Goodbye My Hot Young Wife

I just got word. It's done. It's finally over.

I'm sitting in my room, thinking about where it all went wrong. No, if I'm honest, I'm mostly just staring at the walls. I've got no answers, but I have got two very good questions.

How did this happen to me of all people?

And how did this happen to me again?

If that sounds contradictory it's not. I know my own worth, but I also don't get why I'm right back here again.

See, this isn't my first break-up. I've seen this performance before. More than once. The actresses change but a lot of the lines and the leading man are the same. I can be introspective and let me be clear, sometimes it was my fault and sometimes it was theirs.

This one was all on her.

Oh, Cathy, my Cathy! I really thought you were the one. I thought this time, we'd make a real go of it. For myself, I tried, I honestly did. I mean, why wouldn't I? I wasn't getting any younger. I'll be fifty next year. Last shot at happiness, grab it with both arms and don't let ever go no matter what. What else was I going to do?

Serves me right. I should have known better than to marry a younger woman. I started off thinking she was innocent and quickly downgraded that to just inexperienced. Then I tried seeing it as a refreshing lack of guile, but more and more I realized it was just plain stupidity. I was too busy looking at the magnificent outside to see how barren the inside was. Empty heads are easily turned and all that. What can I say? The kind of woman I like hasn't changed over the years.

But I have.

It's my legs more than anything. Tennis used to keep me trim, but I can't play like I once did. I was always athletic - tennis, swimming, horses, even the odd bit of martial arts to let off steam, and the ladies always appreciated my physique. I had to give them all up after the injury and then, sure enough, I got fat and then I got old. These days I look in the mirror and think,

Well, shit

.

No wonder she cheated.

No, fuck it. Fuck all this self-pity. I'm still a catch. On a good day, I could score with any damn woman in the country.

I can sit here just repeating that to myself or I can try and figure out what went wrong.

Face it, from chapel to court in less than a year? A guy could take that personally. That's got to mean she never loved me, right? Did she even like me? Was it all about status and money? Was it all about her ego? When we were in bed, was she just faking it?

Because she was loud. With hindsight, suspiciously loud. It feels now like she must have been overselling her enthusiasm. Those simultaneous orgasms - how likely is it that we both get there at that same exact moment every single damn time? Unless she'd practised her lines and was just taking her cues from me.

God, she played me like a violin.

So, here I am again. Sitting here at the end of another failed relationship doubting everything. Christ, she's even got me doubting the sex! I never doubted the sex before. I'm a stallion between the sheets. Always have been.

If you're wondering why I've sent Tom down there on my behalf instead of me doing things personally, it's simple. I can't face dealing with this shit. Not again. He's going to take all the screaming and the crying and the lies on my behalf. That's what I pay him for. It's water off a duck's back when it's not your own wife after all. My instructions were simple. I said "Tom, I want out. I'm going to take a step back and leave the execution to you. I know you can handle it."

I'm sorry if that sounds heartless, but I don't owe her anything after what she did. What I've learned from past fuck-ups is that you have to cut these tumours out of your life quickly. One swift blow, its done and then you move on.

The thing is, you get too involved in the process and there's always a danger you'll have second thoughts. You start listening and suddenly it's not about what they've done wrong, it's about your faults. And you start to think, yeah, I could have done things differently, maybe been a better husband. Then they start on about how they're sorry, and the tears and they're crying 'please don't do this.' They get you remembering the good times and you're right back to square one.

It's easy to go soft.

Like when I first discovered what was going on. 'A moment of madness' she called it at first. Until it turned out there had been more than just the one moment.

I've got to agree with the

madness

though. She must have been crazy to think I wouldn't find out eventually. These things always come out. Always. Did she think I was going to be okay with it somehow? Not in a million years. I can't believe she lost her god-damn head! Threw everything away. Over him of all people.

I decided to be alone tonight. I am sitting on my bed reading the official announcement that puts the final fatal full stop in this chapter of my life. Tom and some of the lads asked if I needed company. I said no. We'd end up drinking and that's not the first thing I want to do. That's the wrong attitude. This is not a celebration. I can't think like that. It's still a fucking tragedy. Just because I hate her doesn't mean I'm not going to sob like a baby any moment now. I should be alone while I get it out of my system. Maybe the best thing would be just to go to bed. It's already late. Sleep now, get up early tomorrow and watch the sun come up. A new fucking day.

