Starting Over

Looking over the single folder sheet, before sealing and mailing it on Friday afternoon, I glanced over the scant contents one last time. It said:

TO: Hobart Godwinsson

Owner, Sysson Systems Co.

Columbus, Ohio

This letter is to say I QUIT, as of now. I'm well beyond tired of having you send me out-of-town on useless assignments, just so you, your co-workers and your buddies can come over to my place and fuck the brains out of my ex-wife-to be, every few days.

My work notes and final reports are on the flash drive, in my right-hand desk drawer. Good luck keeping your client's happy without me to sooth them and take care of their problems.

Send my last paycheck to the lying slut. I don't need any references. Thanks for nothing.

Daniel Resnick, M.S.

Sysadmin & troubleshooter

The letter would be delivered on Monday. I'd already done my tasks at the bank: taken my name off all accounts and credit cards, life insurance policies plus checking and savings accounts.

Contrary to the usual hate-fantasies of divorcing men, I put a substantial amount into the checking and savings account, now in my wife's name only. I paid off all the balances on the credit cards. I transferred the deed to the house and car over to her as well.

Lastly, I filled out and paid fees for a Dissolution of Marriage, Non-Respondent, using her rubber-stamped signature, got it notarized and mailed the pre-paid form, with a money-order.

Then I went home, ate dinner with my wanton wife, had my last nighttime screaming, thrashing, fucking sex with her, and went to sleep.

In the morning, after the usual morning bathroom stuff and shaving, I dressed casually, having pre-packed my overnight travel bag.

My sexy but chronically-cheating wife was downstairs, dressed in a light sun outfit (as usual), but was nude underneath, for easy access to her un-faithful body. The guys whom she'd be cheating with and fucking with would be arriving at our home within minutes of my departure by cab this morning.

I ate a light breakfast, one of her omelets, but then gestured for her to sit back down at the now-cleared kitchen table.

I smiled at her, looked at my sheet of notes once more, then spread out about 2 dozen clear photographs of her having sloppy, drooling sex wth the people from my job.

She screamed out, "Nooooo..." as she covered her eyes, sobbed, leaking real tears as she hunched over the table.

I put down a bulky manila envelope on the table, and then activated the little, battery-driven DVD player, which started to play the most recent DVD in her stack of homemade porn. The one where she was seen fucking 5 guys, including my boss, in all her holes, while the background was in our home ... in our bedroom ... on and in our bed.

In a careful tone, as friendly as I could make it, neither shouting-angry nor cold monotone, I said:

"Lila, I know about all your fuckers and lovers. Inside this big envelope are a couple of your cum-crusted panties. The stains on them indicates that several males deposited semen into you, and that was just in the last week. I found your stash of photos and the Polaroids. I also found the video-disks, 3 of which are included with the panties, the rest being back in our spare bedroom chest-of-drawers, 'way in the back, where you 'hid' them."

"I was especially upset to see the most recent one, which is running now on the player, where you had 5 guys, including my boss, over to fuck you."

Lila, still sobbing, blubbered out, "You were never supposed to know ... It was just some itch I had to scratch ... I still love you so much."

I continued, "Let me save you some trouble, when you get done crying, making up excuses, justifications and screaming lies."

"Women—especially including you—lie a lot and don't tell the truth much, either. Worse, they—and especially you—lie to themselves, just renaming the lies as rationalizing ... justifications ... exceptions to the rule ... carefully-thought-out plans, maybe made with trusted girlfriends ... excuses. These are all ways to masquerade emotional, impulsive decisions as rationalized, justified, intellectual ones."

"Eventually, they—and especially you—learn to lie about the lies you lied about."

Lila, still blubbering and sobbing, managed to cry out, "Oh, Dan, we can work this out. We have to talk. I can explain. It was just a bit of fun, it just got out of hand, but it wasn't my fault, 'cause I didn't say 'yes' so it was all really rape, wasn't it? Well, OK, it was consensual, you know, it was, you know, recreational sex, just fucking, not loving like you do to me ... Nooooo ..."

I still continued, "Lets start with silly, meaningless statements of love and romance. All lies, since you sought dirty/slutty-sex from other men instead of your wedded husband. At the wedding, you fucked my Best Man, whom I thought was a friend. On the cruise, during our honeymoon, you had sex with a couple of random guys, even in our cabin, while I was out on deck. Here at home, you had gang-bang sex with nearly all of the guys—and a coupe of the girls—from my job. You didn't even ask or hint, just went out and did it, over and over and over, laughing and giggling, cuckolding me while almost drowning in spurted cum."

