Married three years, my pretty, petite wife Tori turned into a size queen slut. She had found a substitute high school teaching gig after our second daughter was born and somehow saw what the seniors on the basketball team were packing. She then employed her other senses. Everyone was over 18; no one got locked up.
Yes, they were Black. Only one white guy was on the team, after all, but he had a crazy jealous girlfriend, so he missed out. I don't know if Tori had a thing for Black guys. Never asked, and she never said. I do know the stories about Black guys and the purported size of their equipment, but I have no evidence to validate or challenge the premise generally. I do know, however, that the guys that she fooled around with were each over six and a half feet tall. To paraphrase Young Frankenstein, it goes without saying, therefore, that they would probably also have enormous Schwanzstuckers and would be very popular, whatever their races.
So, rather than be a mommy to our two-year-old and one-year-old daughters, she bailed on us, travelling to college with three guys who had basketball scholarships and was probably very popular with them and their teammates. She signed and returned the divorce papers without a peep. I kept everything that she left, selling most of it. I also kept the house.
I was annoyed, of course, and maybe a bit angry, but the story was so ridiculous that I had trouble staying mad about it. Until now.
Now, two-plus years after she left, and nearly two years after the divorce, she wanted to visit the girls. I had full custody, but Tori threatened to get a court order unless I let her see them.
Inga, my blonde Austrian au pair, helped me prepare. I don't know what I would have done without her after Tori left. From the moment I first saw her, I imagined her in a dirndl that I could rip off to Anschluss her Brenner Pass. But I restrained myself. I needed childcare, and my mother could not help more than she already did.
When Tori arrived, Inga let her in. I did not get up from my chair to greet her. Tori looked shy, which is hard to do when your arms, legs, and neck are covered with new, garish tattoos, all revealed by her sundress and sandals.
I cut off her attempt to chit-chat, telling her I did not want to hear a single word from her slut mouth, other than what she said to the girls. She looked at me with shock but kept quiet. I read my iPad while we waited.
Inga brought the girls in. They did not remember this lady with the drawings on her body and began to cry. Tori was heart-broken, but what did she expect? Mommy Inga calmed the girls.
Mommy Inga. When the girls, who were almost Irish twins, first called her mommy on the same day, Inga nearly lost her Scheisse. I had controlled my male urges, but hearing herself called mommy kicked up Inga's oxytocin levels. She climbed naked onto my lap that night as soon as she got the girls to bed. Seems she viewed me as a heroic figure, struggling to be a good daddy. I discovered that her hills were alive and that she would happily dress in a dirndl, if I wanted.
Tori almost wept at the girls' reaction, but clearly did not want to give me the satisfaction, so she sucked it in. Inga whispered in the girls' ears, and they ran off.
"They want to show you something," Inga told Tori.
Inga then offered Tori some juice and small sandwiches that she said the girls had helped make. Tori seemed grateful and started munching a sandwich. That is when I noticed how thin she was. She was always slight, but she was almost gaunt now. Maybe that was why she was back. She began eating another sandwich.
The girls returned then, each holding two kittens to show the crayon-covered lady. Tori sat back in the chair, her face a mask of horror, and gasped.
The girls saw the reaction and stopped, scared.
