted for, now 'know' that he didn't measure up in the sex department. He couldn't keep his woman happy with his cock or mouth. Little dinky wee-wee."

"His nickname in town became 'tiny' and 'wimpy' within the 3 days you'd scheduled yourself for your sex fling. He even got into a couple of fights with near-strangers, who said they could satisfy sluts like you, because obviously he couldn't."

Clarissa screamed, "No, no, no. Ken was kind and gentle. We made love a lot. I loved what he did to me in bed. It was just that the other women said ..."

Suzy broke into this rant-to-be. "Clarissa, he HAD to leave town. Face it, girl. You drove him away with your quest for bigger, better, longer-lasting cocks."

"It wasn't even true. He DID measure up. The night before I got him packed and into his old truck, I took him to bed and tried to fuck his brains out. We ended up with him doing my brains, instead."

Clarissa interrupted, "Suzy, that was my husband. How could you have sex with my man? You're my best friend. I trusted you. How could you?"

Suzy sighed and said, "Clarissa, you'd just kicked him to the curb. You went off to have sex with I don't know how many husbands and boyfriends of other women. You were still missing over a week later. He really did think, at least until I fucked him, that he didn't 'measure up' to your new expectations."

Clarissa just mumbled, "Well, uh, sort-of, ya see ... Oh hell, Suzy, OK. How did he do?"

Suzy said, still stony-faced, "I looked it up on Wikipedia. The average man in the USA has a 6" peen, only about 3" around and can do it once or twice a night. Men fall asleep right after sex, because they have to work so hard to get their one-and-only cum out of it. Then they get really soft and small and after that, it takes a lot of stimulation to get that big thing back up and hard. If a woman won't provide that stimulation—dressing sexy, sucking cock, talking dirty ... you know—and if he doesn't take the blue pill, he probably won't perform any better than the average."

"Or, rarely, you might even get a guy with a big dick. Somebody with 9", 10" or even longer. But the odds are that a big cock is all you're gonna get, because the vast majority of big-dick men are so proud and boastful of their big meat, about all they usually do is get it hard, shove it in, wiggle it around and cum inside you. Almost all big-dick guys have no idea how to please a woman, except with their size. You get a huge cock ... and nothing else."

Clarissa sighed, and murmured, "Yeah, I know. Now."

Suzy's faced softened, remembering, as she said, "But, girlfriend, your ex-husband had an 8" cock, 5" around, getting hard as a rock each time and he can do it 4 times a night. He was really good with his lips, tongue and mouth and his hands and fingers are to die for. I know, because that's what he did with me. He made me suck it. He came in my mouth and I liked his taste."

"Plus—and this is the best—he knew how to cuddle and make a woman feel really good, before and after sex."

"That's who you kicked to the curb. That was your guy, who 'just didn't measure up'."

"But it didn't matter a whit, because, here in town, like everywhere else, perception goes over everything, and to other men (and women, too), he'd become 'Mr. Tiny' or 'Wimpy.' He had to listen to those lies because his own wife left him to go fuck around, while she appeared to spread the word, through her swinging girlfriends, that he 'couldn't cut it'."

"So, girlfriend, now you've got your slut's reputation. I'll bet you can get any man's cock you want. You can probably get some lesbian pussy, too. A few of the guys might even 'measure up.' All the humping, thrusting, cumming sex you were after."

"Just no loving, no cuddling, no having someone there when you're blue. Nobody to have Christmas together. Nobody to confide to, without suspecting that they'd use your words against you, tomorrow."

"After you move—'cause you gotta get out of town, soonest—you're probably gonna make a lot of money being an escort or getting a job that actually means corporate whore. You'll be off sealing contracts and making high-performing sales people and executives happy. Being a 'personal assistant'—you know, being some executive's mistress—to some high-powered CEO or accountant. You know marketing and business. You can talk their language. You don't gossip or sell people out."

"Except for your now ex-husband, of course, but he doesn't count any more in your life."

Suzy left, shaking her head.

Sobbing again, I couldn't say a thing, because it was true.

——————————————-.

September 29, 2002

I took Ken's last advice and got tested for STDs. Good thing, too, as I had the clap plus syphilis in my cunt and ass. I was just plain lucky they found no HIV. I took treatment for all of these and, over the course of a couple of months, the clinic signed off on my becoming disease free.

I spent those two months selling the condo and packing, because Suzy was right, I had a ho's reputation in town. I became so slut-shamed in town, I had to start shopping 42 miles away, just for basic stuff. I had 'slut' spray-painted on my car and 'cunt for sale' burned on the grass outside on my condo's door. I got the car re-painted and the condo association replaced the turf, but informed me they wanted me out, soonest.

I went.

————————————-.

September 19, 2008

Hi, Suzy,

A leopard doesn't change it's spots, so the old saw goes. So, you told me, "Face it, girlfriend! The only work you can get now is escorting, whoring, as a porn star or being a corporate whore. You're probably gonna make a lot of money getting a job that actually means corporate whore." OK, I was one and damned good at it.

