We Need to Tal

A work of fiction. All characters are over 18 years.

Empty nesters fight with each other and fight for each other. There's a bit of non-consent but all in good fun. This story has pride, anger, sloth, lust, gluttony, and spanking, but only in the best of taste. Something disgusting, too, but you'll have to read to find out just how bad it is.

*****

"We need to talk."

How many husbands have heard that? How many have approached the 'talk' with fear and trepidation? Not me. I was two sheets to the wind and working on hoisting the third sheet. Dinner was done, the kitchen was cleaned with my help, and the dishwasher was running. I had just poured my fourth scotch of the evening, trying to raise that third sheet, when Myra said those words.

"We need to talk."

Fuck. Well, I had to have known it was coming. I've been a bit of a shit lately. Nothing overt, just a useless shit. Too much booze. Not enough effort around the house. Sure, I pitched in after dinner, I unloaded the dishwasher if I came upon it first, I put the seat down. But truthfully? I wasn't pulling my weight and I knew it. And I didn't know what to do about it.

After the kids left the house we seemed at loose ends. I worked, she worked, we existed together. Like roommates I once told her. I was too cowardly to address the real issue, lack of any sex life, or any intimacy at all. And I knew fuck all what to do about it.

I heaved myself out of my den and into the living room. I took a seat at one end of the couch, facing Myra. She frowned at my glass of ice and scotch but said nothing. We just looked at each other. Two sheets is one sheet more than I can handle for cogent conversation. I tried to smile but I'm sure I looked like a dumb shit. Fucking booze.

I sized her up. She looked different and I tried to suss it out. She'd lost weight, not that she had ever been heavy, and she looked healthy. I looked down at my substantial gut and thought: Oh, well. And her hair was different. She was growing it out and getting a better grade of haircut, with highlights, and she was taking more care on a daily basis, even on days when she wasn't going to work. She'd had the gray toned down a little, too, but not hidden. She was not trying to look younger than her age, just making the best of what she had. And her makeup was nice, understated, and complimented her eyes and hair. Somehow, without me really noticing, she had transformed, really upped her game. When had this happened? I didn't know.

"Things have got to change, Wendell. This can't go on," she said. Deep down I knew exactly what she meant because I felt it too. But I had to ask.

"What do you mean?" I said.

I could see exasperation on her face but she was being patient with me. I wanted to hear her say it, to punish her for doing this just as sheet number three's lanyard was within my reach. And I was genuinely curious, too. There was disharmony in the house, the universe was upended, and I knew fuck all why. I set my drink down on the coffee table, on a coaster to protect the wood. The ice was going to melt and ruin the scotch, dilute it, but maybe that's what I needed. It might be a start.

Myra looked at the drink briefly and then turned her attention full onto me. She looked intense and serious; I wanted to squirm but I didn't. I had my pride even if I was a shit.

"Let's take stock, Wendell. The kids are grown, on their own, and other than an occasional infusion of money, they don't need us anymore. We've done our job, both of us, and I think we can both pat ourselves on the back. So, congratulations to us," she said. I felt a momentary surge of pride. Yes, we'd been a good team, me and Myra, and we had a right to be proud of our three offspring. With any luck at all, we might even be grandparents in the next few years. It seemed fitting; we were both in our early fifties and that's what people did at our age. Or more properly, what happened to them.

Myra was eyeing my drink on the table. Suddenly, she reached forward, picked it up, and took a big swallow. And another.

"I didn't think you liked scotch," I said, not hiding my surprise.

"I don't. It tastes like turpentine." She held the glass with both hands and took a third swallow. She had no idea how to sip good scotch.

Myra spread her arm out expansively, taking in the whole room. "And this is about all paid for, right? Two more years on the mortgage, and we could stay here for another 15 or 20 years, easy, right? I mean, we could pay this off tomorrow, right?"

"Right," I said, "but we don't want to do that because we don't want to pay unnecessary taxes on the retirement money, and we need to keep a nice cushion of ready cash in the bank, just in case." I was starting to feel more confident. I wasn't sure where she was going, but so far, so good.

Myra took another gulp and emptied the glass. She held it out. "A little more, please. Two fingers. Little fingers."

I got up to get her more scotch. This was different; she was usually a white wine drinker, or drank the occasional Margarita, but never scotch. I felt my uneasiness return. She hadn't really said anything so far, and I could feel my sobriety making a comeback, not something I looked forward to. I had been planning to crawl into a bottle tonight.

