Surprise Surprise Pt. 01

This is my sixth offering. I've decided this on will be another LW cheating & vengeance story (like I said before, because they're fun to write!).

Perhaps one of the most common LW-cheating plot lines is the wife getting zapped by the Martian Slut Ray. She gets caught, and then, suddenly aghast at the possibility of losing "the only man she ever really loved," she prostrates herself before her devastated and/or supernova pissed and/or candidate-for-sainthood hubby, promising to be the "best wife ever" if given another chance. The tension in the story then becomes whether (1) hubby decides to give her that chance, (2) whether she will make good on her promise, with (3) failure & revenge/BTB or success & reconciliation to follow. I'm not critical; it's a great plot device. Heck, I used the Martian Slut Ray & BTB variant in my debut story, to avoid recreating the wheel.

But the super-repentant wife trope has always bothered me, even when I used it. So I'm going to try something different. Again, hardy original, as it's been done this way before too many times to count. This is my take on it. It's more than a bit dark, and accordingly over the top on the MC's response. Low-level Superman incognito as mild-mannered Clarke Kent makes an appearance, I hope in an imaginative way. Here's to this one tickling that primal need for revenge that lurks in the soul of the cheated upon.

Also, I know that it's long, which is why I split it into two parts. If your fancy tilts to instant gratification carnage with scant character development, this will not be your cup of tea. And this one is dark, perhaps darker than my previous offering, Consequences. Also, although I've tried to be generally accurate with some technical bits about the military, I take literary liberties (pun intended) to move the story forward, particularly with respect to the MC's highly unrealistic promotion timeline, and a fictional mixing of NCO-level enlisted personnel performing duties usually not assigned to staff-level NCOs. Maintain your bearing, Marines and wannabees, and don't go ape. It's fun-fiction, not a documentary!

I look forward to reading your constructive comments and critiques. After all, readers' thoughts are the grease that keep the creative juices flowing! And remember, it's just a story. No actual a-holes were hurt in the writing of this tale. But good lord, they should have been.

~~~@~~~@~~~

SURPRISE SURPRISE

Is Karma a real thing, or is it just something we humans have constructed to help our simian brains find order buried in the chaos? That question has been on my mind of late.

~~~@~~~@~~~

Bonnie O'Shea and I were eleven years old. We lived a few blocks from each other. Red-haired with an infectious laugh, Bonnie was my first real crush. Whatever "love" was to a ten-year-old, I had it bad for Bonnie. I didn't let on to anyone though, because girls were creatures that lived in a twilight between somewhat cool and really weird. Every now and then I managed to arrange being near to Bonnie after school, accidentally-on-purpose, and I contrived to walk home with her. Eventually that became our routine. "You should carry my books because you're my boyfriend," she said to me as we walked together one beautiful spring afternoon. So, like the old Frankie Valli song recites, I carried her books from school, and played make-believe she was married to me.

Sometimes Bonnie's mother would invite me in for an after-school snack, and Bonnie and I would watch TV. She even kissed me a few times when her mother wasn't nearby, usually a quick peck on the cheek, but once even on the lips for a split second. I felt a dizzying surge of heat as my cheeks flushed.

One blistering, boring, late-summer day, my mother had her fill of having me underfoot. Mom told me to get out of the house and find a friend to play with. I got the bright idea of going to Bonnie's to see if she wanted to take a walk along the stream the coursed through our neighborhood city park. "Bonnie's not home," explained her mother guilelessly. "I think she went to Skylar Park." "Perfecto!" I thought. I'll find Bonnie, and sneak up behind her for a surprise. Maybe even hold her hand. And find her I did--sitting on a bench set in a secluded bend of Skylar Creek, holding hands with Justin Jones. She kissed him on the cheek, followed by him kissing hers.

I didn't know exactly what I felt. All I knew was that somehow Bonnie had done me wrong. She was MY girlfriend! She said so! So why was she kissing Justin? I was angry. Angry at Justin. Angry at Bonnie. Just plain angry. It wasn't fair! An unspoken understanding had been violated. I didn't confront them. Instead I slinked away to a wooded area, where I vented my anger by throwing rocks at trees. I didn't talk to Bonnie again until school started later that month. Despite my efforts to blend into the jumble of kids headed to their homes, Bonnie spotted me among the throng. My plan to avoid her blew up on the first day of school.

"Tommy, wait for me!" she called out. I kept a steady pace as she fast-walked beside me, struggling to keep up. "Are you mad at me?"

Yeah, I was still mad at her. "Why don't you find Justin and walk home with him? I saw you kissing him at the park. He's your boyfriend now, I guess." I had been practicing that rant in my head for weeks. I didn't look at her as I seethed at the universe and everything in it, particularly if it had red hair.

"I can have more than one boyfriend, Tommy!" she said to the side of my face as I marched on. "I like you, but I like him too!" I kept walking, mostly because even though I still had it bad for her, something that I couldn't put in words told me that she couldn't have two boyfriends. Least ways, not if one of them was me.

"I don't want to be your boyfriend any more, Bonnie," I finally announced, looking at her for the first time. "Just leave me alone!" Bonnie stopped walking, and I stomped on alone to my house. Buried somewhere in my subconscious I was mad at myself for going to Bonnie's house unannounced, and then for trying to find her at Skylar Park. I couldn't find the words to explain it to myself, but I reasoned that if I hadn't dropped by unannounced... if I hadn't gone to Skylar Park... I wouldn't have known about Justin, and everything would have been fine. At school, I didn't talk to Bonnie again except to say "Hi" weakly in the hallway. I wanted to get back at Justin for kissing Bonnie, but I knew that I'd get in a lot of trouble if I picked a fight with him, so I swallowed my eleven-year-old's anger and let it go. I felt grim satisfaction when I heard Bonnie and Justin were on the outs after Bonnie caught Justin holding hands with Bonnie's best friend. Bonnie deserved it, I reasoned. Bonnie's family moved away the next year, which also made me happy.

~~~@~~~@~~~

Like all childhood romantic traumas, the Bonnie misadventure faded, and I mostly forgot about girls. Until tenth grade, that is, when I started "dating" Debra, a diminutive brunette who captured my attentions in Spanish class. Debra was cute, to my way of thinking, but more than that, she seemingly returned my interest. Our dates were necessarily constrained by the fact that neither of us were old enough to drive, so anything more than a bicycle ride distance required the taxi services of a parent. Still, we became "steadies," a term that in our high school was universally understood to mean exclusive.

Debra and I became one of our class's "couples." We ate lunch together, attended school events and dances together, and even studied together at each other's homes. But things things inexplicably tapered off in the Spring. Our study sessions all but stopped, and Debra begged off going to movies with me on weekends, for various reasons that were plausible in isolation but betrayed a building pattern. I asked Debra if there was something going on, and she assured me that all was well. "You're my steady, silly!" she said just before leaning in to rub noses in an Eskimo kiss. That was good enough for me.

The next week Debra caught a cold and missed a few days of school. I made careful notes for the classes we shared, particularly for her Achilles Heel, Biology. I hadn't been able to reach her by phone, so I decided to bike myself over to her house that evening to surprise her with the notes. I was lonely for her. I hadn't heard from her for nearly a week, which I wrote off to her feeling crappy and wanting to be left alone. It was past dusk when I approached her house that early summer evening, but even from a distance I easily recognized Bill Yargarin's red Camaro SS in the driveway. Yargarin was a senior, and was one of varsity football team captains. Yargarin bragged incessantly about three things: his prowess on the football field, the girls he dated, and his vintage restored Camaro. My not-so-steady girl was huddled up next to him in his fucking Camaro, the two of them leaning into each other across the center console that separated the bucket seats.

I skidded my bike to a quick stop and ducked behind a row of high shrubs that separated her house from the neighbor's. There was still enough light for see that Debra and Yargarin were involved in an animated, happy conversation. After about ten minutes the talking stopped and the make-out session began. Another five minutes passed before Debra's parents flashed the porch light on and off and on again. I saw Debra deftly readjust her bra and straighten out her blouse before gaily exiting Yargarin's Camaro and hustling inside. I felt sick, not so much for being lied to, but for the humiliation I felt for having been so easily fooled. I stayed out of sight, deciding that giving her the notes could wait for tomorrow, assuming that I didn't rip them to shreds instead. Pissed off? Believe it.

Debra didn't get my notes that next day. Instead I did my best to avoid being around her. Faking my own cold got me out of school for a few days, but I could only pretend to be ill for so long. So I ghosted her as best I could. The next Monday Debra bounded up to me at my locker and gave me a big kiss that I barely returned. "I've missed you, Hon!" she exclaimed. "Where have you been hiding?"

"I didn't miss you," I deadpanned. Debra gave me a hurt, confused look. I let the dead silence stretch out before saying anything else. I was far beyond pissed.

"Did Yargarin get you dialed in OK?" I asked with all the false earnest concern I could muster. Debra looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language, though her eyes darted guiltily away from mine at the mention of Yargarin's name. I lifted my hands up to the level of her tits, and without touching her I rotated both my hands at the wrists as if I were haphazardly turning dual knobs on a radio.

"Did he get you dialed in OK?" I repeated. "You don't remember? Your driveway? His Camaro? The two of you sucking tongues? Yargarin feeling up your tits and you fixing up your blouse before going inside?" I repeated the dial-in gesture for emphasis. Debra looked at me in shock, her face flushing. I ruffled through my backpack and pulled out the sheaf of Bio notes, then shoved them at her. "These are for you. I was going to surprise you with then last Tuesday, but I didn't want to interrupt Yargarin from nailing your frequency." I slammed my locker shut and turned away to head to my next class.

"Tommy, wait!" I kept walking as Debra followed alongside me. "Don't be this way! Bill is a nice guy! Just because I see him sometimes doesn't mean that you're not my boyfriend anymore. Bill's a senior, so he'll be away at college next year and we can go back to being steadies." I became angrier with every word she said.

"So for now I get to share you with Yargarin, but after he's gone to college we just pick up where we left off, is that it?"

"Why are you being like this?" she said as if shunting me to the side for Mr. Camaro should be perfectly acceptable to me. "You're still my main guy! You'll always come first. You know that, right?" She was overselling it. I played a hunch.

"As long as I'm your main guy," I said casually and with a submissive smile, as if I was buying her bullshit and was happy to still be in the rotation. "Then how about we go to a movie this Saturday, like we used to?"

Debra bit her lower lip and looked away from me. "I'm sorry, I can't. I already have a date with Bill this Saturday."

I did my best to sound understanding. "Oh, then I guess this Saturday won't work," I said like I was on-board with my new status. "Maybe next Saturday then?"

"Tommy, that's Senior Prom, and..." she said quietly, her voice trailing off as she broke eye contact and looked at her shoes.

"No problem, Deb. The important thing is, I'm still your main guy, right?" Debra started to sputter something about prom being special, but I had stopped buying her bullshit way back at Bill is a nice guy.

"Leave me alone, Debra. Do me a huge favor and don't talk to me ever again," I spat at her venomously before heading down the hall.

As I stormed away a memory flash of Bonnie came unbidden. Just as with Bonnie, there was another guy I was supposed to share my girlfriend with, and it wasn't supposed to be a big deal. It felt like a big deal to me. I wanted to challenge Yargarin, but he would just knock the crap out of me, and I sure as hell wasn't going to hit Debra. So again I swallowed my anger and the internal feeling of humiliation that ate at my gut. I didn't like the taste of it going down. The nagging thought resurfaced that if I hadn't tried to surprise Debra with the notes, I would have been blissfully clueless and everything would have been fine. In more lucid moments, I realized that eventually the truth would have come out. That I caught a break catching them flitted at the outer edge of my consciousness, the concept never fully forming as I pushed it away and nursed my anger.

The breakup of a "couple" set of a seismic tremor in the tenth grade ecosystem. The girls flocked to Debra's side, firm in their conviction that I was being a jealous, immature ass. The boys generally flocked to my side, equally firm in their conviction that Debra did me wrong by messing with Yargarin behind my back. The tremors subsided within a few weeks, as those always things do.

It took me much longer to settle down. Getting replaced by the older, flashier guy is a male rite of passage. Being replaced behind your back also is a rite, but still a bridge too far in my idealistic young life, because I still thought that breakups should be done in the open, not in the shadows. I was angry. I stayed angry and lashed out. I blocked Debra on my phone and on the social media we shared. Merely seeing Debra pissed me off, so I avoided being around her. Wherever she was, I did what I could to be somewhere else. If we had a class together, I sat as far away as I could. A few times she tried to corner me by suddenly appearing at my table at lunch and sitting down. I would immediately gather my stuff and move to another table without saying a word. I didn't have many close friends, but the few I had stuck by me. There were even of few girls who sided with me, having been on my end of that same stick. Debra became persona non grata for them, too.

Through the grapevine I learned that Debra was an emotional mess over being tagged as a cheater. Friends of friends of her friends let on that Debra thought that I'd go along with being sidelined if she made it up to me by doling out to me some of the same goodies she gave Yargarin in the Camaro. That pissed me off even more. The one time I had tried to feel her up in a make-out session she slapped my hand away and told me to go home. Apparently now she'd let me grope her if I caved in. That was my first taste of having sex deployed as a bargaining chip. It tasted like shit. Fuck her if she thought I was that easy to manipulate. The same grapevine suggested that Debra wasn't going to give up Yargarin for me, but she planned to date me just enough to keep me stringing me along until the next Yargarin came along. I didn't care which version was true. The answer was the same: eat shit and die.

Some weeks later one of Debra's closest friends, Kaitlin, managed to corner me in a hallway near a Math class that we had together.

"Why are you being such an asshole to Deb?" Kaitlin barked at me.

"Who?" I asked, as if I had no idea who "Deb" was.

"Cut the crap, Tom. You know who I'm talking about! Why won't you at least talk to her?"

Instead of answering, I lifted my hands up to the level of Kaitlin's tits, and just as I had with Debra, and without touching, I rotated both my hands at the wrists.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Or are you just being disgusting?"

"I don't date sluts. Goes double for cheating sluts," I said coldly, and headed to my next class. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kaitlin in an animated convo with Debra and the rest of their clique. Kaitlin was mimicking my hand gestures to a horrified Debra. I barely made it to the end of the hallway when I heard several someones running down the hall from behind me, approaching fast. Debra blew by me in tears, with Kaitlin and a few others in pursuit. They hit the door to the girls' restroom like they were taking San Juan Hill. I laughed to myself that I had found Deb's frequency. She could hear me loud and clear now.

I never heard what happened in that restroom, but I can tell you that Debra and her friends steered clear of me for the rest of the year. Was I a jackass, maybe even a vindictive asshole? No maybe about it. I didn't care. There was something disturbingly satisfying about payback. Deep down I felt bad about hurting Debra, but what worried me is that I knew I didn't feel bad enough. My conscience was warning me that something dark inside of me was leaking out. I should have listened. Instead, I nursed it. I nursed it with anger and stupid fantasies of getting revenge. I nursed it until the anger burned away any affection I had left, leaving only idiotic fantasies about getting revenge on Yargarin. Eventually I let it all go and moved on.

I later heard through the grapevine that Yargarin dropped Debra right after prom. Word was that Yargarin nailed Debra at an after-party, and he broomed her the next day in favor of Tracey Wilkes, a senior, who attached herself to Yargarin like a lamprey. I felt a sense of satisfaction over Debra's shame of being used and then chucked aside, but that was nowhere near the giddiness brought by the rumor that Debra had a major pregnancy scare about three weeks after prom, and that her parents raised hell when they found a used home pregnancy test wand that Deb unsuccessfully tried to hide in the trash. Not quite as good as if she really had gotten knocked up, but close enough.

Several weeks after that Debra reached out to see if we could start over. I turned her down cold. "Sorry Deb, but like the crew of the Starship Enterprise, I want to go where no man has gone before." She got all weepy when she figured out my meaning, and dashed away. She didn't say another word to me ever, which suited me fine.

I also decided that I needed to upgrade my market value. It's a cold truth: a good GPA will get you a condescending pat on the head and a rep as a nerd, but being a hot jock gets you dates with the hot girls. So I started working out and learning to play football. If you can't beat'em, right?

