Drop Those Cum Stained Drawers

I parked in the driveway of a house for sale around the corner, walked through back yards to our place, and let myself in the back door. I figured Jean would get home around 11:00, so I quickly went upstairs, changed into black jeans, a black T-shirt, black hoodie, and black running shoes. Just in time. I heard a car slowing down.

The bedroom window overlooked the driveway and street. I watched the car pull over and stop at the end of the driveway. Jean leaned over and kissed the driver, then got out and walked quickly up to the kitchen door and let herself in. I stepped back into the shadowed alcove that held the recliner and reading lamp where I spent many evening and weekend hours. I had a clear view of the entire bedroom

Her heels click-clacked down the hall to the bedroom door. She wasn't trying to be quiet, why should she? I was in LA. As she got closer, I could hear her humming—

humming

some happy song for Christ's sake! Sure enough, she walked into the bedroom already unbuttoning her sheer white blouse, sporting a just-been-fucked smile. She shrugged out of the blouse, tossed it on the bed, then unzipped and shimmied out of her skirt; it joined the blouse.

I gawped at underwear that I'd never seen before: black lace bra that covered just the bottom of her breasts, exposing most of the nipples and pushing her girls up and close together—mouth-watering cleavage; black lace bikini panties, not a thong but still barely covering her ass and smooth-shaved cunt; black thigh highs with a wide lace border at the top; and the obligatory black 4" come-fuck-me pumps. God the girl was hot, poster girl for Sluts R Us.

Opening the closet door, she turned back and forth to admire herself in the full-length mirror. She lifted her breasts, obviously liking what she saw. Obvious, too, that she was remembering what she'd been doing just a little while ago—her nipples wrinkled more, poked out more. They were probably hard as rocks.

I pulled back my hood and stepped out of the shadows.

"Who do you see there, Jean? A loving wife?" My voice was flat; I might as well have been asking her for the correct time.

She jerked and whirled around. "Ivan? You scared me to death! What are you...why aren't you...I thought you...went to LA." Her smile gave way to a worried frown, then her eyebrows rose slightly as a frisson of fear shivered her. She started to step toward me but I put up my hand like a traffic cop.

"Stop. Right there, Jean. Stop." She stopped. She looked afraid and confused, but then remembered that she was in charge now. She reverted to her new look of the past few years: confident control, the patient, misunderstood-but-strong wife.

"What do you mean, stop?" She sounded like the prune-faced third-grade teacher whose favorite movie was

Mommy Dearest

. "What's this all about? Why the hell are you spooking around in our bedroom like a burglar?" She almost managed to curl her mouth into her favorite smirk. "If this is your idea of a joke, it sucks." God she was good.

"Take off the panties, Jean." I tried to sound like a psychotic killer struggling to control his demons. Again, fear tried to take over her features, but she made one last attempt to take control

"I'll do no such thing Ivan! Since when do you order me around? I don't know what you're up to, but I'm in no mood for games. I'm going to take a shower. I think you should sleep on the couch tonight."

She turned to get her nightgown from the closet, but I'd had enough. "What's wrong, Jean, are you afraid Geoff's cum will leak out and run down your leg?" I still spoke quietly, hoped it sounded threatening. She turned back, her eyes opened wide, she drew a sharp breath. She knew that I knew. "Either take them off or I'll take them off for you." I took a step toward her. Fear wons the battle for her features this time.

"Oh my God, Ivan, don't hurt me! And why are you talking about Geoff Thompson? Have you been drinking? Don't make me call 911." I still hadn't raised my voice.

Drawing my knife from the waistband of my jeans—no it wasn't a K-Bar, it wasn't even a hunting knife, it was the 6" utility knife from our Chicago Cutlery set—and took another step toward her, turning the knife so the edge of the blade faced her. She was only four steps away.

"You don't know the meaning of hurt, Jean." I was speaking more softly now, almost a whisper. "Drop those cum-stained drawers right now or so help me God I'll cut them off you."

Fear surrendered to terror. With shaking hands, she started peeling her panties down, her eyes darting back and forth from the knife to my eyes. By the time she got them to her knees, a mucilaginous mix of sperm and her passion fluids started oozing out between her still-swollen labia. She obviously hadn't bothered to shower.