"Look, Wendell, this isn't easy for me, but I'm going to flat out say it. First, you know I love you and I always have. I've tried to be a good wife for you. I've always been faithful. We've had 29 pretty good years together." She gave me a funny look and smiled, but I could see it was forced. I started squirming because I suddenly didn't like the way this was going, at all. Had together?

"I still love you, Wendell, but..." Here she paused before continuing. I was holding my breath and she took a sip of my scotch. "You're not much of a lover, Wendell, haven't been for a few years." I swallowed hard and let out my breath. She was right, I knew it, and I hated it. I looked down at my big belly and thought; Where the fuck did you come from, Fat Ass? I couldn't look at my wife. And why was I saying 'fuck' all the time? I had become profane in thought and word. I was never like that before.

It seem like forever but it couldn't have been more than a minute when I looked up and into my wife's eyes. I was hopeful, but she was looking back hard. Stern, and unforgiving. She was playing for keeps this time, and I desperately wanted more scotch.

"We've been over this before, Wendell, the excess weight, the booze, the laziness at home, the non-existent sex," she said, "and nothing, and I mean ABSOLUTELY NOTHING has been done." She set the glass back down on the coffee table, a little too forcefully, and said, "How can you drink this shit? It tastes AWFUL!"

I cringed at her words; Myra never cursed. My impulse was to defend the quality of my scotch but I quickly dismissed the idea. My drunk instincts were terrible, apparently, but I was quickly sobering up.

"Two more things, Wendell, and then I'm going out for a few hours," Myra said.

Going out? She had my attention now.

"First, I've seen an attorney. He's drawn up divorce papers and they're ready to be signed and filed, whenever I tell him. He said I could expect at least fifty percent of everything, including the house, which I don't want. You could sell it or buy me out. And half of your retirement account. And you'd pay me support for the rest of my life unless I remarried. He assured me I would come out intact financially and I might not need to work. You should get your own attorney and get your own advice, just so you know where you stand. But as of now, I'm holding off filing."

At this point time slowed to a crawl. I was stunned. A divorce? I couldn't speak, and while my brain was trying to swim in molasses, she kept talking.

"And two, I've been seeing someone, a man. So far we're just friends and we haven't taken it any further than that. You deserve to know and I'm not going to sneak around behind your back. I didn't plan this, it just happened. Maybe it happened for a reason but I didn't go looking for it, he found me."

Another man? Now, time lurched to a complete halt and I felt the earth tremble underneath me. Of course, why couldn't I have foreseen this? She had increased her running mileage, spent more time at the gym, and generally looked very good. Hair, makeup, nails, clothes, shoes? All improved. Any man would have noticed, except me. I had been too busy stuffing my face, knocking back the scotch, and getting fat. Exercise? I got out of breath walking to the mailbox. All these thought raced through my mind and a thousand questions suggested themselves.

What came out of my mouth was, "WHAT?"

"Keep your voice down. We're adults and we can discuss this calmly like adults. He's not my lover. We've had coffee together and sometimes he holds my hand, that's all." So far, I thought. Now I was angry, seeing red.

"Look, Myra, divorce papers or not, you're still my wife and I won't have you holding hands with another man. It's not proper, it's not right. You're still married to me! What you're doing is ADULTERY!" I said, nearly shouting.

She laughed but she wasn't mocking me, and I realized I sounded ridiculous. Holding hands was adultery? I stopped and laughed with her, then I had a sudden, awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.

The letter. I had written Myra a letter confessing everything and promising her everything to make up for my infidelity. That was nineteen teen years ago but the guilt and regret came crashing down on me again. I shut up and buried my face in my hands. I was so ashamed of what I had done that I had largely suppressed the memory. But here it was again, like a ghost come back .

"Claire Haskell, Wendell. Remember her? Of course you do. I certainly haven't forgotten, so without putting too fine a point on it, just drop that talk about adultery. If anything, you owe me one. I forgave you and put it behind me but you hurt me so badly. I carried on, raised our children, kept our secret, but even though I confessed my anger to a priest, I still can't entirely forget Claire Haskell. And you cost Claire her marriage, too. I've thought about this a lot lately, and I think I've entirely forgiven Claire and I wish her well, wherever she is. But please don't talk about adultery, because try as I might, I can't ever forget it. You damaged my trust and wounded our marriage, Wendell. Maybe that accounts for my cold-bloodedness right now, my fish or cut bait mindset. I'm just not in the mood to argue adultery, and holding hands is certainly not adultery."

