My husband doesn't know about my little hobby. I write stories and post them on erotic websites. A lot of the stories are from my experiences in college and before and during my first marriage. I was rather wild in college, but although a lot of guys made it to home plate (usually on the 2nd or 3rd date -- although quite a few hit a grand slam on the first date), most of the time I stopped at 3rd base -- more of a "hand-pump" than the "town pump". But college was a time for experimentation and for going crazy.
When I said, "I do" and married Greg (my first husband), I thought I'd put it all behind me. I'd found the love of my life, and he'd be my last and best lover. An added bonus for me, a girl who had grown up in trailer parks, was his rich family. But I had known a lot of rich kids I could have hooked, but with Greg, it was mostly love.
Unfortunately, he didn't feel the same. I was just a trophy for him, something to check off the list of what people expected of him, someone to help him check off other expectations, like kids, house and cooking, cleaning, and general errand runner. Romance flew out the window as soon as we left the reception and began our honeymoon.
And I should have seen it coming.
His parents insisted on a pre-nuptial agreement. My lawyer, when he reviewed it, expressed surprise that it didn't include any mention of adultery or other causes of divorce -- it simple stated that if I initiated divorce proceedings, I would forfeit all claims on marital property, except in the amount of $50,000. However, should Greg file for divorce, the same penalties would apply to him.
I was in love, Greg was in love, and the pre-nup was ridiculous. I imagined that his parents were trying to protect the $2,000,000 home they were gifting the newlyweds. I signed with a light heart. I'd just thought his parents didn't like me, the trailer trash gold digger.
For our honeymoon, we took a cruise through the Caribbean, and before we even reached the first port in the Bahamas, Greg only had eyes for the girls in bikinis around the pool, and he was grabbing the waitresses' asses in the dining hall. I was in denial, thinking I hadn't really seen it happen, but it became undeniable when the steward stopped at our table to inform my husband that he would be taken off the ship at the next port if he didn't cease harassing the wait staff. Greg laughed it off, saying he'd accidentally hit a waitress on the ass, but it wouldn't happen again. The steward glared at Greg for several minutes, disbelievingly, but then said, "Be sure it doesn't reoccur." He left it at that, turning and walking away.
We had a wonderful time in the Bahamas, everything I'd hoped for on my honeymoon. Jamaica was where the trouble really began. When we arrived, while I was getting ready, my groom slipped away and left the ship alone. I didn't know where he'd gone and was afraid that I'd miss him if I left the ship, so I ended up missing Jamaica altogether, except for what I could see from the ship's deck. My husband barely made it back to the ship, drunk as a sailor. He passed out on the bed while I cried myself to sleep.
He was apologetic the next day and was as attentive as he could be on Grand Cayman. He wandered off when we were in Cozumel, leaving me alone in Senor Frog's. It was only by chance that when he excused himself to go to the bathroom, I was staring out the window and saw him leave with a pretty senorita, whom I'd noticed him eyeing in the barroom. I jumped up to run after him, but was stopped by the waitress who presented our tab. By the time I had paid the bill, Greg was gone.
I returned to the ship, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I'd only been married for five days -- five days and my husband had already abandoned me twice. When he returned to our stateroom it was four o'clock and he seemed genuinely distressed to find me red-eyed and tearful, surrounded by soiled Kleenex I'd used on my dripping nose.
"I just left to buy you a bracelet! When I came back, you were gone!" he complained.
I didn't buy it. "I saw you with that slut! I saw you leave Frog's with her." I was so upset, I huffed. A mistake when you've been crying. My nostrils were clogged. I'm not my most attractive when balls of snot are flying out of my nose.
As I hurried to clean up the damage, Greg knelt in front of me (looking down first to ensure he wasn't going to kneel in any of the 'damage'). "No, honey. I had admired her bracelet, and she was just showing me where she'd bought it!" He held out a Blue Puebla bracelet to me. "I was devastated when I came back, and you were gone. I looked all over for you. I finally gave up and returned to the ship. Here, put on the bracelet and let's go get some dinner."
The bracelet was beautiful. I put it on, wiped my nose again, and kissed my errant husband. I did notice that he apparently hadn't stopped drinking while searching for me.
It was two weeks after we returned that the denial I was indulging in was totally destroyed. Greg had returned to work, and I was arranging the bills for payment. Greg had paid the final bill from the cruise ship with a credit card, but somehow the statement ended up in the "due bill" pile. I was surprised at the amount of the bill, considering most things had been included in cruise price. A quick review of the bill showed the reason: the purchase of several Blue Puebla bracelets from the ship's gift shop.
"That bastard!" I thought, followed by the realization of how gullible I was. So, the pretty senorita was just showing him the shop she'd bought her bracelet from? Our ship's gift shop? "Son of a bitch!" That's probably where one of the bracelets had gone. I checked the date of the purchase on the bill. "Fuck -- someone in Jamaica had gotten one as well!"
I was steaming mad when I got up to go to the toilet. I soon wished I hadn't. God damn, that burned and stung. I didn't know what had happened. I wondered if this was something I'd caught it Mexico. I went right in to see old Dr. Wright. He'd been our family's MD for years. He drew blood and took a urine sample. I asked if I really had to, because, well, it burned. I had to. And it did burn.
He sent me home with the promise that he'd call me as soon as the results came in. He told me he was pretty sure what it was and gave me a prescription for antibiotics that I could fill immediately.
When he called, he confirmed that his guess was correct. "Betty Sue, what have you been up to?" he asked.
"Well, I told you I'd just come back from Mexico and the Caribbean. It was my honeymoon!" I hadn't mentioned that during the office visit.
He was quiet for a moment. "Congratulations, Betty. On your nuptials." He paused again. "But I've got to tell you that you've got gonorrhea." I was shocked, and immediately began arguing that that was impossible, that I'd only been with Greg for the past year, and I'd just gotten married.
"Well, you may not have been playing around, but your husband might have been." I dropped the phone. And picked it up again to hear Doc saying "...you're actually lucky. A lot of women don't get that stinging symptom and gonorrhea can seriously damage their reproductive organs. The antibiotics you're taking should deal with the infection, but I'd like you to come in for a follow up in two weeks to be sure."
I thanked him, and hung up, still in shock. Even during my wildest escapades in college, I'd never gotten an STI. Of course, I'd been reasonably careful. I think I single-handedly raised the stock value of several condom companies. Unfortunately, although I had used them with Greg, once we were engaged, I had enjoyed the freedom I had expected with monogamy.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And I married the bastard.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I steamed about it all day and exploded when he walked in the door. Of all the reactions I had imagined, it was never the one I got when I hurled my accusations at him.
As I wound down, he laughed. HE LAUGHED. I was in shock, unresisting as he hugged me and then went to grab a beer from the fridge, explaining as he went, "Hey, babe, we were on vacation! We were supposed to go out and have fun!"
I huffed, and puffed, and threatened to blow the house down. I'd take him to court and divorce his ass. He just laughed and said, "Great! That'll really piss my parents off. They were afraid that I'd be walking away with the home they gave you." That brought me up short. His parents were trying to protect....me?
I left. I got in the car and drove away, aimlessly I thought, but soon found myself driving up the driveway to Greg's family home. Or I should say, estate. I stopped by the tennis courts, where I saw my in-laws engaged in a furious game. They stopped as I walked on to the court. One look at my face and they knew.