~~~@~~~@~~~

I spent the rest of tenth grade and all of eleventh grade without a steady girlfriend. Like many of my friends, I had dates, but the dating pool in high school is limited, and the politics of who can date who get indescribably weird in the cloistered high school setting. That changed my senior year. I was on the varsity football squad at an away game at our home-town rival's school. I really was a mediocre player for the squad, and there was no way I'd be playing in college. Still, it was fun to at least be on the team, and once in a while get to play a few downs in an actual game. Plus, my dating pool expanded to include girls who didn't give the standard issue, pimply-faced drones a second glance. There was a lesson buried in there about how girls went for flash over substance, but it didn't register. Even if it had, I doubt it would have dawned on me that guys were just as bad on that score.

It was at a game that I met Susie, a cheerleader for our home-town rivals, the Stallions. The play was a quick out to the sideline for a catch & go. I didn't catch or go. I stretched up for a too-high sideline pass, which ended with me being laid out flat on my back right next to the Stallions' sideline with my wind knocked out. I thought it was a cheap hit on a defenseless player, and good for a new set of downs, but no flag meant I had to suck it up. A pretty girl bent down over me, asking if I was hurt. I have no memory of what I said at first. All that registered in my mind was her longish, wavy, chestnut-red hair falling down across her face as she towered over me, and the sweetest smile within 500 nautical miles.

I think I said I'll be more alright if you give me your phone number! I have no idea where that stupid line came from, but it worked. Right before the coach and the medical people arrived to me to check me out (I was just fine by now), the girl said, "I'm Susie. 555-438-9897. Don't forget! 555-438-9897!" before scurrying back to her cadre of pleated-skirt Stallions cheerleaders. Susie was cute as all heck, and no question getting her number was worth getting knocked flat on my ass.

I gave it a few days before calling. She didn't remember me at first, until I said "Last Friday's game against the Warriors. I was the guy who got laid out by your team's linebacker. You'd recognize me right away if I was flat on my back looking up at you."

"Oh! You! I didn't even get your name. That's why I was confused. How are you?" Her concern sounded sincere.

"Name's Tom. Matthews. I'm fine now, thanks. And you're Susie....?"

"Susie Jackson. Susan, actually, but I hate Susan, and absolutely despise Sooz so just don't!" she said dryly.

We chit-chatted for about ten minutes before I got around to asking her out. I felt confident because why else would she give me her number and tell me not to forget it? She accepted my offer to go a movie, but it had to be Saturday, because she was on cheer squad and had to be at the Friday night game. That worked; I had a bench to warm on Fridays. Then she dropped a mini-turd in my punch bowl.

"Tom, I'm going to be honest with you, and I won't be upset if you decide you don't want to go out with me. The guy who plastered you is Mark LaValliere. He was my boyfriend until I broke up with him about a month ago. He liked to brag about how he hits the other players hard enough to knock them out of the game. I can't prove anything, but I think he tried to hurt you. That's why I ran over to see if you were OK."

That was a sobering bit of information, but what the hell, it was just one date with a rocking cute girl I had no emotional investment in.

"He's not going to show up and beat the crap out of me, is he?" I asked only partly in jest. "I don't want to get in the middle of an ongoing thing." Susie assured me that it was completely over between them, and she was still pissed off at his post-split comments about her to his friends that she wanted to rub his nose in the fact she was dating someone else. Susie also mentioned that he cheated on her by going out with some other guy's steady girlfriend. Apparently Lavalliere asked the other girl out just to see if he could take her away from the other guy. "I think he needs a taste of his own medicine, don't you?" she asked rhetorically.

I chewed on it for about five seconds before telling her it was all good. She was smoking hot, and as long as ex-BF wasn't going to pound my ass, a movie date with a girl like Susie would be worth it, even if I was being gently used to get the ex-BF's goat. Besides, she didn't hide the backstory about LaValliere, as many girls would. I told her that helping her get back at a guy who played dirty worked for me. We arranged to meet at the theater for the 7:45 showing of a grotesquely moronic adventure/romance flick so average that I can't even remember who was in it, and if the cast was lucky, no one else would either.

I got there early, spending my time looking at the movie posters that decorated the theater lobby. Susie arrived late, enough that wondered if I was to be stood up. She dashed in about ten minutes before the show was to start, looking harried, and full of apologies. The story was that she had to use her mom's car, and mom was late getting back from grocery shopping. I was annoyed that she didn't call me to let me know, but I let it slide. She was there now, and it was shaping up to be a first and last date anyway.

Getting my first good look at Susie reminded me why I called her. Her chestnut hair now had medium blonde highlights that almost distracted from her 1,000 watt smile. She had on long sleeves because theaters were reliably too cold, but that didn't hide her ample tits any more than her tight 501s hid a bubble butt that brought tears to the eyes.

We enjoyed the movie by poking vicious fun at it, and enjoyed each other's company more than expected. We ended up going out the following Saturday, and the Saturday after that. After another month we became exclusive by tacit agreement, and I was happy as a lark. After football season ended, basketball season began, and that meant Susie was busy on cheer squad for the Stallions' B-ball games. Susie and I hadn't been able to go out for a couple of weeks, leading me to the light bulb over the head idea to drive out to Lewiston, where the Stallions were matched against the Lewiston Lumberjacks.

Lewiston was a good 90 minute drive that ended up taking two hours, so I missed most of the first half. I found a seat just as the half was ending, close to the Stallions' cheer section. Susie was dropping out of a pyramid formation, sticking her landing. The buzzer signaled the end of the half, Stallions up by 17. As I started to make my way to Susie she bolted from her squad, that 1,000 watt smile amped up to at least 1,500. Too bad that smile wasn't for me. Susie flung herself into the waiting arms of none other than Mark LaValliere. She did a gymnast's leap into him, wrapping her lithe thighs around his hips and hanging on with her arms around his sizable neck before giving him a tonsil massage with her tongue. Apparently our tacit understanding about being exclusive needed to be less tacit. Not that an explicit agreement would have mattered. I'd seen this movie before, with Debra. Hell, I even had the ticket stub and promotional tee-shirt.

I considered confronting her right then, but to what end? So I could be exposed as a fool in front of not just LaValliere, but the whole Stallions cheer squad, their team, and a few hundred complete strangers to boot? Fuck that. I snapped a few pics of Susie and LaValliere chewing on each others lips and headed home. I wanted to put as much physical distance away from Susie as possible. I pulled into my driveway in just over an hour, somehow avoiding a speeding ticket. I literally made myself laugh as I pondered the evening's events. Hey, I told myself, both of us got a surprise out of my surprise! My fucking luck is holding!

I decided to ghost Susie. What was there to say? Let me rephrase: what was there for her to say that wouldn't be bullshit, and what for me to say that wouldn't be mean and hateful? Now, mean and hateful would be fine if it would serve a purpose, such as bringing Susie some grief for taking up again with LaValliere without so much as a mention. But it was now clear that she didn't really give a rat's ass about me anyway, except perhaps as a source of substitute entertainment until she invited LaValliere back in from temporary exile. Venting my anger to her would be like pissing into a 50 mph headwind. I'd be the only one colored yellow.

After a few days of me not calling and not responding to her calls and texts, she blew up my phone. Mostly it was some variation of Why haven't you called? or Are you mad at me? It was time to end my petulant silence. I sent her the three best pics of her and swallowing each other's tongues, followed by a text: Why would I be mad at you?

She machine-gun called me; I didn't answer. Then an unexpected text: How did u get those? Interesting. She thought someone ratted her out. That made sense; I'd want to know who it was, too. After all, what's the world coming to when lying cheating bitches can't trust each other? That way leads to chaos!

I took them

WHAT??? U following me???

Wanted to surprise you. Meant to be the good kind. Surprise was on clueless me

It's not what looks like

Looks to me like you and guy you weren't seeing anymore sucking tongues. What look like to you?

Please let explain 2 U please. Love you but still feelings for Mark. Need time to work it out!

Thx for explain. Take all time you need. Blocking you. Leave me alone adios sayonara adieu buh-bye

I never heard from Susie again. That was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it meant I didn't have to spend more time telling her to fuck off. On the other hand, I was deprived of an opportunity to inflict some payback. God, I wanted payback. Getting the shit end of the stick was really getting old. Instead I settled for word-of-mouth reports that Susie split from LaValliere for good after learning that he banged several of her fellow cheerleaders, and even scored with a married woman he met at a club he snuck into with a fake ID. I hoped the married woman's husband settled up with him--and with her. Why should she skate, right?