Myra didn't sound mad and that worried me even more. She was a woman on a mission and I was in danger of being run over. But I had to know.

"Who is he? Do I know him?" I was trying to contain my anger but my voice had a sharp edge.

"No, you don't know him, and no, I'm not telling you his name. You've never met. But I'll tell you this, he's about our age, he's widowed, and he's quite well off. His children are married and he has a grandchild. He's a nice man and any woman would find him attractive," Myra said in a matter-of-fact manner.

"He's an asshole!" I spat. "Any man who would fool around with a married woman is an ASSHOLE!" I was shouting again. My wife had wounded me and what's worse, deep down inside I knew I deserved it. I had to shout, it's all I had. "A FUCKING ASSHOLE!" I shouted again for emphasis. I didn't feel any better for all my shouting.

Myra arched an eyebrow but didn't say a word. I knew what she was thinking. I was the married man who had fooled around with a married woman not his wife. I WAS the fucking asshole, and I had just condemned myself. Fucking asshole, that's me! I was mad at myself, mad at Myra, and mad at the whole fucking unfair world. Boo-fucking-hoo! I felt like shit.

Myra stood up and left without a word. I could hear water running upstairs and I knew she was taking a shower. I picked up the remnants of her drink and knocked it back in one giant gulp. It felt like a line of liquid fire behind my sternum, settling in my gut. I thought it might come back up but it didn't. The burning nausea seemed fitting punishment for my abject assholery. I deserved it. I deserved to get my ass kicked, and Myra was kicking it.

Forty-five minutes and a glass of scotch later she walked down the stairs and my heart sank. She was dressed for a date! Sleeveless little black dress down to her knees, shiny black heels, hair up. Her makeup was just a tad heavier than usual, emphasizing her eyes and lips, and her dangling gold earrings sparkled.

She was gorgeous!

She walked to the living room and stopped in the doorway ten feet from me. I looked her up and down.

"Are you going to fuck him?" I sneered. I saw surprise and revulsion cross her face.

"I should slap your face! What a thing to say to your wife! Stay here and drink yourself into oblivion, I'll be back in a few hours. Don't wait up." She went to the hall closet for her coat. I heard her car back out of garage and leave. I was alone. I really felt like shit.

The burning in my gut continued but I could feel the warm tinglies spreading into my fingers and toes. I needed more of that! I went to the kitchen, filled a large glass with ice, and brought a nearly full bottle of 18 year old premium scotch into my den. I vowed to drink it all. I sat in my green leather wingback chair and indulged in flights of fancy. I was going to go to the bank first thing Monday morning and convert all of my cash into Krugerrands or whatever the fuck gold coins I could buy. I'd need a wheelbarrow, so good thing I drive a pickup truck. I'd bury that shit ten feet deep, somewhere no one could find it. I'd close all the accounts, cancel all the utilities, and hit the road for parts unknown. Oh, but first I'd find Asshole and beat the shit out of him. Then I'd leave for parts unknown. Maybe I'd buy a new pickup. Just Fuck! Them! All!

A moment later I woke up, empty glass in hand. My head was pounding and my gut was churning. At both ends! Oh, no! I raced for the downstairs bathroom, staggering and bouncing off the walls. I knew time was tight. A horrible gurgle from down below filled me with dread and I knew I had no time to get situated on the pot! I grabbed the glass door to the shower stall just as my writhing bowels cut loose. I felt the warm liquid fill my pants and begin running down my legs. Oh, shit! The smell in the shower stall was overwhelming and I began to vomit a seemingly endless stream of spaghetti and sour scotch. I thought I might pass out from the combined stench. I struggled to loosen my pants and drop them, but realized too late I was still wearing my shoes.

In desperation I turned on the shower and stood there in the cold water, pants around my ankles, vomit and liquid stool running down the drain. I continued to add to the total, from both ends in a cathartic and revolting purge. In my hazy conscious state I realized I could fall over into the horrifying muck, so I leaned against the wall, relieved that the water was beginning to get warm. But the smell!

I had to get my soiled clothes off. I struggled with my ruined shoes and eventually had my wet clothes piled in the corner while I carved out a small, relatively clean space for myself. My eruptions ceased and I marveled at my sudden, stress-induced sobriety. I smiled wryly to myself. Years of heavy drinking had taught me something: How to act sober with a high BAC. I washed up and found a towel.

