I Had It All

I had it all. A beautiful 5,000 square foot home, in a neighborhood with a country club, annual debutante ball, and a beautiful daughter. And of course, a wonderful husband. He was a financial investor, had an income in the seven figures, and enough investments to see us comfortable for life. I was living in high cotton.

I'd met Brandon when I went to work as a secretary at his investment firm. I had only worked there for a week when he asked me out on a date. Imagine me, a girl from Nowhere, Arkansas, going to a fancy dinner with an important, highly successful man like Brandon Michaels. Maybe ten years my senior, he was always so neat and smelled so sweet, like lavender. His nails were clean and manicured, not black with dirt and grease like those smelly, sweaty backwoods boys back home.

I had come to New York City (my heart almost exploded when I first got here, it was so big and busy, you can't imagine!) to go to secretarial college. My Auntie Agnes paid for it, telling me I should run from home as far and fast as I could. Our closest town was Gilbert -- it had a population of 26 at the time -- and Agnes always regretted getting pregnant in high school and stuck there for life, so she was determined that I get away. When her land began getting oil rights payments, she felt she could fund my escape.

New York City! NYC! Boy, there were more than 26 people on the bus that brought me here. I know, I counted them at least 12 times between home and here! And not always the same 26! People kept getting on and off at every stop -- I would sit and just imagine what their lives must be like. It's just amazing!

But the city itself was like an ant hill, with people scurrying day and night; more people than I ever imagined. The movies don't do it justice. It was overwhelming.

Anyway, Mr. Michaels took me to a very fancy restaurant, like I'd only seen in movies. It was amazing. I felt like a princess, with waiters and the maître d' fussing over us. I was also terribly underdressed. I thought we might go to a Denny's or one of the other fancy places I'd seen by my school, so I was wearing my good cotton smock. But wow -- the women in this place looked so elegant, it took my breath away. I tried to apologize to Mr. Michaels, explaining that I hadn't expected to go anyplace so fancy and refined, and we could leave if he wanted. I was so embarrassed to be there.

He took my hand, and insisted I call him "Brandon". He told me not to worry about my clothes -- my beauty more than made up for it! I was right down flummoxed -- boys had told me I was pretty, but no one had ever called me "beautiful" before. I pushed my straggly hair back behind my ears and stared at the table, feeling my face blush crimson. I could hear him gently laugh as he patted my hands.

Brandon ordered dinner and wine for us, and it was incredible. I don't know what it was, some frenchified cooking with meat in sauces and cheeses and pastry like I've never ever had before. It was like it melted in your mouth! And a wine that was like nectar (I think the wine guy called it a Rosie -- I bet that bottle cost a whole $20!) I wanted it to last forever! Then I got another surprise.

At home, when we ate, even at a restaurant, they brought all the food, except dessert if there was any, and plunked it down on the table and we'd all dig it. When it was gone, dinner was done. While this food was fantastic, Momma always said I had a big appetite, and I was wondering if I was going to have to get a burger when I got home. But as I was mopping up the last remnants from my plate, trying to get every bit of food and flavor from that delicious meal, Brandon laughed and told me, "Emma, don't scrape the finish off the plate -- that was just the appetizer, the first course!"

"First Course!" I didn't think people did that anymore, except in old books. I guess maybe rich folks still do. The rest of the dinner past in a blur of wonder and exotic tastes for me -- I think the different wines with each course help blur the night away, but it was worth it. I bet that meal must have cost at least $200.

The coffee we had with dessert helped bring me back into focus (although that cherry dessert bursting into flames in from of me probably did more to wake me up than the coffee), Mr. Michaels drove me home. He even walked me to my door. I thought maybe he'd kiss me, but no, he shook my hand and hoped we could do it again. Do it again! I went to sleep dreaming I really was that princess.

A couple of days later, Margret Simpson, Mr. Michaels secretary, informed me we were going to lunch and were spending the afternoon shopping. When I protested that I needed to work, and besides, I couldn't afford any shopping, she explained that Mr. Michaels wanted to take me to dinner again, and wanted to ensure that I didn't feel underdressed or out of place.

