I don't know why I'm going to bother to say this since no one will believe it anyway – I probably wouldn't – but the basic facts in the following story are true; they didn't happen to me but I have either witnessed them or have them from a reliable source. The names and details have been changed to protect the guilty.
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When Vickie Winston said "I do" to me, Brian Martin, when we were both twenty one I looked forward to a great marriage that would last until "death do us part." Vickie was exactly "my type" (whatever that means), a big buxom natural blond who really enjoyed sex. She was also very fertile, as we quickly determined when first one, then two, and finally a third kid popped out by the time that we were twenty eight, at which point Vickie had her tubes tied.
Despite having a family quickly, we were able to maintain a loving sexual relationship, one that wasn't completely dominated by kids' activities. When our first child was born – since both Vickie and I had professions that paid well – we moved to a new neighborhood of young families in small houses with a great community center and pool. We developed many good friendships, and had a great time, plus there were always neighbors willing to watch the kids if Vickie and I wanted a romantic getaway, and we reciprocated.
Looking back on that time, I am now amazed that there were as many good looking women in the 'hood as there were. Most were friendly and even "flirty," as was Vickie, but this wasn't a Peyton Place and as far as I knew there was no cheating or swapping – at least within our community.
One woman particularly stood out in my mind. Her name was Gail Preston. She and her husband Jeremy were both a year older than Vickie and I and they had two kids the entire time they were in the neighborhood. Despite the fact that Gail was not "my type" she really intrigued me. She was short, thin, anything but big breasted, and brunette. She was, however, exceedingly cute with thighs that every single male, regardless of age, appreciated when she was in a swimsuit at the community pool. Plus there was something about her, impossible for me to put my finger on, that made any male happy to be in her company.
Shortly after our third kid was born we – reluctantly, because we really enjoyed our neighbors – moved from the neighborhood of small houses with young families to a more established neighborhood with larger homes, one that could accommodate our family of five, and Vickie quit work to stay home with the kids. It wasn't more than a year or so after we moved into that neighborhood when my married life took a turn for the worse.
While Vickie was still friendly and upbeat around me, and sometimes even cuddly, she stopped enjoying sex – at least with me. Not only did she stop enjoying sex, she stopped wanting it. We had a number of tiffs about it, but because sometimes I'm too easy going I never pushed it to an ultimatum situation. After about a year her attitude had moved from indifference to reluctance to refusal; I was one unhappy camper. Looking back on the previous fourteen months after her latest refusal, I could remember having had sex only five times, and only one was the type of toe-curling fuck fest that characterized our first eight years of marriage.
Not being the sharpest tool in the shed, I was totally clueless as to what the source of the problem could be. I thought maybe a hormone imbalance, something having to do with her having her tubes tied, changes she might have experienced since she no longer worked outside the home, or things that I wasn't doing for her that I had in the past. After carefully examining everything that I could think of, consulting with physicians, doing Internet searches, and honestly examining my behavior and even ramping up my attempts to make her life easier in every way, I came up with nada.
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I guess that one thing that I was too unobservant to latch onto when evaluating my no-sex problem was the other people in our new community. There were a few young families, but they were not as interesting or as fun as in our first neighborhood. There were also some sourpusses and some stand-offish types. In particular there was a childless couple across the street that seemed to tolerate Vickie but had no use for me or the kids, and then there was Darla.
Darla was one of our next door neighbors. Darla was about five years older than Vickie and me, a bitter divorcee with two kids, one a year older than our oldest and the other a year younger, and with a mercurial disposition. I don't want to say "personality" because to me it was unclear if she had one. Darla's only redeeming quality – besides her two kids – was that she was good looking, in a haughty way.
For some reason – although I was never anything but pleasant to Darla – she made it quite clear that she didn't like me. However she seemed to really like Vickie, and even our kids, and she and Vickie spent a significant amount of time together. Sometimes Vickie talked me into babysitting Darla's kids, as well as staying with my own (it's not "babysitting" when it's your kids), while they went various places usually during weekend days, but twice even at night. Darla never asked me to do that directly – she always had Vickie ask me in a very nice way, and normally with bribes of my favorite meals, a back rub, or tickets to sporting events for me and a male friend. Sex was never the inducement, however.