Look where it got me. Right back where I started, getting plowed regularly by my old man ... but this time, loving it.

My stock options were worthless, as of the fall of Lehman Brothers, on September 15, 2008. So much for my boss' promises. Two-for-one stock split, he told me. Safe as our company just merged with Lehman Brothers, he told me. Put all my money in their investment bank, he told me. Trust me, he told me, sliding his pathetic little 4" cock in and out of my hot body and then flooding my sterile pussy with a splash of weak, thin cum.

I trusted him. Lies, all lies. He was selling out at a great rate, but telling me lies to keep my stock with a company that was 'too big to fail'. I believed him. Liar! Gullible me, again.

He was just like the former girlfriends and lovers I'd listened to, as they bragged about their husband's and lovers massive, long-lasting junk. Liars. My fucking boss bragged about his financial know-how and performance, buying and selling mortgage-backed derivatives and 'tranches'. All lies!

Back then, thinking of my lost husband, Ken. The guy I'd fucked away and kicked to the curb, because he 'didn't measure up' to my girlfriend's lies and exaggerations about their men's cocks and performance ... their usual, everyday men, with their usual, everyday cocks.

When Lehman Brothers went under, I was about 50% reduced, just like countless others, at the start of the Great Recession.

OK, I had the money that Ken saved for me. I was kind-of well-off, but not the stinking-rich woman I'd planned for ... sucked for ... screwed for ... fucked for ... whored for.

'Wait a minute?' You'd ask, Suzy. 'What's this about Ken? How did your ex save you from the crash?'

Let's go back. What did I do, after I left town, slut-shamed and—except for you—friendless?

After leaving town, I changed my name to Clair Goode, having moved to Houston, Texas. It was the go-go run-up to the housing bubble. There were jobs available for those that could speak the language of business, accounting and marketing, which I could.

First I was the chaste secretary, back in 2002; chaste, with almost no sex, which damn-near killed me; I came to hate a 'battery-operated-boyfriend'.

Next the private secretary, putting-out for select executives on 'dates' by 2003 and getting insider tips on investing. A personal assistant to one of the bosses by 2004, with more insider tips and information. Putting out to him.

Then the marketing and sales person for the investment bank in 2005, but—after my sexing photos and DVDs surfaced—being sent to keep certain clients happy or seal a contract for a long weekend. Soon becoming less for companionship and more plain fucking.

Finally, the once-a-week mistress of an up-coming CFO executive by 2006. Plus, after my photos and DVDs surfaced, being the company's unofficial corporate whore, sealing contracts with my so-willing body, by 2007.

Fucking in executive orgies and 'board meetings'—a board, by definition, is long, narrow and made of wood—for my usual disappointments. They all could get it up once, but most hardly ever qualified as having 'wood,' even with the little blue pill.

Despite having immense power and financial control, they were just men. Dicks 6" on the average, sometimes smaller. Mostly older and droopy. Kinky, hell, yes, as they tried to regain their lost youth by screwing me to the boardroom carpet and table.

I got my commissions for my sucking, fucking and whoring, just like any other good salesperson, 5% of the contract, partly as cash to my checking or corporate account and the rest as stock options with my company.

I checked my totals often, to discover that I was getting rich. On paper.

I looked through my options for investment firms, but only checked the small ones, because the larger firms pretty much knew about my semi-official whoring. I felt, with justification, that they'd try to take advantage of the innocent, gullible little cunt and steal my money.

So in 2007, I found one that I liked, outside of Houston, with a small office down by Galveston Bay. A one-person office, with a part-time temp secretary/bookkeeper. Kenneth Monfort Investments, LLC. Ken, for short.

My ex, Ken.

When I walked into his little office, head down, my face covered with a large, floppy-brimmed straw hat, he was ready to offer some cold water and make small-talk, to get the initial visit started. There was just his desk, a cabinet, a small refrigerator, some file cabinets and bookcases, the computer and monitor, his big chair, my smaller one, and a leather-covered couch against one wall.

Then I looked up and smiled at him.

No, he didn't go deadpan, or shout and kick me out of the office. Nor did he say nasty things. He did make sure that I was in the right office. Which I was. I did all the usual things, signed all the usual documents and etc. to start having him give me investment advice and handle some of my money.

Suzy, he tried so hard to keep things professional. He really did. He lasted almost 3 weeks.

After the first meeting, I started wearing French-Cut blouses—you know, first button 'way down there at my navel and the second button, even lower. Short leather skirts and tight office pants. No bra and no panties. Tits waving around under the thin silk covering of my blouses. Nipples distended and 'way out to 'here'. Thigh-high black, close-mesh net stockings. 4" strappy heels.

We did business lunches with plenty of oh-so-accidental brushed and hand contacts to his straining cock. Candid descriptions of my corporate whoring, complete with dirty talk. Descriptions of the often pathetic stuff I dealt with on a daily basis. Breaks to use the bathroom, where I pointedly and loudly masturbated myself to orgasm.