My time with Susie pretty much wrapped up my senior year in high school. I dated a bit, but like I said, slim pickings in the cloistered environs of a high school. I dated Tiffany Sommers for a while. Tiff was a chirpy blonde who enjoyed an occasional bit of frisky. We went to Senior Prom together, and ended up doing "everything but" The Deed at an after-party held a friend's family's lake house. We drifted apart after prom. I exited high school with my cherry intact.

~~~@~~~@~~~

I didn't really have a plan for after high school. My parents wanted me to go to college, because of course they did. This is where I'm going to be brutally honest. I wasn't college material. My grades were better than decent, and I could have attended college and done well. But as graduation approached it gelled in my head that I didn't want a "regular" job like I could get after a nondescript college degree in business or whatever, and I sure a hell didn't want to put in more school time to be a "professional," like a lawyer. So I had a very painful talk with my parents, who were not the least bit on-board with my decision to join the Marine Corps. It was my Uncle Barry, who served eight years in the Corps after high school, who brokered the peace.

Let's just say that boot was "challenging." I ate it up. I went in 6 feet and 180 pounds, and I left 6-feet and 190 pounds, with nary an ounce of fat. My whole family came for graduation. They attended Family Day, and were suitably impressed with the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor Ceremony. On the parade deck after dismissal, Dad and Uncle Barry looked at me with a pride I never saw before. Even Mom's eyes gleamed a bit in admiration. I think I was truly proud of myself for the first time ever. The lore of the Corps and dedication to its ideals pulled my head out of my ass on so many levels. It wasn't just the way I did things, it was the way I thought about doing things. Even minor details mattered. I was laser focused, and my bullshit tolerance level went to zero. I had my shit wired tight.

My first assignment was to a rifle battalion, MOS 0311. I promoted to PFC right on schedule at six months Time-in-Grade. Then my unit was sent to a delightfully warm and faraway place, which caused Mom to have a near freak-out. I understood; she was afraid for her baby boy. Hard to blame her, really. I came back in one piece physically, but some of what I experienced left a mark. I lost comrades, and a few close friends. That made me sharper, more focused. It paid off. What with the military's steady difficulties in meeting recruiting goals, even in the Corps, and my solid service record, I promoted to Lance Corporal at minimum Time-in-Service and Time-in-Grade. After another rotation to that delightful part of the world, I promoted to Corporal right at minimum TIS & TIG. Then back to the good old USA for some specialized training for MOS 0321 at the Advanced Infantry Training Battalion at Camp Pendleton, and later some cross-training at Quantico. Big Q. Crossroads of the Marine Corps. Jarhead Central.

I met Elise Harrison while I was at Camp P. Elise was a junior at San Diego State, out bar-hopping with a gaggle of her coed friends. My own gaggle decided to venture away from the usual spots that military hung out in the endless quest for poon. Elise & Co. had the same idea, seeking to avoid college boys and military looking to slice off a piece and disappear. We hit it off, and got together when we could. It wasn't a serious love affair at first. Elise knew that I could be assigned away from Pendleton on short notice, and I had no delusions that I was the only guy she was seeing, much less that she wouldn't move on after I relocated to wherever I was deployed next. Still, she fucked like a runaway freight train. Hell, she gushed like a fountain when she got a tongue-lashing, and gave as good as she got. She got a lot.

Despite my prediction that we'd eventually burn out, after four months we agreed to go exclusive, even with the specter of my shipping out on short notice hanging over us. I still had the better part of three years left on my active duty commitment, and then there would be four years of reserve service obligation, so I assumed that would be the deal-breaker for her after she graduated. Elise was unfazed when I laid it all out, including what exclusive meant. This time I made sure the terms of our relationship were explicit. No more tacit agreements.

"Works for me," she said with an easy smile. "If I can get over that god-awful haircut, I can get over following you around after I graduate." She wasn't happy with the idea of being separated during future deployments though. We spent most of the night talking it out. In the end, the hopefulness of young love won the day. "I'll buy a new vibe and name it Tom Junior for when you're away," she said with a sly wink. "Just think of the fun we'll have every time you come back to me! Reunion sex is the best!" she declared before fucking me into blissful oblivion.

The good times lasted for another month, and then I was detailed back to Quantico for twelve weeks of specialized training with Navy personnel on combined ops. Elise and I were relegated to phone calls and Face Time. FYI, phone sex absolutely was a distant second to the real McCoy. Increasingly she related news of her friends' engagements and June weddings. She ended every call with some variation of God, I miss you, baby! A made a decision. It was time for a face-to-face with Elise to nail down her post-grad plans. Our post-grad plans. There was a downtime weekend in the training cycle, and I rated a 72. Three days liberty would be just enough. I managed to snag a flight to SD with a return in 48 hours. Make a plan, Execute the plan.

I landed in San Diego early on Friday evening. I repeatedly tried to reach Elise on her cell, but it always went to voicemail. Probably out with friends at a concert or at a loud party, which I knew she liked to do to wrap up a week. After grabbing dinner at a campus sandwich shop I made my way to her apartment. I could have waited until the next day, but with only 72 hours liberty and a lot to say and get squared away, I didn't want to waste any time. Plus, reunion sex beckoned.

As I entered the building's first floor commons area I happened to run into Carla, one of Elise's two roommates. The red flags went up as soon as she recognized me. First there was the natural look of surprise; after all, Carla had zero reason to expect to see me there. But surprise was followed seamlessly by barely suppressed panic-eyes, followed by a clumsy attempt to cover her anxiety. Klaxons blared in my head. I physically felt in my gut the impending doom of another unhappy ending to a surprise visit. You didn't have to be a code-breaker to see the pattern.

"Tom! What a surprise to see you here!" Carla gushed as she rocked nervously from her left foot to her right, and back again. She gave me an awkward hug. I could literally feel the tension vibrating in her.

"No doubt!" I said with false ease. "I got some liberty and decided to use it to surprise Elise." Even the least aware person on the planet could see that Carla's mind was racing.

"I've been trying to call her, but she's not answering," I explained off-handedly. I kept my manner relaxed. Carla furiously dug her phone out of her jeans pocket, almost fumbling it out of her grasp. More klaxons.

"Hold on--let me try to get her!" Carla couldn't reach her either, despite at least three panicked back-to-back attempts. There could only be one thing she was trying to keep hidden.

"Well, at least you're here," I remarked. "If you can let me into your place, I can wait there until Elise gets back from wherever she is." Carla moved into high-panic mode.

"Ummm, I have a better idea, Tom. Why don't we go to the deli across the street and chill for awhile until Elise shows up? You can tell me over a cuppa what you've been up to at that 'Kwonco' place." She reached out her hand, beckoning me with her fingers to take it and follow her out outside. The klaxons were sounding collision. I wondered who Elise's side-piece was. I hoped with all my heart it wasn't another Marine.

"Thanks, but I'm beat from the flight, and you were obviously headed out. I'll just go upstairs to wait for Elise. Maybe your other roomie, what's her name, Patty? If she's there maybe she can keep me company until Elise turns up."

I turned to head for the stairs to Elise's apartment. Carla didn't follow right away, but instead feverishly made another call before turning away and covering her mouth with her hand while speaking. She shoved her phone back into her pocket and was right on my heels all the way up the stairs and down the hallway.

"Tom, hold up, please!" she pleaded with me all the way to the door. Fat chance. This was one lying female spraying bullshit with a fire hose to cover another lying cheating female. Was there any other kind?

I knocked firmly, three times, then stopped to listen. I heard muted voices. One sounded like Elise, the other was distinctly male. I looked over my shoulder to see Carla pounding away at her phone. Elise opened the door slightly, clad only in bra and panties. The panties hung askew exposing most of one ass-cheek. Elise just stared at me, thunderstruck.

"Oh FUCK! Tom! What are... why... what are you doing here???" Behind her some guy finished pulling a polo shirt over his head and walked up behind Elise. He opened the door a bit to allow himself to stand next to her, and extended his hand to me.

"Hi, Tom. I'm Eddie. Elise has told me all about her older brother in the Marines. Glad to meet ya! You look just like your pictures," he remarked as he pointed to a framed photo of Elise and me that was sitting on Elise's desk.

I didn't take Eddie's hand. I didn't utter a single fucking word. Not even a grunt. Instead I looked at Elise with raw contempt, ignoring Eddie entirely. He withdrew his hand before speaking again.

"Ah, look, Tom. Crap, this is embarrassing! I didn't want to meet you like this." he said with an uneasy, forced laugh. A deafening silence followed. Eddie broke it, as nervous people do. "Look, I know you're her brother and all that, but we're all adults, right? I've been seeing Elise for a while, so this isn't like a casual hook-up. It's nothing like that." Elise's eyes scrunched tightly together as she swore under her breath.

"Eddie, shut the fuck up," she said sotto voce.

"Eddie, is it?" I said calmly. He nodded, confused, but wary. "Well, Eddie, Elise isn't my sister."

His eyes went wide when the realization hit. "WHAT THE FUCK, Elise!" He backed away from the door, retreating into the room. Mostly away from me.

"Hey, man, I had no idea! She told me that you were her brother. They all did," Eddie said in a rush as he pointed at Carla. "Honest to god, I didn't know that you and Elise... I mean, that you and Elise were... oh, FUCK!" He raised his hands, palms open, like he was surrendering. "I don't want any trouble, OK?"

"You won't get any trouble from me. I dodged a bullet. Maybe you did, too. Now we both know she's not to be trusted."

Eddie started to move around Elise so he could leave, then stopped, as if seeking confirmation that I wasn't going to pound his ass when he walked by me. I smiled faintly before stepping away from the door to let him by. "Don't worry about me, Eddie. You and me, we're totally OK. I'll be on my way in a minute, and then you two can carry on however you want."

Eddie glared at Elise. "Nah, I'm outta here!" he huffed as he went by me. "Don't ever call me!" he spat at Elise over his shoulder as he headed down the hall, carrying his shoes in his hands. "Lying bitches!" he muttered to himself. No shit, I said myself. Skeevy lying cheating traitor slut bitches.

Elise let me have it as Eddie disappeared down the stairs. She didn't even bother to cover herself up while she berated me.

"What the fuck are you doing, just showing up like this? You ruined everything!"

"What I was doing was coming to talk to you about getting us married, though to be honest, I'm having second thoughts now," I said with dripping sarcasm. "So, just out of raw curiosity, how long have you been banging that guy, and is he the only one?"

"Screw you, Tom! Get real! You don't own me! Besides, I'm not going to go without for weeks on end while you're off in fucking Virginia doing God knows what with God knows who! Don't tell me you haven't been getting some when you're off duty!"

"What I've been doing in Virginia is training my ass off, and when I was off-duty I was either healing up or talking with you. But you're right, I don't own you. Still, we agreed to be exclusive, and I've kept my word on that. Hundred-ten per cent. I told you when we agreed to go exclusive that I don't share and I wouldn't forgive, so I'm not going to eat the shit sandwich you're serving up."

"This is exactly what Professor Iverson talks about! Men feel like they have to control women, so they repress women's natural passions. You alpha types find out that another man can satisfy our needs and your pride gets all hurt. Well I won't be subjugated! Fuck your pride! Got that?!" It was like she was a total stranger. The flirty, loving girl I flew across a continent to ask to marry me was nowhere in sight. She had been replaced by a caricature of a feminazi.

"Five by five. Me and my foolish pride are completely done with you. Let those natural passions run wild. Fuck whoever you want. Pull a train for all I care. I'm out."

"Jesus! You are so textbook with the macho-controlling crap. If you look at this the right way, you'd see that it would work out. For both of us! Let me take care of my needs while you're away, and I'll be good with you doing the same. After I graduate we can make a new arrangement. Back to exclusive, if you want. It's a win-win, see?"

"What I see is that you're delusional. Maybe fucking psychopathic, or whatever you psych majors call it. Shit, I really did dodge a bullet. Make that another bullet." It didn't register until I replayed it all in my head later that night that I laughed when I said it.

Just as I turned to leave, two uniformed SDPD officers quick-walked down the hall toward us.

"We got a 9-1-1 call about a disturbance" the male officer said to no one in particular. Both officers focused their attention on me. Of course they focused on me. A 9-1-1 call, a military-looking man who was too old to be a student, and two very upset young women. Who wouldn't make the same assumptions?

"The disturbance is all over, officers. No one's been assaulted, or even touched. No threats have been made. The lady and I," I explained as I nodded at Elise, "decided to end our personal relationship, and I was about to leave. Very peaceably, and for good. Would you like my ID for your report?"

The officers conferred briefly between themselves. The male officer got everyone's ID, while the female officer spoke individually to Elise and to Carla, who both confirmed that there hadn't been any violence or threats. Carla explained--honestly, thank God--that she called 9-1-1 because she didn't know for sure how I'd react when I discovered Elise and Eddie together. I accepted the officers' kind "offer" to escort me out of the building, and wished them a safe tour.

That same night I reticketed to get my ass back to Quantico first flight out the next morning. The flight gave me plenty of time to think. Did the relationship-ending curse of surprise visiting my girlfriends strike again, or was the curse actually a blessing in disguise? Had I not made a snap decision to fly to SD to propose, I might have ended up marrying Elise. I had no doubt she would have been the base bicycle while I was deployed. Probably while I was between deployments, too. I embraced the suck and put this one in the "Ugly Wins" column, though I wondered if Karma was paying me out for past sins or was instead doing me a solid for past good deeds. Whatever the reason for Karma's most recent visit, I felt unfairly treated.

I blocked Elise on my phone, but that was a stop-gap. She couldn't call me, but her friends mounted a campaign to get me to relent and at least talk to her. A drinking buddy referred to them as Elise's "flying monkeys," a term I hadn't heard before. His colorful explanation made my ditch-crawling drunk ass laugh so hard I pissed myself. I blocked them all, monkey by monkey, number by number, until they gave up.

About a month after that Elise sent me a letter so thick it needed eight stamps. I sent it back, unopened. I was going to just toss it, but a squad-mate suggested that Elise might think it got lost and never received it, and keep trying. Another month passed and I got a call from Mom. Apparently Elise tracked her down somehow and convinced Mom to entreaty me to give Elise a chance to explain. Of course Elise had sugar coated to my mother what happened. Mom was aghast when I painted the rest of the picture. Even so, Mom talked me into at least giving Elise a call, for what she called "closure." I relented, for my mother's sake only.

I called Elise that night. She picked up on the first ring. I let her spray her endless explanations and apologies without interruption. She finally ran out of steam, and asked--no, begged--for a second chance. That was puzzling. Why ask for a second chance with someone you didn't really care about enough to stay faithful for even a measly few months? I assumed that someone smart like her studying for a fancy psychology degree could explain it, but it would have been wasted on me. People do what they do for their own reasons. Whatever Elise's reasons, it wouldn't be enough to justify to me what she did. Besides, I'd never respect myself if I took her back, and if you don't respect yourself, you can't expect anyone else to.

I let Elise burn herself out before responding. Looking back on it, what I said sounds corny, even to me. No, it WAS corny. Still, when I said it back then I meant every word.

"Elise, do you know what the Marine Corps motto is?"

"Ah, no. Should I? I mean, what does that have to do with anything?" I remained silent. "Okay, Anchors something?" she asked. "No, wait, that's the Navy. It's something-Fi."

"Semper Fi, Elise. 'Semper' in Latin means 'always,' and 'Fi' is short for fidelis, which in Latin means faithful or loyal. Semper Fi means Always Faithful. It's something that I believe in. It's not part of me, Elise, it is me. Faithful to my country, to my fellow Marines, to my family, and to my woman. Do you really think I could share my life with someone who didn't believe that? Not just believe it, but live it? You couldn't stay faithful for a lousy three months! Did you even make it a week with me gone before you screwed that guy, and god knows how many others?. You didn't just disrespect me, Elise, you pissed all over me. That was unacceptable. Always will be. Own what you did, and own the consequences."

There was sniffling. "You're not being fair!"

"Fair has nothing to do with it. It's about respect. My self respect. Your lack of respect for me. But if you want to talk about what's fair, it wouldn't be fair for me to always wonder who you were fucking behind my back, or whether my kids were mine. I will not live like that. I just won't."

"I've learned my lesson, Tom. Really. I'd never do it again. I promise! I was just so lonely with you gone, and I really fucked up. Professor Iverson got in my head, too. All my yelling at you that night was me trying to blame someone else. Please give me another chance. Please, Baby. We're so good together. We still can be."

"Sorry-not-sorry, I can't trust you. Good luck, Elise. I hope things work out for you. Goodbye." I hung up, and that was the last I heard from Elise Harrison for a very long time. I called my Mom to tell her Elise and I got our "closure."

Looking back at it, I took the whole Code of Honor thing a bit too far. Like I said, I had fully embraced the entire ethos of the Corps, not just the real one, but the Hollywood version, too. Overdone or not, it steered me away from the train wreck that would have been me and Elise, so there's that. I decided that Fate or Karma had smiled on me after all.

~~~@~~~@~~~

I stayed in the Corps for two more enlistments. I dated between deployments, but nothing serious. Quality women who were willing to glom onto a boyfriend who would be away for months on end and who might never come home were few and far between. To be brutally honest once again, I'm not very proud of myself so far as my post-Elise dating habits went. Frankly, I stopped looking for a "relationship" and went for the simple pleasures of getting laid. I played by the rules as taught by my exes. If I sensed that the girl wanted hearts and flowers, she got it. If she wanted a big night out before she put out, she got it, within reason. If she wanted to hear it was true love brewing, she heard it. Sometimes it blew up when she found out it was bullshit, but fuck her if she can't take a joke. My only rules were no married, and no bareback. I missed going bare, but I was NOT going to get trapped into raising somebody else's brat or rely on assurances that it was "safe." I rolled that way for a few years, and like I said, I'm not proud of what I was did. Eventually my true nature won out. I wanted a committed relationship. The trick was finding a woman who wouldn't stab me in the back, and my Mom was spoken for.

