The Average American Marriage (16 page)

chapter thirty-four

Public Knowledge

M
y boss, Lonnie, knocks on the door frame of my office and says, “Need to talk to you for a second.”

I say, “Okay.” As he walks in, he shuts the door behind himself. My neck starts getting hot as I jump to the conclusion that he's going to fire me for some reason. Spending too much time on Facebook or looking up too many herpes websites are the first offenses that come to mind. I make a mental note that if I do have to get another job after this conversation I will only use my phone to look at non-work-related items.

He sits down across from me and says, “How to say this . . . um . . . Notice you and the new intern have, you know, been kind of close lately.”

I have no idea if he knows I'm fucking Holly. I also don't know the company policy for shit like this. It's very possible, likely even, that this place has always had a no-fraternization policy and I just never knew it. Technically she's not an employee, though. She's an intern. I decide that's going to be my defense if he actually knows that we're fucking. If he doesn't, I'm fully prepared to tap-dance my way around the truth. I say, “Yeah. She's great. She works really hard and I've helped her on a few projects here and there. She's really been one of our best interns.”

He smiles and says, “Not really what I meant.”

I say, “Oh. Okay.”

He holds up his left hand, takes off his wedding ring, and sets it on my desk. He says, “Been married for twenty-four years. Never cheated on my wife.”

I'm starting to feel like the guy who stays behind before a hurricane, boarding up his windows and hoping for the best as the storm approaches. I'm fully prepared for Lonnie to dish out some holier-than-thou moral-superiority speech or something, and I'm also fully prepared to tell him to go fuck himself when he finishes. I may not know the company policy about fucking co-workers, but I know you can't preach religious shit at work.

He says, “First five years, maybe even first six or seven, were fine, fun even. But the last fifteen or so? Basically prison. Don't care that you're cheating on your wife. Don't care that you're engaging in questionable activities with an intern. Don't care about that. Do care about what it's like.”

I'm beyond confused. I say, “What do you mean?”

He sighs and says, “Just want to know what it's like to . . . you know . . . with a girl who looks like that.”

I've never had a conversation with Lonnie outside of the office. We've never talked about anything that wasn't exclusively work-related, beyond maybe some idle kitchen chat about the Super Bowl or the company Oscar pool or something. And now here he is, sitting across from me, apparently asking me to tell him what Holly's like when she fucks. I'm not even sure I'm hearing him correctly. I say, “Are you asking me to tell you what it's like to have sex with our intern?”

He says, “Not in graphic detail or anything. Just curious about what it's like.”

He says that last bit with such a palpable sadness that I wonder: If I hadn't started fucking Holly, if I'd just toughed it out with Alyna for another fifteen years, would I have ended up just like him? No matter what happens with Holly and me, or Alyna and me, this makes me glad I fucked Holly, glad I got to see what life was like outside the cage, if only for a little while.

I know what he wants me to say, and coincidentally it's the truth. I say, “It's great. It makes me feel happy and alive and young again in a way that my wife just isn't capable of.”

He nods and slides his wedding ring back on. He says, “Some other guys around the office know.”

I say, “Should I be worried about HR or anything?”

He says, “Not sure if there's company policy against it and don't really have a reason to look into it. Don't know and don't really want to know. Just thought you should know it's not really a secret, in case you were trying to keep it that way for the wife or anything.”

I say, “Oh. Thanks.”

He stands up, and before he walks out he says, “Just wanted to say thanks and keep up the good work.”

I look at my wedding ring and wonder when the time will feel right to actually take it off.

chapter thirty-five

Chance Encounter

H
olly and I are on our way to eat dinner after work. She told me she's never been to Wolfgang's in Beverly Hills and fancy restaurants make her want to fuck. So we're headed to Wolfgang's.

Before we go over the hill I stop at a gas station on Ventura to fill up. I leave the pump running and walk around to the passenger's side, open the door, and say, “I'm getting a pack of gum. You want anything to drink?”

Holly doesn't look up from her phone and says, “Maybe. I'll come in with you.” Then I wait for probably thirty seconds while she finishes texting or updating her Facebook before she gets out of the car and we walk into the gas station.