What could I say? We had a modest lunch at a cozy little restaurant and then spent the afternoon in shops I would never have dared go into by myself. They weren't like Macy's or Penney's, with their crowds of people. They were mostly empty other than the people working there. And can you imagine, they gave us champagne while models walked out in dresses for us to examine! We ended up having 4 dresses and a coat delivered to my apartment, before going to other stores for shoes (3 pair!), gloves, stockings and even underwear, if you could call those little lacy things real bras and panties. I was embarrassed to be measured for each fitting, it seemed so intimate.

I also worried about how I would ever pay Mr. Michaels back for all the clothes. When Ms. Simpson told me that these were all gifts and no payback was expected, I was shocked. I told Ms. Simpson that I couldn't accept such expensive gifts. "This must cost hundreds of dollars," I protested, to the amusement of the smirking salesgirl. Ms. Simpson assured me that it was all normal and above board. "The partners feel that Mr. Michaels needs a female partner to accompany him to his social meetings with clients. He's single and doesn't get the chance to meet many women. You've taken his fancy, and you'll need these clothes for client meetings. Think of all this as a business expense."

Well, that knocked me all cattywampus. I started shivering and had to sit down. First, Mr. Michael's fancied me! Gosh -- he was so refined and polished, and I was still trying to strain the 'ain'ts' and 'I reckon' jargon out of my speech (as the counselors at the secretarial college insisted). Hell, I was still trying to scrape the backwoods mud off my boots. How could so fine and perfect a man fancy me?

Then the thought of the clients! My God, I was sure to say the wrong thing, or spill something on someone -- I didn't know how to act in the restaurant with just Mr. Michaels -- how would I ever survive meeting or entertaining clients for him. I'd fail. I told that to Ms. Simpson.

"Don't worry. Mr. Michaels will take you out to different venues and coach you before you ever meet any clients. Plus, the company will arrange some finishing classes for you, so you're comfortable at dinners with the courses and such. You'll be fine."

And that's what happened. Brandon (he stopped me from calling him "Mr. Michaels") took me to dinner several times a week, until I was comfortable at any restaurant, enough to even order for myself. It took several months, but I was a quick learner and Brandon a good teacher.

The "finishing" classes were not as much fun as dinners with the charming Brandon. Mrs. De Marigny had a nasty habit of whacking me with a ruler when I didn't meet her demanding standard of deportment. "Seet up straight!" The over perfumed French hag would demand, whacking my back or shoulders when I slouched. My hands or elbows got the treatment when I allowed them to touch the tabletop. She even slapped my breasts with the ruler when she thought I was resting them on the table. "If they are too heavy for you, then buy the better bra!" I swear I had bruises before she was satisfied with my posture.

And God forbid I not know the right wine or the right fork or the correct manner of rising from the table or folding my napkin or informing the table that I had to pee. I told her that last during one of our sessions and I thought she was going to be apoplectic. You would have thought I'd actually pissed on her table.

But I learned and began accompanying Brandon to client dinners and social events. He would coach me on their interests and topics I should discuss with the wives or other female (and sometimes male) companions. For a country girl from Nowhere, Arkansas, I had at least acquired a patina of class. Paired with my décolletage it did more than my witty banter. Cleavage conquers all. Except those times when the client was accompanied by a male partner. You'd think I'd be twice as appealing, but no. Go figure.

Brandon was a perfect gentleman, picking me up at my door and depositing me there afterwards. I waited for him to ask to come in for a nightcap, or at least give me a goodnight kiss, but after waiting through 20 dates, some alone and some with clients, I moved to kiss him. He turned his head at the last minute, and I kissed his cheek. That became the way we parted each night. Me, kissing him on the cheek! He must not have fancied me much, I thought.

Then at one of the social events where the entire firm was present, the senior partner approached us and asked when we were to be wed. "A young man needs a wife in this business!" he huffed, before moving on. Two nights later Brandon presented me with a ring, and a month after that we were wed in a small ceremony at City Hall.