I left my shoes and clothes in the shower; I'd come for them later. My wallet and keys were in there somewhere but I think my phone was on the charger. Thank God for small favors! I looked around downstairs but it appeared my dash to the bathroom had been successful inasmuch as I had not soiled my wingback chair or the carpet. I closed the door to the downstairs bath and went upstairs to take a second shower, then dressed in pajamas and slippers. I felt human.

Back in the den, I picked up the nearly empty bottle of scotch. It was the good stuff but right then it smelled like it had been filtered through six feet of horseshit. I poured it out. I grabbed a kitchen garbage bag and began filling it with every bottle of booze I had, including Myra's white wine and the screw top stuff she used for cooking. All of it. I double-bagged it for strength and took it into the garage.

I was about to dump it into the garbage can when Myra's garage door began going up. I stood in place and watched her drive in. When she got out of the car we stood facing each other. Not a hair was out of place and her clothes were on straight, including her nylons. Her makeup was just as it had been two hours ago when she left .

"What are you doing?" she asked.

I held up the garbage bag and said, "This is all our booze. It's all going in the garbage. We're going to save a ton of money."

She looked at me quizzically and went into the house. A second later she was back. "What happened in here? It smells awful!"

I was glad she was home and I was feeling puckish, so I said, "Look in the bathroom."

She opened the door and quickly closed it. "Oh, my God! You did that?"

"All my own work, Myra; I probably saved my own life. If I hadn't done that I might have died from acute alcohol poisoning. Even a fat ass like me has limits, and most of a bottle of hooch in an hour is too much. I'm thankful it's all in there and not all over the house with my dead body in the middle of a puddle. I'll clean it up in the morning," I said. I had a purpose, humble as it might be, and it made me feel useful, human.

"Go sit down and wait for me," Myra said, pointing to a chair, and she went upstairs.

Ten minutes later she reappeared in old clothes, wearing the rubber gloves she wore to clean toilets. I held a big garbage bag while she put my clothes inside. It was all going in the trash.

"Those are your good dress shoes," she commented.

"Were," I said. "Put them in the bag." She found my wallet. "Take out the credit cards and my driver's license, I'll wash those later. The rest goes in the bag; wallet, money, and all." I took the bagged up mess to the garage and put it in the garbage can. I was done with all of it.

Upstairs, I found her at her bathroom sink, washing her holdup nylon stockings. I picked up her sheer black bikini cut panties off the floor and examined them.

"He didn't keep these?" I asked, holding them up to my nose. "I just smell you. He use a rubber?"

"Give those to me you asshole," she said, grabbing them from me. She turned back to the sink and I stepped behind her, undid her jeans, and pulled them down to her ankles, panties and all. She shrieked.

"STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? GODDAMMIT, LET ME GO!" struggling as I turned her to face me and then pushed her back against the bathroom wall. I pushed a knee between her legs, spreading them, and pushed my middle finger up her cooch. She was slick and I slipped right in. Was it all her or was he in the mix? I pulled out my finger and made a dramatic show of sniffing it.

"Just you, I think. No cum. No latex smell. Just sweet, married Myra, my loving wife," I said. "And slick as an eel, too. Must have been a hot date!"

"YOU BASTARD! YOU JUST RAPED ME! I DIDN'T CONSENT TO BEING PENETRATED BY YOUR FINGER! THAT'S TECHNICALLY RAPE!" she screamed. I laughed, which just infuriated her more.

"Good luck with that! 'Officer, my wife had just come home from a date with another man so I was just checking her for cum before I let her back into my bed.' Yeah, good luck selling rape to the prosecuting attorney. Our dipshit newspaper would love that story. It might even go viral," I said, taunting her. She was staring at me with blood in her eye. If looks could kill, I thought.

Well, fuck it.

I picked her up like a sack of potatoes and carried her over my shoulder into our bedroom, crying and beating my on back with her fists. It felt good, invigorating. I sat down on the long padded hassock at the foot of our bed. Over the years the hassock had served as a prop for many a sex session, but now I planned to use it for something else. I laid her face down over my left leg and trapped her thrashing legs, still hobbled by her pants, with my right leg. It was a simple matter to hold both her wrists with my left hand, freeing my right hand for the task I had set myself. Her bare, quivering bottom was on display and completely vulnerable. A lovely sight! I brought my right hand down on her right buttock with a resounding slap, then repeated it on her left.