I left the Corps just after my 30th birthday, as a Gunnery Sergeant. No question, I was way early on the TIS & TIG curves, but as do people, the military does what it does for its own reasons, and I wasn't going to turn down that second rocker or the E-7 pay that came with it. But I decided to get out one drunken night out with my platoon and a squad of Navy, after an unusually nasty firefight that nearly turned completely to shit. I was sitting across the table from a Senior Chief named Rathburn, who was nursing his eighth or ninth draft. Rathburn finally looked up at me with bleary eyes and simply said, "Lost two today on the ex-fil. Would have been more if it wasn't for the overwatch rifles. Fuck this, I'm done," he said with the conviction of a man who had made a final decision.

I looked at Rathburn over the rim of what I think was my seventh draft. "We were fortunate, I guess. Only one wounded, thank God. One of our spotters. Fuckers got lucky with a mortar before the team could relocate. He'll patch up OK."

"That was you covering our ex-fil?"

I just nodded. Rathburn and I spent the next hour talking about our families. He was an Arkansas native, hailing from Greenbrier, a small town near Conway, about 30 minutes' drive north of Little Rock. By the time we left, I decided Rathburn was right. Fuck this. Time to move on.

Leaving the active duty Corps was bittersweet. There was a lot I would miss, but I wanted what my parents had; a decent house in the burbs, a job that kept me engaged and provided for my family, and a spouse who truly loved me and kept a happy home for us. The job part came easily. A friend of a friend pointed me to MaxStaff, an outfit coincidentally based in Little Rock that provided businesses manager prospects and management support to middle-sized corporations. We were half headhunters and half consultants. The founders were ex-military, and they liked to hire that way. I fit in and prospered. The house in the burbs worked out, too. After years of living on base housing, I wanted my own place. I found a fixer-upper in an established neighborhood and made it mine, one room at a time. I only hired-out what I absolutely couldn't do myself. It was MY home in every sense of the word.

The dating part was less successful. Lots of fun, but no one who really clicked. Then one day sitting at our local airport in Little Rock waiting to fly out on business, I saw this demure flight attendant sitting by herself in the food court, looking bored. She wasn't a knockout; if anything the best description would be cute in a girl-next-door way. About 5-foot-6, dirty blonde hair to her shoulders, and welcoming eyes. For some reason, I couldn't take my own eyes off her. I sure am glad I never in my life took a chance on a woman, said no man on his deathbed ever.

I walked up to her table, but stood at a respectful, safe distance. "Hi. My name's Tom." She looked at me nervously. "I don't want to upset you," I offered softly. "I saw you sitting here, and I said to myself that if I didn't throw caution to the wind and introduce myself, I'd regret it forever."

The lady more studied me than looked at me. She was nervous, darting her eyes around as if looking for some hidden danger approaching while I distracted her. Hard to blame her for that.

"Seriously, I don't want to upset you. I apologize for bothering you. I'll be on my way."

She finally spoke as I turned to leave. "No, it's OK. Don't go! My name is Betsy." We silently appraised each other. "Care to sit down?" she asked as she gestured to the seat across from her. I'd broken the ice, and now I was foundering.

"So you just walk up to a total stranger and introduce yourself. That's an interesting technique. Does it work often?"

"Yep. One-hundred per cent of the time. I'm one-for-one with it."

She half-giggled. "Clever. Well, Tom, what made you choose me for your first try? I think I'm decent enough looking, but--" she said before taking a sip of her drink and gesturing with a sweeping arm at everyone in the food court, "we both know I'm not the pageant winner here."

"Would you like an absolutely truthful answer?" I asked with my best disarming smile.

"Oh, you're going to dangle honesty! You are pulling out all the stops! Yes, I'd like a truthful answer. Just for the novelty of it."

"Alrighty. I just happened to notice you sitting here, and something about you grabbed me. I knew that if I didn't come over and introduce myself, it would nag at me for weeks, possibly months. Maybe for my whole life."

Betsy took another sip of her drink. "I can't decide whether that's creepy or sweet."

"Hey, like I said, I didn't mean to upset you." I started to stand. "It was nice to meet you, Betsy."

"Where are you going?" she asked, as if she was surprised that I was abandoning the encounter. "If I let you walk off now I'll be the one ticked off at myself. Maybe for my whole life." She gave me a coy smile. I settled back into the seat.

For the next ten minutes we traded basic information. We both lived in the Little Rock area. She was single, but dating sparingly following a nasty break-up. I gave her the dust-cover jacket version of me. The conversation took a weird turn when she asked for my full name, address, and date of birth.

"I'm interested, but I'm going to check you out before I agree to see you," she explained. "There are so many creeps and a-holes out there, and after my last breakup I'm being careful. Sorry, but I'm going to protect myself."

"No problem, I get it." Betsy didn't want to give me her cell number so I could text, so I wrote my info on a napkin.

Betsy glanced at her phone. "I have to get to my flight to report in. Can't be late. If you check out I'll call you, and maybe we can have a few drinks with friends for a test date." She slipped out of her seat, offering her hand as she stood. "Nice to meet you, Tom Matthews. I gotta fly!" she smirked, emphasizing her pun. She turned and hustled down the terminal, roller-bag in tow, giving me a wave as she turned the corner.

I didn't hear from Betsy for a few weeks. I had almost put her out of my mind when my cell's ringtone signaled a call from a number not in my contacts.

"I bet you gave up on me," said a woman. "It's Betsy. Remember me? The flight attendant in Little Rock?"

"Of course I remember you. You're right though, I had given up on you. Does this call mean I checked out?"

"It does! Interested in meeting for a double-date with a co-worker of mine and her guy friend? Nothing fancy, just a friendly get-to-know-you drinks and dinner, if that's okay."

I was good with that. We met at Ciao Basi, a popular casual Italian restaurant. I arrived on-time, but Betsy and the other couple were already seated and had their drinks. The three of them arriving early had to be intentional. Damn, she WAS cautious.

Her friend, Janine, was another FA with Betsy's airline. Janine's date, Dirk, a passably nice guy, was in commercial construction as a site foreman. I got the feeling that Dirk was much more interested in Janine that she was in him. We enjoyed a good dinner, then went to a place called Beers & Billiards that featured classic pub games like shuffleboard, darts, and billiards, and offered just about every arcade game imaginable. It was a great icebreaker date, but it didn't offer many opportunities for Betsy and me to be alone to get to know each other.

We swapped off partners for most of the games. Me and Dirk. Me and Janine. Me and Betsy. During a shuffleboard match with Janine as my partner that I learned why Betsy wanted a chaperon. According to Janine, Betsy's last boyfriend was "a control freak," who believed that Betsy "belonged" to him. Then he tried to run her life, and it devolved down to stalking her, some physical threats and abuse, and Betsy getting a protective order. That filled in some blanks about Betsy's cautious approach.

"You must have made quite an impression," Janine mused. "After the last guy, she swore to me that she was going to take a vay-cay from dating. That was only two months ago. And now here you are." Yes, here I was. Wherever here was.

"I just took a crazy chance. A lark I think my Old Man called it. Now I'm here with a pretty girl. Well, two pretty girls. And turns out I like her."

"Which one?" Janine gave me a shit-eating grin. I was being teased by a pro. Or perhaps I was being tested.

"Nice try. I was referring to Betsy. Not that you aren't scrumptious, too." Janine raised her eyebrows at that and gave me winning smile. "But I'm a one-girl-at-a-time guy, so scrumptious as you are...." I smiled and shrugged my shoulders.

"Good answer." Janine took a long pull from her beer, clearly evaluating me. I think I passed the test, if it was a test.

"Is Betsy a one-guy-at-a-time girl?" I took a long pull from mine.

"That's a discussion you should have with Betsy, don't you think?" she taunted smugly. Janine set down her beer, sized up the board and let her puck fly. She neatly knocked Betsy's and Dirk's pucks off the table, leaving only our own. Betsy and Dirk groaned. "Never mess with a cold-hearted bitch," Janine crowed as she advanced our score counter, fist pumping in the air as she did the "Woo-Woo-Woo" cheer.

We all kept on until past midnight, when the girls called it a night on account of the next day's late-afternoon flight duty and a 12-hour no alcohol restriction. I escorted Betsy to her car. Of course I wondered if there'd be a second date.

"This was fun," Betsy allowed pleasantly as we reached her car.

"Fun enough to do again sometime?" I asked casually.

"Yeah, I think so," she answered with a pleased smile. "If you don't mind another double-date." She was watching my reaction while trying too hard to not look like she was doing exactly that. "I'm still skittish about jumping back into dating. I want to take it slow. Sorry, that's how it has to be."

"I'm fine with slow. Just shoot straight with me, OK? Rejection I can handle, but deception is an absolute deal-breaker." Betsy nodded.

"Fair enough." She pulled out her phone and called me. "Now you have my number again, in case you had erased it. Call me?" I nodded. She leaned in to give me the traditional good-night kiss. It was tentative, but not perfunctory. Just enough pressure and duration to telegraph genuine interest. I could live with that.

Betsy slipped into her car and drove off just as Janine and Dirk rounded the corner of the building to head toward his car, which was parked near mine.

"She's gone, eh?" Dirk remarked. "That sucks. Guess you're done for the night." He wrapped an arm around Janine's waist and pulled her to him. I wondered if Janine caught that he was rubbing my nose in Betsy's solo departure.

Janine shot Dirk the fish eye. "And so are we. It's getting late, please take me home," Janine said politely enough that her annoyance didn't leap out. Dirk unlocked the doors with his fob and walked around to the driver's side. Janine stood on her tip-toes to give me a kiss on the cheek that landed a bit too close to the corner of my lips. "Betsy and I like you, Tom," she whispered in my ear. "I bet she says Yes to a second date." Janine hopped into Dirk's car and they drove away.

I replayed the night throughout the drive home. I guessed that Dirk was done for more than just the night. I found that thought satisfying, as if I was in some unspoken competition with Dirk. Then again, what did I know? The day-to-day Janine might be a cast iron bitch. I wanted to feel good about Betsy breaking her self-imposed dating sabbatical by agreeing to go out with me, but again, what did I know? I was naturally curious about transpired with Betsy's ex. If Janine was telling the truth about the cheating and stalking, then Betsy likely took some battle damage. Hell, if they handed out Purple Hearts for relationship wounds, I'd have a few stars adorning my ribbon, too. Hardly an exclusive club. Not that it mattered. I really liked Betsy, so I'd risk getting another star.

I called Betsy the following Tuesday. We played telephone-tag before settling on Saturday. It would be another double-date with Janine and a player to be named. Apparently Betsy and Janine had been in touch, and I was right about Dirk being history. We went to an evening concert in the city park, followed by cocktails and dancing at a downtown nightclub. Janine's date, Xander, seemed about ten years too old for her, but that was her business. Unlike with Dirk, it seemed to me that Janine was more interested in Xander than he was in her. Xander rubbed me the wrong way. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something off about him.

Things with Betsy, on the other hand, seemed great. She was far more relaxed with me than on our first date. She molded to me during the slow dances. No crotch-grinding or overt displays, just closeness. That was fine; it was exciting to let our relationship build on its own schedule. I had a few dances with Janine, yet Xander and Betsy remained at our table instead of joining us on the floor. I assumed that Xander had asked but that Betsy balked. I mentioned it to Janine.

"I'm not sure what Xander's deal is," Janine pondered to me. "He's another FA in Little Rock, but with a different carrier. That's how we met, in a shared crew lounge," she explained. "He's different than he's been all the other times I've been around him. He sure seems taken with Betsy, which is a bit rude, right? It's almost like he thinks she's his date, not me. I don't know what to make of it. Of course, I turn out the winner because I get to dance with the hottest guy here." She gave me a wicked grin and a gimlet eye before letting her head fall into my shoulder for a while before restarting our conversation. "So, how goes Round Two with Betsy?"

"Good for me, I'd say. I really like her, Janine."

"You're not bothered by the double-dates and driving separately?"

"I'll admit it's unusual. But from what little you told me, her last guy put her through a lot. Things that are worthwhile are worth waiting for. I'm good with slow, if that's what it takes to get on solid ground."

"But you wouldn't mind a night of wild monkey sex!" she teased.

"A gentleman would never answer such a question."

Janine suppressed a giggle. "You are so full of shit!" she said before returning her head to the hollow of my shoulder, pressing her body harder into me. It felt good. Too good. I wondered if I was being tested.

We finished the dance and returned to our table. The rest of the night went along an odd trajectory. Betsy seemed markedly cooler to Xander for the rest of the evening. When I got a minute alone with Betsy I asked about it.

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Doesn't seem like nothing. Did he say something to upset you?" Betsy looked conflicted, which only made my anxiety rise. "OK, Betsy, now I'm concerned."

"I'll tell you, but only if you promise me that you will stay calm and not overreact. And you keep it to yourself." I didn't want to agree, but I did, even though don't overreact is generally code for something that deserves an extreme reaction.

"He hinted that he's looking for a three-way."

"What is looking for supposed to mean? He's got some brass if he was inviting my date to a three-way!"

"Real asshole is more like it," Betsy said derisively. "Anyway, I don't think Janine was invited. Or maybe I wasn't invited. YOU were definitely invited."

"What??? My ass!"

Betsy coughed and spat out the beer she was swallowing.

"Yep, I think your ass for sure was on his menu!"

I couldn't help laughing with her. "Not in this lifetime." Almost too late it occurred to me that there was another problem. "You need to tell Janine what Xander said, and right away. Like tonight."

"What? No! Why? It will only ruin her evening if I tell her now."

"And what if after we go our separate ways tonight Janine takes him home, or goes home with him, or whatever? She's your friend, so you decide. The guy is a pig, and a player. If it were me, I'd damn sure want to know before I, you know, did stuff with him."

"Maybe she already knows what he's like."