She gets a Starbucks Frappuccino. I get a fruit-punch Gatorade 2 and a Snickers bar. As we check out, Holly says, “Ooh, can we get some Lotto tickets?”

I say, “Scratch-off or regular Lotto tickets?”

She says, “Scratch-off. Why would you get regular Lotto tickets?”

I say, “Because the regular Lotto gives out more money, to the tune of twenty million dollars or something.”

She says, “But nobody ever wins that.”

I say, “Yeah. Somebody does, every week almost.”

She says, “You know what I mean,” and I buy her some scratch-off lottery tickets and we turn to head back to the car. Just as we're walking out the door, I stop dead in my fucking tracks. My legs turn to lead and I feel like my stomach is exploding. Walking in through the same door Holly and I are walking out of are Alyna, Andy, and Jane. All I can do is to wonder why I didn't just get gas on the other side of the fucking hill. She sees us. A conversation is unavoidable.

Andy starts it. He says, “Daddy!” Everyone in the place turns their head and starts to watch what I know is going to be one of the worst moments of my fucking life. I wonder if either of the two guys in the place is cheating on his wife and feeling any sympathy for me in what is clearly a nightmare scenario for any guy who has ever cheated on his wife.

I say, “Hey, bud.”

He says, “Who is this?”

I don't know what to say, exactly. Holly surprisingly jumps in with “I'm your dad's friend from work.”

Alyna has never been violent but I can see that she wants to fucking cave in Holly's skull with the heel of her shoe. I'm glad the kids are with her or she might actually attempt it.

Andy says, “Oh. Hi. What's your name?”

Holly says, “Holly. What's yours?”

Andy says, “Andy.”

Alyna's had enough of this shit and I kind of don't blame her. It's one thing that Andy clearly favors me in this whole thing, but I can see why she wouldn't want Holly developing any kind of relationship with him, no matter how rudimentary. Alyna says, “Okay, well, I have things to do with these kids, and I'm sure you have things to do with your kid, so good-bye.”

What a fucking cunt. Holly is visibly pissed off, but she doesn't say anything. She just glares at Alyna. If I was watching this on TV or in a movie it would be amazing. As it happens, I'm watching it in the gas station I'm trying to leave. It is far less amazing.

I say, “See you later, then.”

I just want to get in the car and start dealing with whatever it is I'm going to have to say in order to salvage the night and still get to fuck Holly in the ass when I hear Andy say, “Daddy, when will I get to see you again?”

I say, “Uh, I don't know.”

He says, “I want to see you tomorrow.”

I say, “Well, I'll have to see how work goes.”

He says, “No. I want to see you tomorrow!” Now everyone in the place is focused on our little drama that's unfolding. No one wants to be a part of it. I feel like I have no choice but to lie directly to my son. I say, “Okay. I'll see you tomorrow.”

He says, “You promise?”

I say, “Yeah, bud, I promise.”

He hugs my leg and says, “I love you.”

I hug him back and say, “I love you, too.”

He says, “See you tomorrow,” and we leave.

We get in the car and drive over the hill to eat steak. The only thing Holly says about it is, “Sorry if I acted weird or anything. Just, that comment your wife made about me being a kid—you don't see me that way, do you?”

I say, “No. Not at all,” even though I kind of do.

I tell her she didn't act weird, and I thank her for being cool about it. She still seems pissed, though, so I assure her that I don't view her as a child at all. I tell her she's mature and has her shit together and is young, certainly, but not a child.

That night, after I blow my load in her ass, I lie awake next to her as she snores on the opposite side of the bed from me. I stare at the ceiling imagining what my son is doing. He's probably asleep, but I imagine him awake in his own bed, happy that he'll get to see his dad tomorrow. For the first time in my life, I despise myself.

some chapter

Shitdick

I
wake up the next morning and realize that I never even took a piss after fucking Holly in the ass the night before. I just rolled over after I blew my load and obsessed about how I'm ruining my children's lives until I passed out. I have to piss so bad I wonder how I didn't piss the bed.