I'd never even dreamed that I would be Mrs. Brandon Michaels. Emma Michaels. No more Emma Gooch from Nowhere, Arkansas; I was now Mrs. Emma Michaels, of Todt Hill, Staten Island, New York City! How I loved telling people that. Of course, we didn't buy there until a year after we were married, when my darling Lily was born. Brandon felt we needed more room for a family than his 3,000 square foot apartment allowed. I thought we could "make do" (heck, at home my parents raised me and my six siblings in a 1400 square foot home). But Brandon insisted, and although I thought the 5,000 square foot mansion was overkill, I was thrilled to have the yard and pool for Lily and me to play in.

And Brandon felt he needed his sleep for work. I'd quit my job when we'd married, and Lily's nighttime crying disturbed him. With a maid and a nanny during the day to help, he felt I could catch up on my sleep then if Lily kept me up. He took a bedroom for himself in one wing of the house, as far away from Lily's and my rooms as he could get.

By the time my daughter was born, this distance wasn't strange. Brandon had always preferred to sleep alone, saying having someone else in the bed kept him from sleeping comfortably. On our honeymoon, the several times we made love there was very little foreplay, except when I complained that I was still dry (and in truth, he wasn't yet fully erect. He'd then rub me a little while I licked and sucked at his dick, then he'd jump on me, jump off and go to sleep. Honestly, sex was a disappointment. I'd expected more from reading romances and such, but Brandon seemed happy, and I was dazzled by being his wife. When we returned to his apartment after our trip, it settled down to Saturday night, unless he wasn't feeling well or had had too much to drink.

I was overjoyed when the doctor confirmed I was pregnant, and Brandon was the most attentive prospective father I could have asked for. Of course, sex was off limits then since he didn't want to risk hurting the baby. I was frustrated, but how could I complain when he was so caring. I had the doctor try to assure him that sex was safe, but he said he loved me and our child too much to take any chances. He had me move into my own room.

So, when Lily was born and we moved to the Todt Hill estate, it wasn't strange that he moved to the far wing of the house. When Lily was three months old, and Brandon had still not approached me to continue our martial relations, I threw myself at him when we came home from a client dinner. He demurred, saying that after squeezing out Lily, he couldn't imagine that I was ready for sex. When I laughed and said, "Don't worry, you're not big enough to hurt me!", he took offense and retreated to his room. It took another month before he finally joined me for a quick and completely unsatisfying romp. One that was repeated infrequently over the next four years.

To say I was frustrated would be an understatement. I loved my beautiful, handsome, sweet-smelling husband and my rambling, wonderful McMansion. I loved having a nanny to help with Lily, a maid who handled the cleaning and most of the cooking, and a gardener who maintain the beauty of the yards. I loved it all -- I had it all, but I dreamed of the romance that the Harlequin novels promised.

Meanwhile Brandon seems to have more and more client meetings, ones he assured me I could miss, it being more important that I spend time with Lily. He had his intern, Kevin, accompany him instead, then spent the night in the guest room next to his bedroom, to save him the long trip back to his home in Jersey.

I'm sure you've guessed it, but I'm just a country girl. I didn't get suspicious until one day I asked the maid if she'd finished making the beds in Brandon's and the guest bedrooms. She gave me a funny look and informed me that that guest bedroom had never been used.

Well, I was born at night, but not last night. I've seen movies. I knew about men sleeping together. We had a couple of funny fellows around Gilbert for a while. At first, we just thought they were from Louisiana, talking all funny and lispy, but one day they were discovered having sex in the barn, and not with the cows!

I tell you; I knew right away what was going on, and I was going to confront Brandon when he came home!

But he never came home. After a few days, I called the office, but was told he no longer worked there. I asked to be transferred to Margaret Simpson. She filled me in.

Kevin had filed a harassment suit. Seems Brandon had made promises that were never fulfilled. The senior partner (who had pointedly asked when we were to wed so long ago) was very straitlaced, and while claiming not to be homophobic, fired Brandon, citing the moral clause in his contract. Kevin was dismissed with a negotiated payoff. When I told Marge that Brandon hadn't come home, she advised me to call the police. She hoped that he hadn't harmed himself in any way. That brought my concern past the panic level.

The police only took two days before reporting that my husband hadn't harmed himself. Instead, he'd drained our bank, financial and retirement accounts and the TSA reported him departing the country for Aruba just two days after I'd last seen him. He'd left behind everything -- his clothes, his keepsakes, his wife and child. Turns out all he took was all our money. Thoughtfully, he left behind the bills and a heavily mortgaged house.