"And maybe she doesn't. Like I said, she's your friend. Up to you." Betsy nodded reluctantly. I was relieved when she agreed to tell Janine. As I saw it, it was an impromptu character test. Did Betsy have her friend's back, or no? For me, this was big. If Betsy wouldn't protect Janine, she likely wouldn't protect me.

Betsy left to find Janine, who was in the ladies' room. Xander joined me at our shared table and tried to strike up a conversation about our dates. Somehow I was able to hold my tongue about what he hinted at with Betsy. From the shadows I saw the girls headed to the table. Janine had a full head of steam as she weaved through the dance floor toward us like a guided missile, with Betsy losing the battle to keep pace. Janine tore into Xander like a whirlwind.

"You low-life asshole!" she spat at him before picking up a water glass and dousing him with ice-water. "A three-way?" she spat at him. "Take a hike, before I fucking kill you! Bastard!"

Xander gave Betsy an accusing look before pushing back from the table and scurrying away. Betsy put her arm around Janine's shoulders in a consoling hug.

"Fucking men!" Janine griped a bit too loudly. Suddenly everyone within earshot was giving me dirty looks, including Janine and Betsy. That Janine regarded me as The Enemy disappointed, but Betsy's attitude was a wet slap in the face.

"Hey, don't throw me in with that prick," I remonstrated. "I'm the one who---" I was wasting my breath. Janine continued to glare at me, and worse still, Betsy wasn't lifting a finger to defend me. Instead she glared at me harder. Apparently I was now the designated punching bag. Not only did I have to coax Betsy into having Janine's six, Betsy wasn't protecting mine. Fuck this. I'd had enough for one night.

"Janine, Xander treated you horribly. He disrespected all of us. For what it's worth, I think you're better off finding out he's an asshole sooner, rather than later, but I'm just a fucking man, so what do I know? Please see that you each get the other home safely." I pulled five twenties out of my wallet and tossed the bills on the table. "That should cover the tab and tip. Good evening, ladies." I turned my back on them and headed for the door.

No, neither of them tried to stop me. I didn't get a call or a text that night, the next day, or the week that followed. As I saw it, Betsy should have defended me to Janine. She should have reached out to me to apologize for tossing me under the bus. Call me stubborn, but I wasn't going to call her. Yet it gnawed on me that perhaps I wasn't looking at the situation fairly. In my idle time I ruminated over the eternal question, Was I the Asshole?

It bugged me enough that I put that question to friendly co-workers, male and female. I did my best to be an accurate historian, and not skew the story in my favor. I was ticked at Betsy, and at the same time I really liked her. It would be stupid to lose her because I didn't see that I was in the wrong. As it turned out, no one thought I was the asshole. Ben from Customer Accounts thought I dodged a bullet with Betsy. Marco in Recruiting said it was a mistake to get in the middle of it in the first place, but no, I wasn't the asshole. Carly in HR remarked that I deserved what happened because I forgot the inflexible rule that all good deeds will be appropriately punished, but that didn't make me the asshole. Last but not least, Office Manager Gail referred to Xander in terms that even a Marine would regard as overly crude, but the asshole in the story was Betsy. Good enough for me. I would reluctantly put Betsy in the rear view, and move on.

Moving on lasted for another week. Janine called out of the blue on a boring Sunday evening. I almost let it go to voicemail. I should have done. She started with an ass-chewing.

"What is wrong with you? Why haven't you called Betsy? You just walk away and ghost her? She's been a hot mess! I thought you were one of the good ones!"

"Hello to you, too, Janine," I said with obvious sarcasm. "Is there some reason you think I should put up with being interrogated and insulted by a screeching banshee? I'm willing to have a conversation with you, but I won't be abused." There was dead silence for at least 15 seconds. "Well, if that's all, I'll say good night," I said pleasantly.

"No, Tom, wait. I'm sorry. Let me start over. Can I ask why you haven't called Betsy?"

"Sure. Apparently I am a member in good standing of the fucking men club. You remember saying 'fucking men!', right? Never mind that I was really pissed at Xander myself. Never mind that I'm the one who convinced Betsy to tell you about what Xander said, out of my apparently misplaced concern for you. The two of you automatically lump me in with him, and treat me like I'm rat shit. I could understand how you might do that, under the circumstances. But Betsy? I've treated her with nothing but kindness and respect since Day One. I've looked the other way on her over the top dating precautions, because I mistakenly thought she might be worth it. So the moment comes when she should stand up for me, and instead she looks at me with as much disgust as you did. That's why I haven't called her. I'll take the blame when I screw up, but I won't pay someone else's tab. Oh wait, I did pay his tab. And hers. And yours. No regrets though, that was money well spent. Now I know exactly how I rate with both of you." There was another extended silence.

"Hold on! Did you say that you got Betsy to tell me what Xander said about the threesome thing?"

"You got it! Betsy told me first. She didn't want to say anything that night because she didn't want to spoil your evening. I told her that if I were in your place, I'd want to know right away, before I slept with the guy or something. But I left it up to Betsy. She's your friend, and she knows you better than I do. So it was her decision. Course, if she didn't tell you that would make her a shitty friend, don't ya think?"

"She didn't tell me any of that. God, I'm SO sorry. I lumped you in with that creep when you... damn! Tom, it was sweet of you to try to protect me. Betsy's an idiot."

"Apology accepted. As someone recently reminded me, all good deeds are punished. I was due for a reminder, so thanks ever so much for the refresher course," I said in a thinly veiled attempt at humor that barely broke through the sarcasm.

"Oh, stop!" Janine said in a happier voice. "So what about Betsy? Will you call her? She knows she fucked up. She's dying to hear from you."

"That's max negative. If she's dying to hear from me, why hasn't she called me? I haven't called because she supremely crapped on me. Call me bullheaded, or rant about my fragile male ego, or whatever, but I'm not the bad guy here. I won't get pissed on and pretend it didn't happen. If Betsy thinks I'm worth it, ball's in her court."

"I understand. I think she will too, after I talk to her."

"That's one of the biggest problems, you know, you telling her why she fucked up. I'm too old for high school games of sending messages through friends. I'd rather that she figure it out for herself, so that reaching out would be her idea, not yours or mine. Too much to hope for, I guess. Best to cut my losses."

"Don't overthink it, Tom. I doubt she realizes what she did that night. I didn't until you explained it. Betsy and I are good friends, but she can be stubborn as hell. Don't give up on her. Well, thanks for talking with me, and thanks for being my friend, too. And I really appreciate what you did for me about Xander. You are one of the good ones. Damn my luck!" she laughed. "Nite."

My conversation with Janine left me conflicted. I wanted Betsy to call. If she did, I still saw a possible future with her. Apparently Betsy didn't see a future with me. It had been over a week since Janine called, and not a peep. I warred with myself whether break the stalemate. I literally had my cell in my hands when Betsy called. We exchanged bland pleasantries before Betsy got down to it.

"So here's the deal," she segued haltingly. "I wasn't at all fair to you about Xander. I already was pissed at him, and after I told Janine and she got so upset, I got mad at you for convincing me to tell her. I got even angrier when you walked out on us. I wasn't fair to you." She paused to take a breath. "I was a real bitch, OK? Make that a dumb bitch. Then when you didn't call, I spun out. I was being pig-headed by not reaching out to you to apologize, and I read Janine the riot act when she told me about her call with you. It's a good thing I'm such good friends with her, or I'd probably have smacked her! But I'm glad she did. I really, really like you, Tom. Give me another chance?"

"How could I reject an apology like that? I'm game if you are, Betts. I really, really like you, too."

We agreed go out the following Saturday. Betsy wanted to pick the place. "I'm taking you out," she declared. "Well, sort of. Would you mind picking me up?"

"What? You mean ride in the same car together? You sure? It's only our third date."

"You making fun of me?" She was gently chiding, not angry.

"Maybe I am, a little. Sorry. I was trying to have joke with you. I shouldn't have teased. I'm just glad to be seeing you again."

We wrapped up our conversation and I spent a much happier week looking forward to Saturday. Betsy wanted to surprise me. It turned out to be two surprises. The event was a comedy club that featured up-and-coming local talent. The second surprise is that Janine and her date were there, too. Apparently driving together didn't mean that we weren't going to be chaperoned. My patience was wearing thin about the ever-present wing-woman. I'd let it slide, one last time.

It helped that Janine was a blast to have around. She had a quick, razor-sharp wit, and an infectious laugh. Her date was another story. This guy, Richard, was a life-of-the-party sort. Everyone was "Dude," and he thought everything he said was a gem of wit and insight. He had a rejoinder for every comedian's joke, and he tried to jump-start others' laughter by laughing himself at every one of his offerings. It became obvious as the evening wore on that Janine was becoming embarrassed with Richard's showing off. Janine finally whispered something to him that caused him to dial it back. He didn't look happy about it.

Despite Richard, we had a good time. Betsy was back to her old self, and maybe even more relaxed and playful. That lasted until we went for drinks at a nearby sports bar after the show. In exchanging light background information--Richard was a TSA supervisor at Clinton National--Betsy mentioned that I was a Marine before I joined MaxStaff. Richard couldn't resist expounding on his views of the Marines and their weaponry.

"Too bad you guys were still stuck with that sucky M-16!" he announced, with all the certainty of every other armchair warrior lemmings who followed the opinions of other armchair warriors and "experts" who can recite theory like poets but had never had to make a decision when actual lives were at stake.

"Actually, the Corps had mostly switched over to the M4," I correctly gently. "The M16A4 is a very effective weapon. The M4 is even better for close-quarters battles that Marines usually fight."

For a moment Richard looked like he was going to let it go. No such luck.

"Yeah, but the 2-2-3 doesn't have real stopping power," he declared airily. Another expert opinion, minted by articles on the internet and pop-culture dogmas.

"It's a minor point, but the military rifle is chambered in 5-point-5-6 NATO. Higher muzzle velocity than 2-2-3. You wouldn't want to carelessly put a 5-5-6 round in a rifle chambered for 2-2-3. It could make for a bad day. Anyhow, the 5-5-6 gets the job done." I didn't realize my mistake. I had given Richard an opening.

"If you say so. Hey, did you get any kills over there?" he asked, leaning forward. He obviously wanted me to entertain him with stories of another human's pain and death. Janine and Betsy looked at me with renewed interest, though Janine seemed to be sizing me up using a different checklist than Betsy was.

I deflected. "I'm sure the ladies would prefer to talk about something else. I know I would."

I caught something in Janine's eyes right before she leapt to my rescue. I think she saw something that she couldn't decide if she liked or disliked.

"For sure!" she said, raising her Tom Collins. She glanced over at a big-screen TV mounted on the wall, replaying highlights of the day's college football games. "I want to know when Arkansas is going to get its own pro sports team! We got nothing! No NFL, No NBA, no MLB, nuthin!" Bless her, that diverted the combat conversation for the rest of the evening.

Richard's base nature would not be deterred forever. When he found out it was Betsy's and my third date he went into full jerk mode.

"Whoa! The big third date!" He looked at Janine conspiratorially before chucking me on the shoulder. Janine glared at him, but he was oblivious. I just looked away, involuntarily shaking my head.

Betsy's eyes darted around at the three of us. "What? What's going on?"

"Third Date Rule!" Richard chirped. "Everybody knows the third date is when you take each other for a test drive!" snarked Richard, again laughing at his own wit. "Or have you already taken her for a spin?" The asshole even winked at Betsy.

Betsy was appalled. "Jesus, Jan, you sure can pick'em." Betsy was right, Janine had a talent for finding jerks. I wanted to slap the piss out of Richard. I had grown to like Janine, and she deserved better than an oaf like Richard.

Betsy stood abruptly. "Tom, please take me home. NOW, please." Betsy crisply walked toward the door. I shook my head at Richard and tossed some cash on the table. I caught up with Betsy in the parking lot. Her anger cooled down to fuming as we drove.

"Where does Janine find these guys?" I asked with a slight laugh. "First Dirk, then Xander, and now that clown. Janine's a nice girl. She could do better. A lot better. I hope the right guy snatches her up before she settles for a creep."

Betsy didn't respond to that. "Does it bother you?" she asked quietly.

"What? That Janine's dates are creeps?"

"No, that we haven't slept together."

"Oh. No, it hasn't bothered me. Not that I would mind," I said lightly, clearly joking. Betsy's face tightened slightly. "I'm not complaining, Betts," I backpedaled. "Let's take things at their own pace." She smiled faintly.

We chatted about the comedians until we got to her apartment. The traditional good-night kiss at her door was a doozy. Betsy draped her arms around my neck and pulled me in, barely letting our lips touch. Then the tip of her tongue slowly split my lips and teased mine. She had me rock-hard in seconds. The kiss got hotter when she felt my rod pressing against her belly. We were both breathing hard when she pulled away.

"I'd invite you in, but it's really late. Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow? I bet I can whip up something you'd like." Obvious double-entendre teasing, but I didn't care. I wondered if she needed to rub one out as bad as I did. As much as I wanted to fuck her blind, I resolved to take it at her pace, at least for now. It was a long drive home, and a lonely night.

*** *** ***

I showed up at Betsy's apartment at six, with a bottle of red and a bottle of white. Betsy was wearing thin harem pants with a chopped long sleeve blouse that exposed most of her toned torso. God, I wanted to bend her over the table and have at it! She gave me a tight hug and a lingering kiss before asking me to give her a hand in the kitchen.

Betsy had prepared a delicious lasagna, and we easily killed of the bottle of Chianti by the time dinner of was over. We retired to her couch to watch a RomCom on TV. We watched in only the loosest sense of the word. Betsy curled up next to me as conversation about the movie turned to light kisses, then to an all-out snogging session. It felt like she was braless when she pressed against me. I rubbed my palm and thumb lightly across her side boob, confirming those puppies were unrestrained. My heart fell though as Betsy gently took my hand and moved it away, like I was a teenager who had overstepped. But she immediately guided my hand back, to push it against the front of her blouse, pushing my palm into her tit. Her hard nip dug into my palm.