When she finally stepped out of the handful of lace, the slimy evidence was starting to fall in stringy gobs to the carpet. "You might want to catch that before it stinks up the place. Then go take a shower and wash the rest of it out of your cunt." I was still speaking conversationally, but slightly emphasized "cunt"; I was pleased to see her wince. "Then get dressed and come downstairs. We need to talk."

_______________

I went downstairs and tried to wait in the living room, but my rage started building. I had to distract those violent thoughts. In hopes that a familiar ritual would help, I got up and walked into the kitchen, filled the teakettle with cold water from the filter pitcher in the fridge, turned on a burner and put the kettle on, got out the Lapsang souchong and demerara sugar and cups and saucers and teaspoons, got a lemon from the fridge and cut it into wedges, then sat down at the kitchen table to wait. It wasn't so bad now, my heart rate and breathing seemed to be heading back toward normal.

I didn't hear the bathroom door or shower, but soon after the kettle began to whistle she came into the kitchen in a worn chenille robe that she hadn't worn in at least 10 years, a towel turbaned over her hair. Looking afraid and puzzled, she sat opposite me.

"What do you want, Ivan? Why are you behaving so strangely?"

Good, she was unnerved. But apparently she still thought she had a chance of lying her way out of it.

I stood up without answering, shut off the burner and slowly prepared the Lapsang souchong, trying to do everything smoothly and correctly. I filled the infuser with loose tea leaves, poured a bit of hot water from the kettle into the pot, swirled it around, put the pot down on the counter next to the stove and waited a minute or so for the pot to heat, poured out the warming water, then put in the infuser and filled the teapot from the kettle. While I let it steep for just under three minutes, she asked again, this time a bit more anxiously.

"What do you want, Ivan? Why won't you speak to me? You're...you're frightening me."

Good. I wanted her frightened. She should be frightened.

I poured a cup of tea for each of us, put a lemon wedge on each saucer and half a teaspoon of sugar in her cup, placed hers in front of her, sat back down, took a sip of my tea, and put the cup back down on the saucer. I was pleased. Even though I'd been anything but calm, the Lapsang souchong turned out pretty good. Damn stuff can be tricky to brew just right.

I still didn't say anything, just looked at her expectantly.

"I can explain everything. It was— "

Again, I held up my hand to stop her. "Everything's on the line now, Jean. What happens after this for the rest of our lives is completely up to you. If you tell me everything, if you tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, our marriage might have a chance of surviving." I was lying, there was no way in hell I was going to stay with her, but I was curious to see if she would still try to lie her way out of it even after I warned her.

"But one lie, just one, and your cheating ass is out of here. You don't have to explain fucking or cheating, I know what they are. Now, was this the first time? Think carefully Jean. I told you the penalty for lying."

I watched her trying to decide what to say, trying to figure out how much I knew. She made a decision. Sort of.

"No... it's happened before." She chewed her bottom lip. "It started a few months ago. We've...been together four or five times."

My mouth laughed. "Oh please, Jean, you're a grown woman. 'Been together' sounds like a romance novel your grandmother would have read. You two have been fucking each other. And 'a few' months ago? You've fucked each other—"

She winced every time I said "fuck." Good. She'd better get used to the word.

"You've fucked each other 'four or five times?'" I softened my voice. I wanted to sound like her very best, most understanding friend, the good cop assuring the perp that confessing was easy and would be good for her.

"Come on, Jane, I know you better than that. You know exactly how long it's been, you know exactly how many times you two have managed to 'be together' so you could suck his cock and spread your legs so he can fill your cunt with his cum. You're not trying hard enough to be honest."

I hardened my voice—bad cop time—but still didn't raise it. "Remember the penalty for lying, Jean: Was it just Geoff, or have you been fucking someone else, too?"

She started looking frantic, searching my face, trying to figure out how much I knew. When she finally answered, it was in such a small voice I could hardly understand her.

"No...I also...slept with—"

I slapped the table. Hard. She jumped. "Slept with? No fucking, just sleeping?"

"Please Ivan, why are you being so cruel?"

The surge of rage paralyzed me. I stopped breathing, closed my eyes, willed my heart to slow down, locked every muscle I could control to keep from leaping up and throwing the table into her.

I

was being cruel? I clenched my fist so hard I snapped the handle off the teacup.