Yeah, that's what I'm going to do. In the meantime, let's just do a roll call of all the women I've loved and lost over the years.

Well, not

all

the women, obviously. Just the important ones. Fucking stallion here, like I say.

So let's start at the beginning, go nice and slow and see if we can't figure out why everything always goes to shit. Now, first off, I need to point out that marriage number one lasted a whole twenty-four years. See, I wasn't always a screw-up. It was solid enough. It wasn't exciting, but it was solid. She was a Cathy too. Funny how these things come full circle.

Thing was, she was six years older than me when we first met. But the age-gap didn't matter. Not until one day it did. I wanted more kids and she just couldn't at that point and I didn't feel like I was the age where I was just going to give up on the idea.

And then there was the sex. If you're thinking older women are more experienced, well, let me tell you, it isn't necessarily so. Oh sure, I was green to start with but it didn't take long to exhaust her bag of tricks -- missionary, missionary with her legs closer together and finally missionary with her legs wrapped around my torso. Now, if you're looking at that list and your mind is forming the words

strict Catholic upbringing

, bulls-eye! Don't get me wrong, I was from a religious family too, I just never felt it should impinge on my sex life and increasingly I wanted to experiment more.

So naturally my eye began to wander.

I know what you're thinking - pretty hypocritical of me, sitting up here on my high horse about Cathy #2 when I did the dirty on Cathy #1. What can I tell you? The situation was different. I don't care if you believe that or not. It was. Our marriage had gotten to the point where something had to give.

So, yeah, I stepped outside our vows a few times. Nothing serious and I always came back afterwards. Hell, I still went to Mass with her every Sunday. Still confessed. I admit, I like a good confession when I've been a bad boy. I don't spare the priest the details. I like to see them squirm. Then they get all cross and tell you that they can't give you absolution if you're just going to keep doing the same old shit regardless.

In the end, of course, I broke with the faith. That was the turning point. I stopped trying to make their rules work. It upset a lot of people in the community, but it made the divorce easier.

Sorry, I'm skipping ahead. The point is - I had fun and scratched an itch. And you know what, once I'd run through the whole gamut of positions my guy friends were telling me that I was missing out on, I actually got bored.

I suddenly found a renewed interest in the missionary position. Just a hot chick lying back on the bed and letting me pound her into the mattress.

And you know why?

Because that's the best way of getting them pregnant.

We all have our kinks and I'm going to be pretty up front about mine. I have a breeding fetish. It's no secret at this point. The lads and I will be out and about in town and we'll pass a couple holding hands and she's got this massive belly on her. Everyone will be ribbing me with comments like "Jealous, old timer?" and I'll be all "Oh, you know I fucking am."

And as I mentioned above, it wasn't just about how amazing a woman looks when she's 'with child'. It was genuinely about the kids. Everyone knows that about me. I'm a family man at heart. That's what drives me. That's why the young fertile women still appeal. When I've got my raging horn on, I just want to pump every woman I meet as full of as many kids as I can. I want a family tree like a thicket before I pop off. Cathy had given me a daughter but I really wanted more. I wanted a son. Like really, really wanted one - far more than the generic 'one of each would be nice' bullshit people spew to sound politically correct. I wanted to raise another man made in my own image.

Sorry if that sounds sexist. It's how I was brought up.

Still, extra-marital sex and a breeding fetish? A recipe for trouble if ever there was one.

So after a couple of accidents that weren't really accidents, I got the son I wanted. But he wasn't really mine. Don't get me wrong. I supported him. That wasn't a problem. I'm no bum. I spent time with him when I could, but it wasn't like the full father-son experience. It wasn't official and that just made me want the real thing more.

That's the kind of thinking that caused strain in the relationship. Not Cathy's fault, though the shadow of that thought fell across me at times. She had tried, it hadn't happened and it looked like that's how things were going to stay.

Till I met her.

She really did a number on me that one, so much so that I don't even want to say her name. Let's just call her Jezebel.