She pulled away from our kiss after I had kneaded her for several minutes. Looking me in the eyes she silently unbuttoned her blouse, exposing herself fully in the dim light of the room. Her tits looked fantastic. They easily filled a hand, with extended nips jutting out from dark brown aureoles that contrasted with her milky white skin. I rubbed her nips between my thumbs and forefingers, causing her to let her head fall back as her mouth gaped open. I had to taste. Betsy made a sharp intake of breath when my lips first touched her half-inch nips, and then lightly nibbled at them.

"Oh damn, that's so good!" Betsy mewled. "Harder, Tom, harder."

I clamped down more with my lips, fully sucking her teat into my mouth and lashing the ends with my tongue. I could feel her flexing her thighs together, probably to crush her nether lips together and against her clit. Betsy was whimpering now, letting out small gasps that signaled her climax. I reached down to try to insinuate my hand into her waistband and under her panties, hoping to give her more, but she pulled may hand away just as my fingertips made contact with a tuft of moist fur.

"Sorry, Baby, not a good time of the month for that," she said apologetically. Damn! It looked like the fun was over. I was so hard I ached. "But there's other things we can do," she said mysteriously.

Betsy shucked off her blouse and starting undoing my belt, grinning like a kid opening a present. She unzipped my trousers and then laid her head on my stomach, only inches away from the cock that was trying to poke its way above the elastic band of my boxers. Betsy's fingertips traced over the underside of my cock, through the fabric of my boxers. I laid back and soaked in the varying sensations of her ministrations and her warm breath against my waist. Eventually she prompted me to lift up my hips so she could slide my boxers down, freeing me. Her warm mouth slowly engulfed the tip, her tongue making lazy circles around the circumference of my glans. She paused now and then to tuck her cascading hair behind her ears.

My own hand found its way back to her thick, rubbery nipple. The more I squeezed and tugged at it, the deeper Betsy took me into her mouth. There was no stopping my hips from making a steady fucking rhythm. Betsy made the blowjob last by pulling off when she sensed my cock flexing. Her repeated edging had me harder than I could ever remember. At long last she took me completely in her mouth.

"Jesus, Betts, I'm gonna �"

I never finished that sentence. Betsy's hand cupped my balls and gently squeezed as she forced the last millimeters of my cock into her mouth. I hadn't cum that hard since Tiffany Sommers gave me my first finish-in-mouth BJ at the Senior Prom after-party. Betsy swallowed as much as she could, but there was just too much jetting out too fast. She pulled off after I stopped pulsing and began to soften.

"I think you liked that!" she said with a taunting grin. She grabbed her discarded shirt to wipe up the excess jizz that coated her lips and ran down her chin. I was wiped out.

"Loved it, Betts! Incredible. Just wish you'd let me return the favor. What kind of gentleman leaves a lady high and dry?"

"Don't you worry, you'll get your chance! Next time, when I'm tidy downstairs. Can we snuggle for a bit, before I have to send you home?"

Betsy padded off to her bedroom to grab a long tee to replace her soiled shirt. I got my own clothes squared away while she was gone. We spent the next hour or so stretched out on her couch, lazily snogging and nearly nodding off. Around midnight we decided it was time to call it a night. She was crewed for a late-morning flight, and I needed to be at work by eight. I told her that I'd call her when she got back to Little Rock Tuesday night, and made my way home. Her good night kiss was gentle and loving.

I felt really good about how things were going for the first time in several weeks. Not just because of the physical intimacies, but because it looked like we had moved past Betsy's need for a chaperon. For the first time since the ugly crash and burn with Elise Harrison, I imagined being in a long term relationship. I still wasn't in any hurry. There were far more questions about Betsy than there were answers. The backstory about what happened with her previous boyfriend, and likely what led to Betsy's precautions with me, remained a mystery.

~~~@~~~@~~~

Betsy and I steadily grew closer. We had to do some juggling to work around her flight schedule, but we saw each other at least twice every week. After-date sex had become the norm. Betsy nearly killed me in our first coupling. She let me start by licking her to a leg-shaking, tummy-rippling orgasm, but she was in charge for the rest of the night. She reveled in edging me. After pushing me on my back she settled her pussy over my groin, splaying her soaked labia around my erection.

For the next half hour she tortured me with a pussy-slide fuck. Her splayed inner lips coated my cock from the tip to my nutsack. She'd get a good rhythm going and then let my tip tease at her entrance, yet back away before I could slip inside. When she sensed further stimulation wouldn't push me over the edge she resumed letting my cock plow through her glistening folds. I think it excited her to have such control over my body, to toy with me until I couldn't take it any longer. When I reached that point Betsy finished with a flourish. I grabbed her hips when after she backed away for the dozenth time trying to enter, but she held my tip against her entrance, not letting me inside. Betsy giggled as she reached down to guide me in, then dropping down forcefully to impale herself fully. Her slim hips undulated while her pussy clenched and relaxed in waves. Somehow she got back in complete control. Betsy loved to drive. Mercifully, she brought me off quickly.

"Finish inside me," she rasped as her own orgasm took hold. Her pussy squelched loudly as she milked me dry.

That first coupling, in a poster-frame bed in a bed & breakfast near Fayetteville, defined our sexual relationship. Betsy was an eager lover, and she liked to be in control. I could drive when I wanted, but Betsy retook the wheel as soon as she could. I didn't mind a bit. Betsy really knew how to steer me into a gut-clenching orgasm. For my part, lighting up Betsy was almost too easy. Her tiny clit, buried inside thick lips, was a lit fuse. A few minutes of tongue lashing usually had her literally begging for a respite.

Over time, if I had a complaint, it would be that when making love instead of fucking, I felt like she was holding something back. It wasn't anything I could put a finger on, but it was there, lurking in the back of my mind. I risked messing up a great thing by mentioning it one morning after a lazy afternoon coupling. Betsy reacted as I feared she might.

"I'm sorry I disappoint you," she said quietly, eagerly pulling up the bedsheet to cover herself.

"It's not that, Betts. You don't disappoint me at all, promise. It's the other way 'round. I'm concerned that I'm disappointing you."

Her demeanor slowly softened. "No, Hon, you're being paranoid. I couldn't be happier." She leaned in to give me a long, smoldering kiss. Round Two was pure bliss.

*** *** ***

Over the next six months my relationship with Betsy solidified. I hadn't seen anyone else, and I believed Betsy hadn't either. But I didn't know for sure. It was hard to shake the memories of Debra, Susie, and Elise. Betsy had overnights every week in various cities, and I couldn't very well follow her from place to place, flight after flight. After six months of things cruising along on autopilot, I decided to take the bull by the horns. We were relaxing on Betsy's couch watching something mindless on Netflix when I tested the waters.

"Betts, don't freak, but I'd like to have a conversation about us." Before I could continue her eyes went wide. "A good one, I hope."

For the next five minutes I told her how I felt about her. About us. I told her that I'd like for us to be exclusive. Her eyes betrayed confusion. "I thought we already were," she said quietly. Not as a statement, as a question.

I didn't dance around it. "I haven't gone out with anyone but you since we met at the airport," I explained. "You haven't mentioned anyone else, but I've learned not to make assumptions." She gave me an odd look, a mixture of understanding and disappointment, as if my statement was some sort of accusation. She assured me that she hadn't seen anyone else either.

The next part was harder. "I don't mean this as a threat, Betts, but I want you to understand what exclusive means to me." I told her about Elise, and how I found out about Eddie Brevette. I even mentioned Susie, and how that relationship ended. Betsy was sympathetic, but I could tell that she thought I was pretty hard on Elise. I also managed to pry out of Betsy the story on her ex. Pete Webster, she told me, started out as a nice guy. Then he got weird, accusing her of cheating, demanding to see her phone, following her around. The last straw was when Pete booked a flight to LaGuardia that was scheduled to arrive an ahead of hers, because he thought he'd be able to catch her cheating.

"I learned from another FA who recognized him from a party we went to that he was on the earlier flight. He went insane when I confronted him. He hit me, on the mouth. Not real hard, but enough to make it bleed. I had to get a restraining order to get away from him. That's why I was so skittish with you. I never want to go through anything like that again. Never ever again. I won't live under a microscope, being watched constantly, like I'm on probation. I try to learn from my mistakes."

Betsy's story provided answers to nagging questions. We each set explicit boundaries. If she gave me a credible reason to think she was cheating, I was gone. If I became controlling or weird, she swore was gone. On the surface it sounded like a recipe for disaster, but oddly enough we thrived.

Three months later I popped the question. We married in her parents' church in Pine Bluff on a beautiful spring Saturday in May. Janine was radiant as Maid of Honor. But even at the wedding Janine couldn't resist messing with me. "Don't worry if Betsy leaves you standing at the alter. I'll marry you in her place and give you a wedding night that will have you begging for mercy!" I chuckled and told her not to tease me. "Who says I'm teasing?" she said in a serious tone.

"God, you are nothing but trouble!" I replied, laughing.

"Looks like you'll never know," she jousted back with playful eyes. She gave me a wink and dashed off for more pre-ceremony photos.

My Best Man was Dontrell Robinson, a fellow Gunnery Sergeant who was still in the Corps. If there was one thing Don was good at, other than honing young men until they had an edge sharp enough to cut steel, was sizing people up. Don took me aside a few minutes before the ceremony.

"You sure 'bout this?" he asked solemnly.

"Don't dance around it, brother. Speak."

"Tom, I just met Betsy yesterday. Don't know shit about her, except that she's hot and you love her."

"What is it then? Something's chewing at your ass."

"It's her eyes when she talks about you. It's always in the eyes. Something's off." He paused, obviously deciding what to say next. "Fuck it. Don't listen to me. You know I don't even trust my own mother. You love her. She loves you. Marry her and start cranking out kids."

I really should have listened.

~~~@~~~@~~~

Married life was good. Betsy let her apartment go and moved into my house. We settled into a happy married routine. We still went on double "dates" with Janine and whoever was her latest prospect, but those outings quickly tapered off. After a few months we hardly saw Janine at all. It was weird. Janine suddenly had schedule conflicts and before long dropped off the radar completely. I ran into her once at a farmer's market. I couldn't shake the feeling that she was uneasy talking to me. Her hurried departure prompted me to ask Betsy if Janine was OK. Betsy assured me that Janine was just going through a rough patch and wanted space. I let it go at that. I shouldn't have.

*** *** ***

As October neared MaxStaff was in crisis mode. A major client, Allied Solutions, warned that they were looking at competitors' proposals, and were considering splitting out the exclusive contract with MaxStaff among several competitors to see who could provide the best service. Losing that business would set MaxStaff back several years. Our CEO managed to convince Allied to sit down with us before moving their account. A meeting was arranged for the next week in Pittsburgh, Allied's home base.

Allied's representatives would include people I knew passably well. I'd been their on-demand ombudsman and chief-fixer practically since I started at MaxStaff, so the top dogs put me on the team that would travel to Pittsburgh to try to keep Allied's business. We were to fly out from Little Rock on Wednesday and return on Friday, either with our shields or on them.

To my boss's delight, the issues in Pittsburgh resolved quickly. After a short presentation showing Allied why the competitors' proposals were wishful thinking, we forged a renewed multi-year contract, even bigger than the existing contract. It would be a better year for Maxstaff than expected, and fat bonuses were virtually certain.

I wanted to share the good news with Betsy, but in person. That sort of news was too good to waste on a cell phone call. I got the crazy idea of flying to Philly to surprise Betsy with the good news during her layover there. If the stars aligned, I could be at her plane's arrival gate in Philly before the crew deplaned, and we could grab a late lunch in the terminal before she had to be ready to depart to JFK for her Remain Over Night. The Remain Over Nights, or "RONs", had been multiplying lately, but we worked around them. I lucked into a fire-sale fare to Philly, and after reticketing my trip back home to Little Rock from Philly instead of Pittsburgh, I was set.

I got into Philly with plenty of time to spare, enough even to find a flower shop in the terminal to get a dozen boxed reds. I was excited in an adolescent way. Chances for this sort of spontaneity didn't come along often. I couldn't decide whether to stand out in the open where she would see me right away when she exited the jetbridge into the terminal, or to stand off to the side so I could surprise her from behind. I decided that it would be more fun to come up behind her, saying, Excuse me, Miss, I think these are for you as I handed her the box of stems.

My anticipation built as I watched the passengers trickle out from the jetbridge and disperse into the terminal. Finally the crew started to appear. I recognized one, an FA named Nadia who was a bridesmaid at my wedding, carrying on about something with a male FA who I didn't recognize. Betsy emerged a few steps behind them, rubbing shoulders and laughing with a man wearing four stripes on his airline uniform coat. He would be the captain, of course.

Something very wrong was afoot, so wrong that the stink of it filled the air like freshly trodden dog shit. I froze in place, watching. They stepped off to the side near the gate attendants' counter, standing close enough to each other to fail any conceivable version of the Husband Test. Betsy's back was to me. I did a quick scan of the layout to see if I could maneuver to be able to get a better look but not be seen by them, and not to appear to third parties be watching them. I barely made out a name stenciled in white on the pilot's roller bag: V. Demerest.

The name was distantly familiar. Then I remembered. About a year ago Betsy was catching me up on workplace gossip. She told me about a pilot who reportedly had split from his long-time girlfriend, and how most of the single FAs, and even some married FAs, were setting their traps for the tall, square-faced bachelor with dark, wavy-curly hair and Italian good looks. This guy fit the description to a tee. The low-life prick looked like a movie star.

I stopped reminiscing when Betsy and Demerest leaned in even closer, now almost touching foreheads, whispering to each other. Almost too late I thought to use my phone to record video. They gazed in each other's eyes, seemingly having forgotten that they were in a crowded airport terminal. With a shared laugh they broke their near embrace and walked together toward the nearest food court area. The recording would be jumpy, but it would be clear enough to survive any challenges. I was in a weird twilight between not knowing what I would do and knowing exactly what I would do.

Some men I've talked with, in quieter moments after their rage had subsided, said that even after learning of their partner's betrayal some affection remained. The I hate her but I still love her thing. I had no such lingering feelings for Betsy. Seeing her with Demerest was transformative. Betsy was dead to me, as surely as if a bolt of lightning stabbed out from the heavens and vaporized her. I wanted her gone from my life, completely erased. Betsy had thoroughly played me. She played me worse than Debra and Susan and Elise combined. Cold, calculated betrayal would not go unpunished. Not this time.