Should have used the stoneware mugs instead of the Royal Doulton. Never did like the dainty damn stuff anyway. I picked up the cup like a glass, drank the rest of the tea, tossed the broken off handle in it, and waited.

"I...had sex with Jackie Shen, too. She hurried to diminish this offense. "But only once."

"Yeah, I've heard that Asians have little dicks." She winced again; God, I was almost enjoying this. "But what about poor old Sam Knightley, you skipped right over him. Does he have a little dick, too? Or maybe a terminal case of Acute Premature Ejaculation?" I didn't wait for an answer. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt: maybe you fucked so many guys you can't remember the order and were going to name Sam next. Right?"

She actually nodded slightly, accepting my free pass. She was so huddled into herself and frightened I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Poor baby, her tea was going to get cold.

"Okay, so working back from tonight, we've got Geoff Thompson, Sam Knightley, and Jack Shen. Who's next? And remember, Jean, you don't have any more chances."

She was wringing her hands so hard I expected to see the skin start peeling off. Opened her mouth, closed it, tried again, and again...finally starts weeping, tears streaming down her cheeks. When she tries to speak, it comes out in halting bursts.

"Oh God, Ivan...it didn't...didn't mean anything... it was...only...only sex...you and I never did it any more... I love you, I never...never stopped loving you." She closes her eyes, takes one gulping breath after another, finally controls her crying. She fixes me with pleading eyes. "You've got to believe me, Ivan! I never wanted to hurt you! Please let me make it up to you!"

She has no idea how much I know. She's afraid to get caught lying but terrified of admitting the extent of her betrayal. She's too terrified to say anything. I grow tired of the game.

"Let's stop wasting time, Jean. You're never going to get around to telling the truth. Come into the living room and I'll jog your memory."

_______________

The TV set's already on. I tell Jean to sit on the couch, then take out my phone and cast the video of Jack Riley's deathbed confession to the TV. At first, Jean doesn't recognize the gaunt, hollow-eyed old man in the hospital gown with a cannula and IV, gray mustache and near-white hair instead of I-can-eat-you-'til-you-beg bushy black mustache and thick black hair. Then he starts talking; her hand flies to her mouth and she gasps. "Oh God! It's..." I pause the video.

He looks like death warmed over. She looks at me, then slumps back into the couch cushions. She knows she can't lie her way out of it now.

"He's dying, Jean. Pancreatic cancer. He emailed me two weeks ago and asked me to come see him in Albuquerque, not to tell you, and be sure to bring my cell phone. He was at home, hospice figured he might last another week or two."

I restarted the video and Jack began his deathbed confession.

"Thanks for coming, Ivan. You won't thank me, but I had to do this." He has to pause every two or three sentences to catch his breath; sometimes he stops in the middle of a sentence when even morphine can't handle the stabs.

"I was a really shitty friend. Remember that Halloween party at our place when you were in Germany and Jean came dressed like a whore, wearing that slutty dress and too much makeup and come fuck me heels? She got pretty drunk." He stops to take a few deep breaths.

"I was pretty drunk, too. She and I danced a couple of fast ones, then there was a slow one. We put our arms around each other and pretended to dance. I told her she really looked hot, that she could probably charge more than my Visa card limit. She laughed and rubbed her tits on my chest and pushed her pussy on—" He winced and breathed.

"—on my hard-on. She just stared into my eyes and smiled. Nobody was behind us so I lifted the back of her dress and slid my hands under her panties, grabbed two handfuls of bare ass, and ground her against my cock. She—" Another wince. I remember wondering if it was just physical pain.

"—she had an orgasm right there, standing in our living room with my hands on her ass, eyes shut, panting and trying not to moan, raking her nails up and down my back beneath my shirt 'til she drew blood, soaking her panties." He paused for a moment and closed his eyes; Jean exhaled hard, then sucked in air like she was trying not to drown.

"It was pretty dark in the living room, most of the people had wandered into the kitchen, nobody was paying much attention to us, so I grabbed her hand and led her down the hall to the bedroom. As soon as I closed the door she grabbed the back of my head in one hand and my crotch in the other, tried to push her tongue down my throat, and started shoving me toward the bed. When I hit the bed I went down on my back."

His eyes opened wider, he started talking faster. I wondered again if he was reliving that first time. When I recorded it I'd been temped to yank down his hospital blanket to see if he could still get a hard-on.