So now, Lily and I are living in a broken-down trailer in a Jersey trailer park. The gardener's, maid's and nanny's checks bounced and even hawking the few jewelry pieces Brandon had given me couldn't cover the mortgage, but did afford me just enough to put down the first and last month's rent on the trailer with hopefully enough to feed us until I could find a job. Margaret, on the senior partner's instructions, informed me that my husband had left nothing towards the taxes on the capital gains from his financial accounts, and none for the income taxes due on his retirement account. She informed me that I would probably be hearing from the IRS.

Could it get worse? Yes, my car was repossessed today. How can I find a job without a car?

My neighbor, Wendy in the next trailer over, came over when she heard my sobs. We had exchanged names and greetings a few times in passing, but really didn't know each other. I was embarrassed by my red eyes and tear-stained face, and of course my weeping and wailing.

Wendy, with her bleached hair, blue eye shadow over ultralong lashes, and ruby red lipstick (not to mention her 5-inch heels that made those 40DD's bounce to the point I expected them to leap out of her shirt) and who was as far away from my friends in Todt Hill as the Andromeda Galaxy, was still a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. She listened to my tale of woe, my declining funds and my need for a job, with the capper of having my car repossessed. How was I going to find work when I couldn't afford a babysitter for my daughter and had no car to even go to interviews?

"Well, I'll tell you what. My momma's babysitting my 5-year-old daughter and watching two ain't any harder than watching one." Wendy literally dragged me around, packing up Lily, changing into "something a little more inappropriate", and dropping my precious daughter off with her chain-smoking mother. Wendy promised me that at worst we'd get enough free drinks for me to forget my cares for a while, and at best I might learn how to make some money.

Marty's Night Spot was within walking distance, even in those 5-inch heels Wendy sported. She told me on the way that Marty's was nothing fancy, just a place where working class men drank their troubles away and worked out their sexual frustrations. That last puzzled me, and I asked, "So it's a pickup bar?"

Wendy giggled and said, "You could say that!"

Marty's was a smoke filled, rowdy place. "I didn't think you could smoke in bars, anymore!" I coughed.

"Marty's is also a registered cigar lounge. They have a membership program that provides 15% of their income." Someone yelled out to Wendy. "I'll be right back," she promised.

She returned almost immediately and dragged me back to a table full of men. Wendy introduced me and pushed me into a chair while she sank onto the lap of the man who had called her. Soon we had free drinks in front of us, which were quickly replenished as the night progressed. The men began asking for dances and Wendy and I happily complied. I hadn't felt so free since high school. It felt great to dance and have a man's arms around me. They mightn't smell as nice as Brandon, and their skin was coarser, as was their speech and manners, but boy, it felt great to be held. I clung to the men during the slow dances, and let my breasts bounce freely during the fast ones. I felt young, and free, and well, yes, horny.

Sometime during the night, I noticed Wendy was missing. I figured she had been to the bathroom, maybe, but it sure seemed like a long time. I think it was between my fifth and seventh drink, although by I was not trusting my count by then. When she returned, she slammed down her drink and insisted I do the same (my eighth). As I placed the glass back on the table I swayed, drunker than I'd ever been. I thought we were leaving and told my new friend that I was ready for bed.

"Perfect!", Wendy yelled, and dragged me towards the back of the bar. "It's quieter back here," she said. We had entered a back room, with couches and standing ashtrays. The guys from the table drifted in and lit up cigars as they sat on the couches. Music filled the room from surround sound speakers in the walls and ceiling. "This is why the guys are willing to pay the memberships for a cigar lounge." She grabbed the hands of two of the men on the couches and pushed one to me.

"It's time to really dance," she said with sly smile.

I could hardly stand by myself, swaying with the drink and the music. I suspected later that there had been more than alcohol in my last drink, but at the time, I didn't care. It felt good when my dance partner held me close, running his hands down my back and over my ass cheeks. When he began massaging them and pulling me close, I could feel his excitement through his denim pants. "So different," I thought dreamily, "than Brandon." I'd really had to work to excite him, and this guy seemed to be preloaded.