I had to make a quick decision. I could confront her now, or I could wait. I would wait, and I would plan. Rusty SERE training came unbidden, as if I was back in Indian Country. I didn't need to worry about Survival, Resistance, or for the moment, Escape; the only present concern would be Evasion, and that would be easy in the crowded terminal. All I had to do was blend into the crowds and keep out of my wife's sight until I could board my flight back home to Little Rock. Or I could do some more recon, albeit with an increased risk of detection. I decided to take the risk. I followed them at maximum eyeball distance, until they got their food and took seats in the expansive food court seating area. A nearby souvenir-convenience shop provided me with a Phillies baseball cap and a ubiquitous Penn State sweatshirt to help me blend in.

Betsy and Demerest were sharing a small two-seat table, seated across from each other. I positioned myself so that I looked like just another guy messing around with his phone while I recorded them. I couldn't make out anything said between them from my distance, but their conversation appeared relaxed and intimate. They didn't hold hands so much as they let their fingers interweave and dance between bites and sips. I was about to leave when Betsy kissed the pad of her own index finger, then reached across the small table to press her finger against Demerest's lips. I recognized the gesture. Seeing her do it with another man just added more fuel to the fire that was turning my heart to charcoal.

Demerest reached up to hold her hand, and then gently sucked on her fingertip. So, there it was. Whatever they were up to wasn't just casual sex. This was a full-blown romantic affair. By sheer force of will I swatted down the hurt and outrage. Make a plan, Execute the plan. I had a metric shitload of things to accomplish in the next 30-odd hours before Betsy returned to Little Rock. I transitioned from Evasion mode to Escape mode.

I headed toward my gate area to catch my flight home. I still had that damn box of roses. I needed to get rid of them because they were unusual, and what is unusual draws unwanted attention. That ruled out going back and shoving every stem up her ass and beating her to death with the box. Surely that would be noticed, I thought to myself with a derisive, silent laugh. Dumping a big box of roses in the trash would draw eyes, as would setting them down and walking away. Some Samaritan might think I forgot them and chase me down, also drawing eyes. I went into the Men's restroom and ducked into a stall. Leaving Betsy's roses on a dirty floor next to a filthy crapper seemed appropriate, almost poetic. Yes, poetry. I briefly toyed with words to rhyme with "roses" and "crapper" and "cheating" and "cunt" until I reminded myself that indulgent mental distractions lead to avoidable mistakes.

The terminal's departures video displays confirmed that Betsy's next flight, to JFK, would board at the other end of the terminal. That gave me a small added safety margin, and an opportunity to make some calls before businesses started closing up for the day in Little Rock. My first call was to a close friend from work, Steve Bell. Recently divorced and still carrying a boulder-sized chip, he was precisely who I needed.

"Didn't expect to hear from you!" he exclaimed. "Everything OK in Pittsburgh?"

"Yeah, Pittsburgh is good to go. No client worries for a few years. I foresee bonuses. Listen, I don't have much time, and I need a few favors. Favor number one--you need to keep what I tell you under your hat. All the way under."

"Sure, so long as it isn't illegal or risks my job. I have to make sure my bitch ex-wife gets her monthly alimony."

"Nothing like that, my word on it. Second favor, I need the name of that divorce attorney you used, and her number if you have it. I'm on a tight timeline."

"Motherfucker, if you cheated on Betsy I personally will pound your sorry ass into the dirt!"

"I didn't cheat. Before you ask, there's no doubt. I don't have details; I hope to get the wherefores and whys when Betsy gets back home tomorrow night."

After venting that all women are cheating sluts, Steve agreed to help. He texted me contact info for Mary Kintner, Attorney at Large, as he called her. A real predator, he said. He even offered to give Kintner a call to try to grease the skids for me. "You'll like her," he offered. "She will tell you right off what she can do for you and what she can't. She ain't cheap, but she did right by me," he opined. I gave Steve a few of the sordid details to sate his raging curiosity.

"Yeah, I'd say she's fucking the guy," Steve drolly remarked with the understated crass sarcasm that a close friend is permitted. "Sorry, man." I let the conversation draw to a fizzle and signed off. I needed to maintain situational awareness. My nascent plans were completely screwed if Betsy saw me here.

I waited about thirty minutes before calling Kintner's office. Steve was true to his word. Kintner took my call, and even agreed to meet with me the next morning. "Steve Bell was a decent guy, and he personally vouched for you," she explained. "Don't make a liar out of him." She asked for the book dust cover inside flap version, which took about two minutes. I was to bring an array of documents, like deeds and banking and investment account statements, and my videos. Oh, and a retainer check for $10k, and another check for $1k for anticipated filing fees and out-of-pocket expenses. There went most of any year-end bonus.

Boarding for my flight back to Little Rock was slightly delayed, so I used the time to make a to-do list. I had enough family and friends who had gone through divorces, so I knew the basics of what would need to be done. Locksmith. Change out garage door and security system codes. Cancel joint credit cards. Split money in joint bank accounts. Record everything. Destroy nothing. Zero violence or threats of violence. Fuck me, how did I end up in this world of shit? Kintner suggested that I not do anything different until we talked in the morning, so I busied myself with making more lists. And plans. And multiple contingency plans, because no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.

I got into Little Rock by about four in the afternoon, but it was almost six by the time I actually pulled into my garage. The house seemed oddly out of phase to me. Everything was just as it should be, yet disturbingly out of tune. I thought I'd want to destroy things, such as cutting up photos of us, or smashing to bits souvenirs of vacations and shared events, but the anger I expected didn't gel. I think it was because I was aiming for more. I didn't particularly want to save any of the collected mementos of my marriage, either. The memories of my life with Betsy didn't make me angry, or even sad. Instead it was if those physical manifestations of my memories belonged to some other person, the accumulated detritus of someone else's life. I knew I was compartmentalizing, walling off the betrayal so that I could get through the night and think with a clear head.

Betsy's ring tone blaring from my cell snapped me out of my musings. I had to answer, and I had to play dumb, lest she do something to mess up my Grand Plan for Complete Destruction.

"Hiya Baby!" she said in a voice that seemed artificially bubbly. "Whatcha doing?"

"Just getting ready to join the guys for dinner. We think we'll wrap up soon and be back home Friday night." Yesterday I wouldn't think of lying to her like this, except perhaps to cover for a surprise party or something like that. But seeing as how shameless deceit was how Betsy rolled, I would play by her rules of engagement.

"Everything going OK? Think you'll make a deal?" she asked.

I couldn't resist the urge to toy with her, even though she wouldn't know I was doing it.

"Yeah, everything's going, all right." I wanted to say going right up your cheating ass, but I held my tongue. "There have been some big surprises, but nothing I'm not handling. You know me. Make a plan, execute the plan."

I heard some rustling, and what sounded like Betsy saying "Don't! in a harsh whisper, off-axis from her cell's microphone. Even though she was trying to cover the tiny microphone, I easily recognized her use of that word, said in that tone of voice. It was exactly the same as she used on me when I'd playfully try to grope her when she was on a call with her parents or a friend and she wanted me to stop.

"You with somebody?" I asked neutrally. There was an unnatural delay before she answered.

"A few of us from the crew are going to get dinner together before we turn in." I heard more rustling, then Betsy almost but not quite suppressing a giggle. "Miss you!" she said with a hint of detachment so subtle that you would miss entirely if you weren't listening for it. "Love you," she added, almost as an afterthought. It sounded half-hearted. Or maybe now I was only listening with half a heart.

"Loved you, too." I said before ending the call. I doubted that she caught my use of the past tense. I needed to stop being clever, before I outsmarted myself. Hubris can get you killed, too, and no one is as smart as he thinks he is.

There wasn't anything left over to eat in the fridge, and I didn't feel at all like preparing a meal in my now alien house. I grabbed my tablet and went to a local sports bar. I made a list of questions for my meeting with Kintner while I divided my attention between a summary of the upcoming weekend's football games on the TV, my list of questions to Kintner, and my list of questions to myself.

Unfortunately, Betsy was the only person who likely could help me answer my questions to myself, and I couldn't trust any answers she might give me. I headed home after nursing my second draft to the bottom. I wanted a third and a fourth, but getting arrested for DUI would wreck all my plans.

The house was still out of sync when I got home, but I had to shove that aside and get at least a few hours of sleep to tackle the next day. Even with everything that had transpired, we remain creatures of habit. After finishing my nightly routine, on autopilot I headed for my side of the bed. I almost pulled back the covers when I became aware of what I was doing. No way I was going to sleep in that bed again. I didn't want to smell the scent of her shampoo on the pillows, and I sure as hell didn't want to be touching the sheets. God knows how many times Demerest had fucked her there. My anger rekindled, a flash-fire that raced into a full blaze. Absolutely there was going to be an accounting. I slept on the sofa in the den, just in case they'd fucked in the guest room bed, too.

~~~@~~~@~~~

I arrived at Mary Kintner's office well ahead of my appointment. Everything Steve said was true. Kintner was sharp, and economical with our time. Her questions were simple and direct.

"Any chance of my reconciling?" Not in this universe.

"How soon do you want to file?" As soon as possible.

"Any children?" Nope.

Is she pregnant? Not that she's told me.

"Are you seeing anyone?" Not yet, and no plans to.

"Is Betsy?" Absolutely.

"Can you prove it?" I showed Kintner the video I took from the airport.

Kintner told me that's good evidence of an affair, but not proof of adultery per se. We went over finances, along with a big list of "dos and don'ts." The worst news was that I couldn't just kick Betsy out of the house, even though it was 100% mine before we married. Apparently Betsy didn't have an ownership "property interest" in the house itself, but because it was the marital home and she lived there, I'd need a court order to pry her out if she didn't agree to leave. Kintner gave me her plan and what I needed to do in the next 24 hours.

I had a lot of other things to do in those 24 hours, starting with getting intel on Vernon Demerest. The internet is a wonderful thing, and active-duty friends are an even better thing. Within an hour I learned that Demerest flew C-17 Globemasters and 747 cargo conversions in and out of Bagram. Left as a captain, 0-3. Resigned his commission when he got passed over for 0-4 about three years ago, and joined Betsy's airline. Hmmmm, must have been worried that he'd get passed over a second time and be subjected to mandatory separation. Probably has a chip on his shoulder about that. Could be useful. After organizing all the intel I went about the melancholy task of gathering important papers and packing a quick-exit duffel, just in case. I jotted out my plan on a notepad, so there wouldn't be an electronic copy out there to bite me in the ass. When I was satisfied I shredded the papers and flushed it all down the toilet. I was as ready as I could be.

~~~@~~~@~~~

I was sitting in an almost pitch-black family room, illuminated only by the big flat screen TV mounted over the fireplace. I had one of the "news" channels on. A gaggle of talking heads were yapping about something, but the sound was muted so I didn't know what the affront du jour was. The entire Middle East could be in flames again and I wouldn't give a damn. I had my own troubles to deal with.

Betsy breezed into our kitchen as the garage door was still going down. She had her flight attendant's sturdy roller travel case trailing behind her, just as she always did. She had changed out of her "uniform" shoes into her comfy shoes, just as she always did. I pondered how mundane details seemed was so normal when in fact everything was a jumbled mess. Recalling attorney Kintner's advice to document and record everything I could, I started my phone's video app, casually positioning my phone so that the lens inconspicuously peeked just above the top of my shirt pocket. I thought about using my home's built-in camera/surveillance system, but using my phone to turn it on would have been too obvious, and I didn't want Betsy to play to the cameras. The phone recording would have to do.

"Whew, what a long flight! I'm beat!" she announced as she kicked off her flats in the stub hallway between the garage entrance and the family room/breakfast nook area.

I'd had a full day to get myself wound up for this confrontation, and zero desire to in engage in routine pleasantries. I turned my head to look at Betsy, fighting back the urge to lash out. Betsy flicked the switch to turn on the chandelier light over table in the adjoining breakfast nook. The burst of light assaulted my eyes.

Betsy's bubbly demeanor changed instantly when she saw my face. Her relaxed I'm home mien disappeared. She was weighing, assessing, calculating. Let the games begin.

"So, tell me about you and Vernon Demerest," I said without preamble. She was caught off-guard. Her eyes flitted around before she looked away from me and fixed her gaze at the refrigerator. "The answer isn't in the kitchen, Betsy." She looked back at me. I knew that look. She was trying to figure out how to "handle" me. "Let's try again," I said evenly. "Tell me about you and Demerest."

Betsy collected herself before pulling out a chair from the breakfast nook table and sitting down slowly. To my surprise, she didn't go with Option 1, which would have been play-acted confusion and denials. She went instead with Option 2, a tacit admission and probing to see what I knew. "How did you find out?" she finally asked, now clearly off balance but trying not to look like it.

"I'll tell you that later. Stop stalling. Tell me about you and Demerest."

I expected a Cliff Notes version of the Cheater's Handbook. It's not what you think. It's only sex. It was a mistake. It doesn't mean anything. I don't love him, I love you. A tale as old as time. Instead I got another surprise.

"OK, I'll tell you. If you know his name, then you know he's a pilot. I crew with him often. We're... involved. We've been seeing each other for about eleven months, and yes, that means I've been sleeping with him for about that long. I don't know how many times, so don't bother asking. A lot, OK? All of our RONs and several times when we could get together here in Little Rock. I'm in love with him, and he's in love with me. He's divorced, and has no kids, so that means he doesn't have any attachments to deal with. He's waiting for me to make a decision about how I handle you and me."

Again she surprised me with her directness. I expected to have to drag all of that out of her between a calliope of apologies and a waterfall of snot and tears. Still, I asked her to tell me, so it was hard to blame her for giving me what I asked for. It still was a sledge to the blackened coals that used to be my heart, and to my pride. At least a few tears would have helped my battered ego. I sucked it up and quelled my emotions. I'd dealt with far worse under worse conditions.