She'd just returned from her extended education in Paris and let me tell you, her French skills were to die for. England didn't know what was about to hit it. You've been pretty patient listening to me bitch and moan this far, so I'll let you into a little secret. For a while, there I didn't even mind I was blowing my wad past her tonsils rather than past her cervix. Girl gave simply the best head of my life.

Except her sister, of course, but sorry, that's one footnote too many in an already full tale.

Thing was, despite being able to twist a man around her finger like so much twine, and a throat that went all the way down, she claimed to be a virgin. She wasn't giving it up for anyone apart from a husband. And what she had, I wanted to take it. I just had to. She had these plump little hips that were just built to be bred, but whatever I did she just kept saying no. She knew her own value and I respected that.

For a while, though, she was all I could think about.

I spent money on her. No, I lavished money on her. I showered her with gifts in an attempt to get those fine long legs apart. It was jewellery mostly. She saw right through all that. She'd open up the box, take one look at the necklace or broach and just say 'Is this a ring? No? Well then, take it back!'

She knew exactly what she was doing except she ended up playing herself. You live by the sword, you die by the sword. That's how I see it. She boiled me like a frog. I didn't even notice how much I hated her until the divorce came through and we were finally married. It turns out hate fucking is overrated. At least, it is if you're doing it every night.

So her affairs were really an easy exit for me. People had been whispering in my ear even before the wedding. Jezebel wasn't exactly popular and a lot of our social circle had taken Cathy's side. But I went from believing nothing to believing everything. Once I went public with that first infidelity, the floodgates opened. People just kept pulling me aside to add another name to the list. I was numb by that point. I just sat there saying 'Sure. Him. Why not? Makes sense.' I can't even remember what the final body count was.

Things got nasty for a while, but it was weird. Once everything was finalized, it was like we'd come through the eye of the storm. I remember the last time I saw her. She was no longer angry, just sad. She asked for forgiveness for anything she'd done, while stressing she hadn't done nearly as much as I'd thought. Hell, she was probably right. She wished me the best and then she went her way and I went mine.

So if that was the one I'm going to talk about but not name, the next one is the one I'm going to name but not talk about.

Jane. I miss you. You were taken from me too soon.

And that brings us onto relationship number four and here I've got to clear up a few things. I didn't say half the things I'm reported as saying. And the things I did say, I didn't really mean. For the record, I never used the phrase

catfishing

and not just because I don't know what it means. Nor did I say she had a face like a horse. I'm more chivalrous than that. Sure, she was oversold a bit prior to our first meeting, and I kicked back a little too hard on everyone telling me how great she was, but she wasn't so bad - little Annie just wasn't for me.

I did feel like I was pushed into it. My life was a sinking ship and women went scurrying away from me like rats. It's weird, I was used to being chased and suddenly no-one wanted to know me. I was at a low point. "We're worried about you," everyone would say. So I let them arrange things with Annie. I knew where it was headed but she was pretty much all that was on offer, so I just rolled with it. On the one side, she didn't have much of a libido, but on the other, she didn't exactly light my fire either. I thought, maybe this is just what middle-age is going to be like, you know? More about companionship than passion. In truth, the language barrier got in the way of us really getting to know each other as well. One morning, four months in, we woke up after another sexless night and when I said to her "This isn't working," she just said "I know."

But it was all cool. In the end. If my first break-up was like thumbscrews and if my second was a bloodbath, this was a lot more chill. Amicable is the word I'd choose. Why can't all break-ups be like that? I still see her from time to time. She even spends time with the children. Even now people are still saying, hey, now that you've given Cathy the axe, why don't you give Annie another shot. But, no, we're better as friends.

So that brings me full circle, back to staring at the walls. From Cathy to Cathy, what have I really learned?

Not much I guess. Different women, different problems.

Still, I can't help but remember what my old dad used to say. "If you spend the whole day smelling shit, check your own shoes." It couldn't be that I have a problem, could it?

Nah, I keep telling myself - Henry, you're still a prince amongst men. It's not your fault if you've ended up with wives who have been alternatively pious, scheming, frail, fugly and slutty.

What I'm going to do now is lay my head down, get a really good nights sleep. Now this last relationship is dead and buried, there's nothing stopping me looking for my next perfect princess, the next Mrs Tudor.

After all, sixth time's a charm, right?

Right! I mean how many wives is the god-damn King of England going to need?