Barbara Gets Shelved

The guy re-started his tale, bringing me back to the present.

"The next morning, I asked for her phone number but she wouldn't give it to me. She took mine instead and promised to call me when she was in town next. I really hoped she would because she was a wild fuck, but, if she didn't, well, there are plenty more MILFs in the sea."

"And she did, obviously."

The guy's chest expanded noticeably. He reminded me of a pigeon trying to impress the female during the mating ritual.

"Yup. Might have been four, five weeks later she rang. I was in a relationship with another MILF by then, but Jenny was worth lying for. This time she was in town for a few nights and I banged her every single one of them. She was obviously making up for lost time as we rapidly escalated the kink factor, if you know what I mean."

The reporter eye-rolled but nodded for the guy to continue. He didn't waste a second.

"I love anal, but from experience, I know many ladies from that generation feel uncomfortable trying it. I've learned to work up to it slowly. The last night of that second trip, I fingered her ass while I was doing her. She went off, you know, in a good way. I was too fucked to take advantage there and then but knew the next time her ass was mine."

"How did that work out for you? No, don't tell me, I'll guess. She gave you her ass, and your weapon is so mighty that you split her in two and that's how she ended up in hospital."

The reporter grinned at her own joke. The guy didn't look amused. I was and had to smother a laugh or risk giving myself away. I felt guilty. Barb was in the hospital somewhere injured and probably in pain and here was I laughing at a stupid sex joke, but I couldn't help it.

"Hey, I never said my cock was huge, but I've never had any complaints; know what I mean?"

For a moment I thought he was going to whip it out to prove his point. Maybe the reporter did too as she quickly urged him on with his tale.

"Alright, alright. Go on with the story."

"Well, I knew she'd be back, and she was. She rang me this afternoon and we met in her motel again tonight."

"And did you get the backdoor prize?"

"I'll get to that. We never pretended to be anything but fuck buddies, so we just stripped and got into bed. We started like we always did with her lying on her back and dragging my head between her legs. I'd learned since the first time I'd done this, not to let her straighten her legs. With straight legs she can clamp my head between her thighs, and, if not suffocate me, then crush my fucking skull. No. I'd learned to fold her legs back onto her stomach and lick her that way. That suited my plan anyway."

From the corner of my eye, I saw the reporter raise her eyebrows in question. Me, I knew where he was going with it.

"Yeah, with her legs like that, I was able to put some lube on my fingers and start working it into her ass. God, she loved it. Started screaming like a banshee. It's a wonder we didn't have hotel security knocking down the door."

At the reporter's look, blood-shirt quickly continued.

"Yeah, so, I knew I didn't have much time before she came and from experience with her, I know she gets all sensitive down there after she comes and needs a rest afterward. So, just before she totally lost control, I slapped some lube on my cock, pushed her legs even further back to, you know, raise her butt off the bed, then skewered her ass."

The guy paused with a look of pride on his face. The reporter totally failed to look impressed by his prowess. I was still waiting for the punchline. How on earth was this newsworthy?

"How did she take it? Did she try to scratch your eyes out?"

Blood-shirt opened his mouth to answer but the reporter didn't give him a chance.

"Let me guess; you're one of those guys that do this kind of thing without asking first, cos you believe it's easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission? Christ, now I'm the one slowing your story down. Just get on with it. How did Jenny end up here?"

Appearing chagrined, perhaps because he wasn't scoring any points with the reporter, but more probably because he wasn't getting to enjoy his minute of fame, the guy did just that.

"No, she didn't object. In fact, she loved it. Started screaming even louder and tried to pull me in even deeper. Pretty much the only way to get deeper in this position is to get the girls ass higher off the bed. It's easier laying the whole pipe when you're doing it doggy. I've found that the older MILFs have trouble doing it on their back as they don't have the stomach muscles to lift their bums high off the bed anymore."

The guy paused to take a slug from his drink bottle. The reporter yawned and looked at her watch. So far this wasn't in the least newsworthy. Consenting anal sex between two single people was humdrum these days. Maybe the bird was famous, some local celebrity. The reporter made no effort to hide her impatience. I had to smother a yawn too as I waited for super-stud to continue.

"I think she did it to help her lift her butt higher, but, anyway, she reached up and grabbed the only thing available. This room was a suite and there was this unusual combined shelf and lamp thing above the bedhead. The lamp was a heavy brass one built into the wall, but kind of attached to the shelf as well. It's hard to describe, but, well, Jenny reached up with both hands and grabbed the curved support holding the lamp. That allowed her to lift her butt up so I could get in deeper. It was hot."

Times like this and I knew I was a man because I had to admit—grudgingly because I had long since decided I didn't like the guy—his description was hot. I could picture the scene in detail. We men are such visual creatures.

But, regardless, I was with the reporter when she said, "Are we getting to the point yet?"