"I see. Thank you, I guess, for not giving me half-truths. Well then, if you're so in love and he's raring to go as soon as you give the legs--excuse me, thumbs-up, what's there to decide? Why string me along for almost a year, playing house with me and pretending to be my wife?"

"It's complicated." She temporized. "Tom, I still love you. I love you dearly. I care for you very much. But I'm not in love with you, not like I am with Vern." My conversation with Dontrell Robinson blazed in my memory as Betsy continued her spiel. Betsy's assurances of her ongoing affection didn't match the latent coldness in her eyes. "But I want to be sure before I make any final decisions. You can understand that, can't you?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I figured Betsy for a lot of things over the preceding 40-odd hours, but that level of narcissistic, callous entitlement wasn't on my Bingo card. I wondered if she and Elise were distant cousins. Naw, Elise was repentant and begged for another chance. Betsy was still trying to play me. More to the point, Betsy really didn't give an shit about my feelings.

"No, I don't understand that. What was your plan, Betsy? Did you see yourself having both me and Demerest at the same time, until you decided which one of us gets you as the grand prize? Oh, wait--I was the unknowing cuckhold in this drama. Demerest knew what was going on, but I was to stay in the dark." Her expression hardened. Someone who didn't know Betsy would have missed the thinly veiled contempt.

Now I was getting pissed off at my very core. Her raw arrogance was going off like a phosphorus grenade in my gut. Betsy just looked at me, absorbing my jabs, but not outwardly getting angry. Perhaps that was part of her plan. If caught, get me angry enough to do something that would put her in complete control of the narrative. I let her think that plan was working.

"You weren't supposed to find out, Tom. I planned to keep seeing Vern, and see where it ended up. Maybe it would be just a phase and I'd fall out of love with him. Maybe I'd fall back in love with you. As far as you knew, I was still your faithful, loving wife, just like always. Why upset you for what might turn out to be nothing? And it's not as if you got shortchanged when I was here with you. In fact, I think you got even more loving than you would have otherwise, you know? I did feel a little guilty about what I was doing, so I made sure you never went without. And then some." She gave me a look that I think she thought was seductive.

There it was, finally. Given enough time the cheater will recite scripture from the Cheaters Handbook. You never went without is from the Book of Horns, chapter 3, verse 4: And I say unto you, think not about the betrayal, for at least you were getting your portion. As if regularly varnishing my cane gave her absolution for treachery.

"Gosh, thanks. That makes all the deception and adultery acceptable."

Now she looked at me with undisguised contempt. "Don't be a smart-ass. If you can't have a civilized discussion about this, then I'm done here."

My original plan was to see what was going on between her and Demerest. If it was something other than a full-blown affair, and if Betsy was genuinely contrite and willing to meet my conditions, if somewhere there survived a faint flicker of affection in my heart for her, and if a voice from a burning bush ordered me to try to reconcile, I thought maybe--just possibly maybe--I'd see if there was enough duct tape and superglue to try to salvage our marriage. Even that was out of the question now. My farce of a marriage was dead as the proverbial door nail, and absolutely there was going to be an accounting for both of them. I needed more info for self-protection, and if the gods allowed, for just retribution. I wasn't going to rely on Karma. This was my job and I would see it done.

"Fine, Betsy, fine. I'll play nice. What is your vision for us, going forward? How do you see this working out, now that your kitty's out of the bag?" She didn't catch my snarky change to the well-worn saying.

"Nothing needs to change, Tom. We stay married and I continue to be your wife when we're together. And I'll be a good wife to you, too, just as I have been. I know I've kept you happy. You haven't had anything to complain about, right? When I'm away, I will continue to see Vern, like I have been. When I'm here, you will be my main guy, and Vern and I will be discrete. When I've made a decision, I'll let you know."

Jesus! She actually said "her main guy." Attention: paging Debra. Debra please report to the You're My Main Guy desk.

"And while you're deciding, do I get to see other women? You know, so that I can have someone slotted up in case you pick Demerest? That would only be fair. After all, you get to have him whenever you want, so I should be able to have someone to keep me company while you're away fluffing the sheets with Vern."

I said all that with surreal calm, like there was a universe where I'd agree to her proposal. I was really only gathering intel on someone who now was effectively my sworn enemy, a traitor to everything I regarded as decent, the current holder of a crown first worn by Debra, passed on to Susie, and then to Elise.

"Hell no!" she almost shouted. "Vern and I have an emotional connection! I'm not seeing him for cheap sex!" She paused to reset. "Look, Tom, we do this my way or I just divorce your ass. This isn't a negotiation."

"And when people find out about this arrangement you're suggesting, what then? What am I supposed to tell them?" It didn't matter, but I was curious to find out how she had it in her head that we'd spin my being cuckholded.

"No one will find out," she said with her best reassuring smile.

"Is that what you think? No one will find out? I did." I said it gently, as if remonstrating a child.

She was calculating again. "If someone finds out, then we will explain that you know all about it, and you're OK with it." She gave me that smile she used when she wanted to charm me into doing something I didn't want to do.

I was floored. She was absolutely out of her fucking mind. I heard stories over the years from friends, recounting delusional girlfriends and spouses who genuinely believed that the boyfriend or husband would accept being pissed on like that. Women who proposed one-way open marriages. I'd even heard of consensual cuckhold arrangements. I couldn't fathom how Betsy got it in her head that I'd go along with anything remotely like any part of anything like that. It was almost like she had forgotten everything I had warned her about "one and done." It was time to pull the plug on the absurd conversation. I sat up, ram-rod straight, like those sci-fi movies where the alien suddenly reasserts control over the human host's body and an entirely different personality takes over.

"All of this a no-go, Betsy. Absolutely unacceptable. It's either 100% me or it's nothing, starting this very moment. If you're convincing enough, I might consider seeing if we can save our marriage."

I was lying, of course. I had irrevocably decided that I was done with the cheating slag. But I wanted to see how she would react to being told "No" without qualifications. As if I didn't already know.

The change in Betsy's demeanor was like someone switched her attitude setting from Conciliatory to Monster. "Is that some sort of ultimatum?" she said, abruptly rising from her chair and placing her hands on her hips. "I told you how I feel about Vern. What did you think I was going to do if you threatened to leave me? Fall down at your feet begging you to forgive me and take me back? Burst into tears and cry myself to sleep every night over losing you? Tell you that I'll do anything if you'll stay?" She rolled her eyes at me like a theater kid overplaying the part. "If that's what you thought then you've been watching too many stupid romance movies on TV."

I let her rail on. The detached, rational part of me was fascinated by Betsy's ability to ping-pong between attempts at gentle persuasion and self-righteous fury at being called out. Betsy the Clueless plowed ahead unabated.

"This isn't some male jerk-off fantasy where I suddenly realize that my life is destroyed without you, and I crawl back to you on my knees, begging for another chance," she lectured. "Do try to keep up, Tom. If I couldn't live without you I wouldn't be seeing Vern in the first place. You're not irreplaceable, obviously. I'll be seeing Vern whether you agree or not. My life, my choices. My pussy, my rules."

"No, Betsy, I didn't think you begging for another chance was in the cards. I wouldn't have believed you even if you did all of that. You've admitted to cheating on me for almost a full year. Besides, you already told me that you're not 'in love' with me any more. I warned you when we went exclusive, I don't share, and even aside from your cheating on me, there's zero point in staying married to a woman who isn't in love with me. I wouldn't stay with you even if we had kids, which we don't, thank the gods. You better have a chat with Vern about whether you can move in with him now, or start looking for another place to live. It's finished."

Betsy's face betrayed another recalculation. I think she realized she had overplayed her hand. I suspected the problem was that she and Demerest hadn't gotten all their ducks in a row quite yet. Or perhaps she knew he wasn't ready to have her around full time. After all, recreational fucking in the midst of a full-blown emotional affair was one thing, but putting up with each other's quirks and crap day after day, well, you know. A tactical retreat would be her next move. She already shook the stick at me, now she'd offer a carrot. For it is written in the Book of Horns, chapter 5, verse 3: Leverage his need for pussy to overcome the taste of eating your shit, for going without, stubborn pride, and false hope are his fatal weaknesses.

"You're not looking at this the right way, Tom! It doesn't have to be that way. Lots of couples share spouses. And lots of people have open marriages. I can love two men at the same time until I get it all sorted out! It can work for all of us if you give it a chance! Let's go upstairs, Baby, so I can remind you what you'll be giving up." That play surprised me. Did she really think I was so weak? Did she forget how she insulted me not more than 60 seconds earlier?

Unbidden, a raft of ugly memories erupted in my brain like tiny nukes. I heard Bonnie telling me that she could have two boyfriends. I heard Debra telling me that once Bill Yargarin graduated and went to college she'd be back with me as my steady. I remembered Susie telling me that she still had feeling for Mark LaValliere and needed time to work it out. I replayed Elise telling me that her screwing Eddie was only a big deal because of my controlling, male domination and pride issues, and it would work itself out if I gave it a try. Every time I folded up my tent and walked away. Every. Single. Time. I'd had enough walking away for one lifetime.

"Betsy, I'm not going to give it a chance. We are done. I'm going to get the filth of you off me with a sandblaster and a wire brush. I've already hired a lawyer. Tomorrow morning I call her and tell her to get our divorce underway. Make it easy on both of us. Don't fight it. We don't have any kids. This was my house before we got married, so it will stay mine. Besides, there's not much equity in it to split with you anyway. We have no big investments, mostly just our work retirement plans and some small 401ks. We keep our own retirements, split the rest 50-50, and call it done. Or we can fight and the lawyers get richer and we get the scraps. Use your head, and nobody gets hurt any worse than we are now."

She looked at me with new fire in her eyes. I think she really believed she could get me to cave.

"If that's how you want it, Tom, then fine by me! You had your chance! I might have picked you eventually, but now I see it never would have worked out. I should have just told you a year ago. If I had, I'd be with Vern now, free and clear."

I had my fill of her shit for the night. "This must be the 'I love you dearly' part you were talking about before."

Betsy's demeanor became even darker in the blink of an eye. It wasn't just her facial expression, it was her entire body. I'd seen the look in other battlefields. Now Betsy was out for blood. She furiously dug her phone out of her purse and made a call. She looked me directly in the eyes as she talked. My flat refusal to be cucked offended her, so now she wanted to give me a beat-down.

"Hey Sweetie, it's me.......... Listen, he knows............. I don't know how he found us out, but he has................ Anyhow, looks like we don't have to play hide and seek any more. Neither one of us is scheduled for a few days. Let's go out tomorrow night and celebrate....... Pick me up at the house around six, 'kay?.................. Don't worry about him, he won't be a problem. Anyway, what's he going to do?......... You always tell me you can handle him, so handle him!............... Great, see ya then, Babes! Love ya!"

She shoved her phone back in her purse, then looked straight at me again, full of defiance. She was taunting me, prodding me to lash out. Not gonna happen.

"If you weren't so damn narrow-minded this could have worked out. I'd have fucked you into oblivion tonight as a reward for being reasonable. I would have fucked you silly all the time. But no, you have to be so damn possessive. No wonder I fell out of love with you."

No wonder, indeed. I wondered how in hell I married this, this... creature. Dontrell Robinson saw it, but I missed it. Love truly is blind. I was as bad at picking girlfriends as Janine was at picking dates. Worse, actually. I married my monster.

"Betsy, listen to me very carefully. Demerest is not welcome here. This is my house. I'm not going to lift a finger to try to stop you from seeing him, but DO NOT bring him here. He is not permitted in this house. For everyone's sake, meet him somewhere else and fuck yourselves raw if you like. But not here. I mean it."

"He isn't afraid you, Tom. He was an Air Force pilot over in the Middle East, before he joined the airline. Don't try to get tough with him. He won't put up with it. He was an officer! What were you, like a sergeant or something?"

Did she know Demerest flew freight, hauling cargo and supplies? I wondered if the twat told her that? Not that it mattered to me, and not that there was anything the least bit trivial or dishonorable about that duty. But did Betsy think Demerest was a hotshot fighter pilot, a living incarnation of "Maverick" from Top Gun? That might explain some of her fucked-up attitude. Whatever.

"Yes, a sergeant or something. Definitely not an officer. Or a gentleman."

She was about to say something snotty-clever, so I cut her off.

"Look, I've had enough of your crap for today. I'm going to hit the rack in my study. Because I never again will sleep in what was our bed, for tonight you can have what used to be our bedroom. Also, because I'm a decent guy, and because I'd rather not spend money to have my attorney rush the paperwork get you kicked out immediately, if you behave yourself you can stay here through tomorrow night. Be gone by then, or the lawyers start getting richer and we get poorer."

"You can't kick me out of my own house! I live here!"

"I can and I will. Like I said before, this was my house before we married." I decided not to engage with her about what my attorney told me. It would probably only make prying her out of the house harder. Let her find out the hard way. "I know you're scheduled to crew an overnight round trip to Atlanta the day after tomorrow, so you need to have your trash sacked & packed, and gone before you fly out. Or you can have your parents and brother come by for it. But if it's still here when you leave, I'll have it all put on the street." Kintner had already warned me that trashing Betsy's personal property would only get me in hot water with the judge and hurt me in the divorce, but I hoped my threat might smoke Betsy out, and prod her to make mistakes. It did, and she reacted just as I expected. Her own rage at me was building.

"You're pathetic! I've talked to a lawyer too, and he tells me that you can't just kick me out. If you try it I'll have YOU out on the street!"

"Then we'll just have to see what's what, won't we?" She was making me hate her more by the minute. No matter. Make a plan, Execute the plan.

I headed for the en suite bathroom to get ready to turn in. Betsy followed at a distance, so I suspected she intended to continue the argument. I was in no mood. I locked the door to the bathroom while I got ready for bed. That ratcheted her up another level. "Childish LITTLE prick!" she yelled through the door.

Betsy didn't engage me any further that night. She steered clear of me, letting me settle into my study without renewing the argument. So far she had pretty much acted as I expected. But I knew the respite from our argument was only the calm before the storm. Make a plan, Execute the plan was the mantra I said to myself like a religious chant. Tomorrow was going to blaze new trails.

~~~@~~~@~~~

The story concludes with part 2. I look forward to your thoughtful comments and critiques.