"She followed me down with a knee on either side of me, unzipped my pants, yanked out my cock, lifted the front of her dress, pulled her panties aside, and slammed down. She started pogo-sticking and we both came in about 10 seconds. So help me God it was almost like she raped me. Except I wanted it as much as she did."

He'd talked too long, had to stop this time for a couple of minutes. He closed his eyes and looked dead, but finally opened them and continued, slower and weaker.

"She jiggled around a couple of times, then lifted off me, clapped a hand over her pussy, and headed for the bathroom. I took off my shirt and mopped up some of the mess. Had to toss the shirt, couldn't get the bloodstains out. When she came out of the bathroom she opened the bedroom door and walked back into the living room.

He speeded up, his breathing got more labored.

"I changed my pants and shirt and came out a few minutes later; she had a cup of coffee and was talking with somebody. Nobody noticed that we'd been gone. When folks started leaving, she hugged me goodbye and whispered 'I hope we can take a bit longer next time.' She drove home, turned out that she wasn't as drunk as she seemed. We got together every week or two until I was transferred a year later."

He stopped again until he caught his breath. He leaned forward, and the look on his face changed from sad and embarrassed to something more intense, almost like anger.

"I wasn't the only one, Ivan. Before I was transferred, Bill Wood and Ted Ferian both told me that she came on to them, too, and they fucked her. I don't know how many times, but a few years later my secretary told me that she'd heard that Jean was getting it on with Phil Bergen and John Ebersole. There might be more.

Now his voice started fading; I'd had to strain to hear him.

"I can't tell you how guilty I've felt, Ivan, how sorry I am now. I know that doesn't make up for it, I've wanted to tell you but couldn't face your anger. She kept telling me that she loved you and what we did was just for sex. Funny kind of love. Jesus Christ man, it's common knowledge that she's got round heels and you don't have a clue. Nobody can understand why you haven't figured it out."

Maybe it's because it never occurred to me that she would cheat, because nobody ever said a goddamn thing to me

.

Or maybe I'm just too damn stupid.

"Divorce her, Ivan. She's no good for you. She'll always bring you hurt and heartache. Get out while you're still young enough to find somebody else."

His energy gone, he finally stops talking, sinks further into the pillows. His image jumps about on the screen and looms larger and as I walk toward the bed. My arm moves into view, then my hand rests on his forehead. He closes his eyes.

"Don't be afraid of my anger, Jack. I'm not angry any more, not even shocked. I've suspected something like this for a long time. I'm sad, yes, even depressed. I wish desperately that it hadn't happened, but I don't blame you, I don't hate you, I might even understand." The silence stretches, then my thumb traces the sign of the cross on his forehead. "I forgive you, Jack."

Tears leak from his eyes; his whisper is barely audible.

"Thank you."

When I said it I thought it was a lie, an act of kindness for a dying man who once was my best friend. Now I'm not so sure it was totally a lie—he wasn't totally to blame.

The video ends, I keep staring at the blank TV set. After a minute or so I turn to Jean. "Jack died yesterday morning."

_______________

I watch her in silence, letting her know that it's her turn to speak. We sit for three, maybe four minutes. It feels like an hour. Finally she looks down and speaks so softly I can barely hear her.

"I was only 29, Ivan. I was still young, but you'd lost interest in me." I started to say something but she just kept talking. "You'd go to work, come home, sometimes not until after we'd had dinner, have a few drinks, then fall asleep on the couch. I'd shush the kids and tell them not to wake Daddy. When it was time to go to bed I'd wake you and you'd get undressed and go to bed. Sometimes you wouldn't even kiss me or say goodnight. Almost every day was like that, sometimes even on weekends.

"I'd try to arouse you, wear my skimpiest nighties, kiss you passionately, roll over on top of you, ask you—even plead with you—to make love to me. Most times you'd beg off, saying you were too tired or too stressed about work or money or... some excuse. You'd apologize, give me a quick kiss, tell me that you loved me, then roll over and go to sleep.

"Those rare times you did respond, you would kiss me a couple of times, squeeze my breasts, maybe kiss them, put your finger in me, then get on top and move in and out until you came. Then you'd get off me, kiss me goodnight, roll over and go to sleep. I didn't have an orgasm for years and you didn't know or care.