Looking back on it I shouldn't have been such a pushover, but at the time I was trying hard to make sure that it wasn't anything about my actions that was leading to my sexual ice age; and besides, Darla's kids were actually fun. They were nothing like her at all, were polite, active, interesting, and obedient, and were up for doing anything that I and my kids wanted to do. We played outdoor games, board games, went to the playground, went swimming and boating, rode rides at the local amusement park, went bowling, and went to plays that kids would enjoy. The five kids sometimes had their own productions of plays that they made up, which they performed for the moms when they returned from their outings.
My tolerance for Darla ended one day, however, shortly after Vickie and Darla came back from an afternoon outing. In front of four of the five kids, Darla said something really nasty to me – exactly what it was isn't important. What is important is my reaction. I asked Vickie to take the kids in the back yard. She was reluctant but when I whispered to her "Get the kids in the back yard and don't give me any fucking shit about it or you'll have the sorriest day or our relationship," language that I don't normally use when talking to her, she turned white and did as ordered.
As soon as Vickie and the kids were gone I lit into Darla.
"You fucking bitch; I watch your kids at least once every two weeks, you never even say thank you to me, you take my wife away from family time, and you have the fucking nerve to criticize me? I've never been anything but nice to you and you've never been anything but cold and disrespectful to me. Where the fuck do you get off?"
While slightly startled at first Darla quickly regained her composure and crossed her arms while leveling a defiant stare at me. "You're not watching my kids for me, you're doing it for Vickie. I can't help feeling the way that I do about you."
"I can't fucking believe that a rotten cunt like you is the mother of those two wonderful children. They can't really be related to you – you must have adopted them," I shot back with fire in my eyes.
"How dare you talk to me like that?" she protested, sticking out her lower lip.
"What I said isn't nearly as bad as what you just said – in front of our kids! Let me make this clear bitch – you will either apologize to me in front of the kids and Vickie or I'll never watch your kids again, and you'll never be in this house again while I'm here."
"I'll apologize over your dead body, asshole."
Apparently our voices were louder than I thought because Vickie, sans kids, came back in the house. "What are you two arguing about, and can you keep it down?"
"The argument is over, Vickie, and this cunt is now leaving," I snarled.
"I'll do nothing of the sort unless Vickie asks me to," Darla snarled back.
I walked up to the front door, opened it, walked back to Darla, picked her up by her belt at her ass and her collar (fortunately she was wearing jeans and a sturdy shirt) and carried her out the door. I then gently placed her on her feet on the front walk and turned to walk back in. She hit me in the back of the head with her fist. For reasons that will become clear later, despite the fact that the blow was inconsequential I pretended that it caused me to fall on the front stoop and I then crawled into the house. I locked the door.
"Why did you do that?" Vickie shrieked.
"Because Darla punched me in the head and knocked me down," I smugly replied.
"No – why did you carry her outside?" Vickie shrieked again.
"Thanks for your concern for my well-being," I snidely replied. Then I continued "Because your bitch friend insulted me in front of the kids, is always nasty to me, and I'm not taking it any more. She is never to come into this house again while I'm here or there will be the biggest blowup you've ever encountered in your life – and I'm never, ever, ever, watching her kids again, got it?"
With that I stormed into the back yard, but calmed down enough to gently tell Darla's kids that it was time to go home.
"Thank you so much for the great time Mr. Martin," they both yelled simultaneously as they each squeezed a leg and then rushed home with smiles on their faces.
I ignored Vickie and played with our kids until there was a knock on the door about an hour later. When I answered it I found two cops standing there. I immediately surreptitiously turned on the record app of the iPhone in my pocket.
"Can I help you officers?" I asked.
"Are you Brian Martin?" the larger cop asked.
"Yes I am," I proudly replied.
"Ms. Darla Robinson has filed a complaint against you for assault. She says that you threw her out of your house onto the ground hurting her hands and back, and then kicked her in the ribs."
"And you believe her?" I laughed.
Apparently laughing didn't sit well with the cops.
"We saw the bruise on her side and the scrape marks on her palms," the smaller cop snarled. "You're under arrest."
As they put cuffs on me I smilingly said "I don't think that you should arrest me until you look at the video."
"Don't get cute, Ms. Robinson assured us that there was no video," the larger cop said.
By then we were on the front stoop of the house. I turned my head around and said "You need to tell my wife where you're taking me," I fake pleaded.
"She'll figure it out," the smaller cop said and then gave me a gentle push.
I made the gentle push look like a horrible one as I fell to the ground. Since my hands were cuffed behind my back I hit face first – somehow (ha, ha) I had fallen on mulch, not the concrete walkway.