Lila continued to cry, "Noooooo ... It wasn't like that. I never meant all of them to happen. I never gave you sloppy-seconds ... or thirds ... I only wanted your cock, but suddenly, it was just like a big dark cloud came over me ..."

Not appearing to hear her, I continued, "Now for the excuses: Oh honey, I'm so sorry ... it will never happen again ... I didn't know they were taking pictures and videotaping all of us, so all my fucking was blackmail, wasn't it? ... I didn't want to, but my body just reacted and I fucked them, you can understand that ... Their cocks completely filled me up and they all went in so deep, so far, right into my womb, that I lost control and ... it was just harmless group-flirting, honey, and, well, OK, it went too far, but ... I got curious and I asked to see all their big hard cocks, and, well, it happened, but ... I didn't have any control of myself after the first kiss ... I love you but, right now, I'm not in love with you!" ... and so on."

I added, relentlessly, "All lies, Lila. Rationalized, justified, excused, so-well-thought-out lies, all about and only about I, I, I ... ME, ME, ME ... I WANT, I WANT, I WANT, and to hell with anyone else, including the married man you cuckolded over and over and over."

Lila started to look wide-eyed surprised, suddenly realizing that I'd under-cut all of the easy rationalizations, justifications and excuses she was ready to utter. I thought, at that time, that it was dawning upon her that her husband-supported cheater's lifestyle had eroded past the breaking point.

"OK, my soon to be ex-wife, now you've got your freedom. You've got everything you could want from a divorce-fantasy settlement, ahead of time, so I've saved you a lot of trouble and expense. I filed for you, in your name. You'll be officially free in a year or so. You can fuck all day and all night, as much and as often as you want. You have enough money in the bank to keep you for a year or so. The house and car are yours, too."

"I used to be your husband, Dan, the one who cared for you when you were sick, did without when we were broke, excused you when you had temper fits, fixed the car, took put the trash, washed the clothes, listened to your chatter, dated and took you to dinner, etc. etc. etc."

"You know, the dumb, clueless wimp you cuckolded over and over and over, with his boss, friends and co-workers and laughed about it (or so I heard on the video disks I played for myself, last week ... including the one that's playing now)."

Lila shook her head, wailing out, "Noooooo ... I need you. I have to have you in my life. You're my rock, my anchor. Your cock is perfect. It's not just about the sex, it's all of you ... You're ..."

I finished, calmly saying, "Welcome to your new, single life, with all your lovers and fuckers ready, willing and able to take care of your sexy needs, especially those about I, I, I ... ME, ME, ME ... I WANT, I WANT, I WANT ... FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME ... RIGHT NOW..."

"Just don't figure on those guys involving love, caring, gentle touching and patience when you're feeling blue."

I left the sheets of notes on what I'd just said, leaving the video on auto-play, plus the photos spread out on the table. Outside, the cab I'd ordered honked once. Looking down at the little, huddled, kind-of chubby, sobbing little cheating cum-slut I'd married 4 years ago, I touched my forefinger gently to her lips, then picked up my small, personal bag and walked out the door, got into the cab and left for the airport.

As the cab pulled away, I glanced out the cab's back window to see the big, black limousine usually driven my now-former boss Hobart, as he pulled up into her driveway. Ready for some more hot sex action, I supposed, but didn't care about, any more.

On the flight out to Las Vegas, an overnight stay, then a separate, cash-only transfer to San Diego, I mused that there must be something wrong with me, these last years.

My first wife, married in college, had, I found out later, been a slut for militant black-nationalist men—they passed her around like a fuck-toy—before I met her. She aborted the black kid she was carrying when she hooked up with me. She'd apparently proceeded to continue a long-term sex-affair with her father, while we had to live at her parent's house. She fucked all my supervisors and employers, to insure she had complete control of me and my career, which was the source of our debt-laden income. She quickly became a compulsive over-spender. When I asked for a divorce a few years later, after finding her in bed, 'airtight' with 3 guys, she did a scorched-earth version, even somehow fucking with my own lawyer, to insure she won everything in the settlement. Which, of course, she did.

I had to live in my van for a year or so. Slowly, over the course of the next 2 years, I built myself back up.

My second wife was the one I just left.

I concluded that, at least in marriage, I must have something of a 'psychic-smell,' that attracted women who pretended to be hot-shit-on-wheels, then turned out to be controlling, frigid (to me), cheating, fucking sluts, as soon as the ink was dry on the wedding certificate.

The solution, then, seemed to be no more marriages. No more houses. No more careers involving bosses or co-workers. No more male friends, either. Get hook-up sex when I needed it or do a marital lease.

END OF PART 01