So much has changed since the spring afternoon when I called home to my wife. The line was engaged for several attempts and then finally rang. No one answered so I called again to check the message that had just been placed.
“No new messages,” the monotone voice said.
Again, I called. This time my wife answered and I knew right away she was upset at me.
“When are you coming home? I need to talk to you in person,” she said.
“I can leave now. What’s wrong?” I queried.
“I needed to see some saved tax documents on your computer and came across some disturbing images. Are they yours?”
My heart pounded as my mind raced. She had found a cache of pornography I thought was secured.
“Images? No. I bought that computer second-hand but have never seen images.”
I could barely speak and she knew I was lying.
She began to explain the different programs she had opened in order to see the pictures. Her voice seemed to trail off as I recounted the amount of images I’d amassed over the past two years. The beautiful women, the panties, the sadomasochism and, worst of all, the men on men.
My taste for porn and for pain had escaladed from scenes of women to scenes of men doing unmentionable deeds to their equally hot subjects.
I told my prudent wife I’d be home shortly.
I checked in with my business partner on the way out and told him I’d see him Monday.
I pulled up to our wrought iron gate and was so nervous, I entered the code incorrectly. It took two more tries before it granted me access.
The anticipation of the continued discussion was awful. My armpits were soaked and my hands were clammy. There’s no way my wife would believe me in my sorry state. I had to come clean.
I had never met with anyone and had been outwardly true to her. Our relationship was dependent on her understanding.
By the time my car pulled up to the garage, she had finished loading up her car and stood with her arms crossed.
“What’s going on? Where are you off to?” I asked.
“My sister’s. I cannot be here with you now.”
“Please wait! Let’s discuss this.” I pleaded.
“Fuck off! Everything has changed,” she yelled. “You’re perverted and I don’t know you anymore!”
She climbed in her car and fired the engine. Without delay she was gone.
I walked into the house and saw that much of her belongings were gone including things that were irreplaceable to her. She had left for good.
I went to the icebox and opened a beer. I paced nervously and needed to relieve my stress. Naturally, I looked to my desktop to provide some needed material; porn that had just caused this rift.
My computer was gone along with all my files and downloads.
I called her mobile phone to ask her what she did with it.
“I have your desktop and need it to build my case against you. I want a divorce and I think you should call the attorney.”
I was stunned and pissed off. I decided to sit and write up a plan for the next couple of days.
The evening was getting late and so I drove around for a change of scenery.
My wife had good reason for her decision. In spite of our major troubles, I was preoccupied with depraved acts and images and needed stimulation.
I stopped by a porn shop in a seedy part of town and was well received by the prostitutes that strolled the sidewalks. My car usually did not go unnoticed and I stepped lively in and out of the shop.
One of the discs I chose was of men and women wrestling with painful overtones. The other was scenes from a house of pain. I couldn’t wait to get home and settle in for the night. The thought occurred to me that the theater equipment might have been taken by my wife but that wasn’t the case.
I sat down with some Aqua-glide and a cloth. The video alternated between men oil wrestling women and then wrestling other men. Every match ended with someone getting pinned and ultimately penetrated by their opponent. I was beating off with the oil when then the phone rang. I did not answer the call but stopped and listened to the caller’s voice.
“This is Dutch from ‘The Razor’s Edge’ bookstore…”
I jumped up and grabbed the phone.
“Yes? Hello?” I responded.
“This is Dutch and I’m calling to let you know you left your driver’s license here.”
“Thanks,” I said, “I’ll be by to get it.”
“That’s okay. I can bring it to you. I’m going right by your street and could drop it in your mailbox sometime late tonight.”
“Thank you. If that’s not too much trouble, I’d appreciate that,” I replied.
After I hung up, I wondered how he’d obtained my phone number. He must have looked it up since I was listed in the phone book. I was nervous and paid cash at the porn shop. How did I drop my license? Now the guy knows where I live.
I had to calm myself down and be realistic.
I began to watch the video over again and soon climaxed and fell asleep.
Sometime around two thirty in the morning the chime sounded. Someone was at the gate trying to get in. Sometimes drunken folks hit the button late at night but this person persevered.
“Who’s there?” I asked.
“It’s Dutch. I have your license.”
I was half awake and let him in before remembering that he was going to drop it in our mailbox. I quickly looked at the monitor to see if anyone else was entering with him but there was just one person.
A minute later the doorbell sounded and I answered.
A tall man in leather stood holding my license in his fingers. I took the license and thanked him again.
He had a friendly smile and I was disarmed by his demeanor.
“Hold on a second. I’d want to repay you,” I said as he turned away.
“Nice pile of bricks,” he said as I fumbled through my wallet.
“What? Oh, yea. Thanks,” I said.
“May I come in?”
I sensed things were getting a little strange and I didn’t respond. Instead I handed him a fifty. He surprised me by squeezing past the narrow opening I thought would have blocked him.
“How’s your ‘Penchant for Pain’?” He asked.