Holly is next to me, still snoring, as I get out of bed and head to the bathroom. I nudge her on my way toward the pisser and say, “Time to get up.”

Once in the bathroom, I turn on the light and look down at my dick as I piss. There's a dime-size piece of dried shit on the head of my cock. I've fucked girls in the ass before. When we first started dating, Alyna actually used to enjoy being fucked in the ass. Every once in a while, I'd get a little brown streak on my dick or something but nothing like this. I must have been pushing against a real, fully formed turd when I was fucking Holly. That's the only thing that could have caused such a large piece of shit to stick to the head of my dick.

I scrape it off into the toilet with a fingernail and contemplate telling her about it. I decide there's no point in telling her. The best-case scenario is that she'd laugh it off, but worst-case she'd get embarrassed and never let me fuck her in the ass again.

As soon as I finish pissing, I turn the shower on. I'm about to get in when Holly knocks on the door and says, “Hey, would you mind if I used the bathroom before you got in the shower?”

I say, “No,” turn off the shower, open the door, let her in, and go sit on the bed knowing that when she says, “I need to use the bathroom,” instead of “I have to pee,” it means she has to take a shit pretty bad.

chapter thirty-six

You Got Served

I
'm sitting in my office, smelling my fingers and face, because even though I took a shower, I can still smell Holly's pussy all over me. It reminds me of how my high school girlfriend's pussy smelled. I wonder if it's because Holly is so young that it smells like this. I mentally scroll through every chick I've ever fucked and realize that only Holly, my high school girlfriend, and my college girlfriend had this specific type of smell. I decide it has to be their youth and commit to the idea that, if Alyna and I fall apart for good, I'll only fuck girls under twenty-two if I'm able.

I cup the hand that I fingered her with the night before over my mouth and nose and inhale deeply. I catch a faint whiff of Holly's asshole, and I'm reminded of the shit she took this morning, which smelled so bad I could barely breathe when I went back into the bathroom after her to shave. My desk phone beeps and our receptionist says, “Your wife is in the lobby.”

I say, “Okay,” take one more sniff, and head to the elevator wondering why the fuck Alyna would come to the office but knowing that it's better to deal with whatever it might be in the lobby than on my floor.

I get out of the elevator and I see Alyna standing there with her sunglasses on. They're a pair of big Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses that I bought her for her last birthday. I wonder if she just forgot that I got them for her, or if she likes them so much that she's able to dissociate my involvement with them enough to continue to wear them. She's also holding an envelope, which I immediately assume contains photographs of Holly and me fucking, taken by some private detective she's probably hired with our joint bank account.

I say, “Hey.”

She says, “Don't fucking
hey
me.”

I look over at our receptionist and say, “Gina, could you give us a second?”

Gina says, “I'm sorry. I can't really leave my desk. The phones and all.”

I look back at Alyna and say, “Can we go outside?”

Alyna says, “Why? So your receptionist doesn't find out you're fucking the intern? I think she has a right to know what kind of a dickhead she works with.”

Gina laughs, not too loud, but she laughs.

I say, “Okay. Fine. What do you want?”

Alyna says, “Just to give you these,” and she hands me the envelope.

I say, “What is this?”

She says, “Don't play dumb.”

I say, “Photos?”

She says, “Photos? What? No, you retard. It's fucking divorce papers.”

I say, “What?”

She says, “You didn't think I was just going to sit by, running into you and your little fucktoy at gas stations, and wait for you to figure out whatever kind of fucking midlife crisis you're going through, did you?”

I say, “I don't know. I mean, did you go to a lawyer?”

She says, “Well, yeah. I couldn't really draft up legal divorce documents on my own, now, could I?”

I say, “Well, I haven't been to one.”

She says, “Then I suggest you go to one, because I want those signed soon. I'm tired of this shit.” Then she walks out.

I look over at Gina, who's clearly pretending to be on a phone call that isn't really happening. I get into the elevator, go back to my desk, and start Googling divorce attorneys.