"Yeah, almost there. Anyway, I was driving; she was yelling and hollering for me to go faster, so I did. It was crazy. This time her eyes actually rolled right back in her head as she came. I mean, right back."

The reporter leaned forward, sensing the denouement was near. I caught myself doing the same. Luckily, both were too focused on each other to notice me.

"And?"

"The stupid bitch pulled the shelf down on herself. The lamp bracket pulled out of the wall, then that brought the whole shelf down. Right on her fucking face. God, what a mess. The glass from the lamp cut her lip. The shelf was heavy and knocked out her top front teeth and broke her nose. There was blood everywhere.

"She wouldn't stop screaming. I wanted to leave but was afraid that if someone saw me running, they might think I'd done that to her."

I shook my head. Selfish prick. Poor woman. Smashed face and her lover-boy could only think about escape.

"I felt I had no option but to call the ambulance and wait with her until either they or the cops arrived."

Good. At least he'd done the right thing. There might be hope for him yet.

"I held her hand to settle her down and stop her screaming, cos, I've got to say, the sound was god-awful. It was then I noticed she was wearing a wedding ring. The bitch WAS married."

I noticed the reporter's interest increased at this last little snippet. Suddenly, I felt sad.

Leaning forward, her chin jutting, she reminded me of a vulture. If he was the stereotypical stud, then she was the stereotypical journalist.

It was clear neither was sparing a thought about the consequences of his story, not just to the woman but her family. Then again, was that their job? The woman seemed to have disregarded her husband and possible children, so why shouldn't they?

After feverishly completing her notes, then appearing to think seriously about her next question, blood-shirt repeated his initial question.

"How much is the story was worth?"

I never heard the conclusion of their negotiations. At that moment, a doctor came through the doors and called my name. When I saw his tired and harassed looking face I felt a stab of shame. While he'd been treating the sick and injured and possibly saving lives, one of which was my wife, I'd been passing the time listening to a sordid tale.

As we walked along the row of curtain clad cubicles of the ER, I put my guilt away—I'd deal with it later—and listened as he briefed me on my wife's status.

She was stable, and in no way in danger of dying. She'd been medicated, stitched, and splinted. The scars would most likely fade with time. She was due to be admitted to a ward as soon as a bed was made ready, but there was no reason she couldn't go home tomorrow after morning rounds. All her treatment from there on could be done in an aftercare facility.

I was vastly relieved, and, yes, I confess, a smidgeon of my earlier guilt dissipated. The initial call I'd received seemed to have greatly overstated the seriousness of her injuries. That, or I had made assumptions? Had they said 'accident' or 'car accident' when they phoned? Stopping at the end cubicle, the doctor slid the curtain back and stood aside to let me enter first.

Barbara saw me and tried to sit up in the bed, wincing in pain as she did so.

"Daffid..."

The air, when she got to the V of my name, whistled through her missing front teeth. My gaze took in the strips of gauze holding her nose in place and the tiny little strips that almost covered the stitches just to the left of centre on her top lip.

I came to an abrupt halt, as if hitting an invisible wall. The doctor bumped into my back and I stumbled forward a step. All my senses competed for attention, bombarding me with information. Heartbreaking information. The final blow was remembering how shy Barbara was of the scar left by the caesarean section that heralded Marie's entry to the world.

Gutted, I turned and walked away. She could be a headline all on her own.

EPILOGUE

I discovered that, for me, there was a direct correlation between hurt and anger. The deeper the pain, the greater the rage.

And my rage was huge. As in homicidal huge. Had I not walked away in the E.R., had lover-boy not been gone, his negotiation with the reporter complete, when I stormed out, I might have been telling my story from a jail cell.

As much as for Barbara's safety as for revenge, I had the locks changed by the time Barbara was released the next day. I needed the time to regain control of my emotions.

Knowing her as well as I did, though, I guess, there was much I didn't know, I figured the first place she'd head to after checking out of Goulburn Hospital would be home and when she couldn't gain entry, she'd go to her parent's place. I think it was relief I felt when my conclusions proved accurate. It made me feel as if I wasn't a total unwitting, trusting fool married to a stranger.

Her dad and mum rang me, put me on speaker phone, and called me all sorts of names for abandoning their daughter in her time of need. Their insults rankled, offending my sense of justice, but I kept calm. And, I admit, I was disappointed in them; years of loving and treating their daughter well counted for nothing. It hadn't even earned me the benefit of the doubt.

It was, however, another confirmation that I knew Barbara, or, maybe, just human nature. I knew she wouldn't be entirely honest with them. How could she be? How could she tell her even more conservative mother, 'Hey, Mum, I screwed around on Dave.'? How would a daddy's girl admit to being a slut?

I asked them what they knew, and, no surprise, they'd only been told that Barb had been in an accident while in Goulburn. The picture she'd painted was one of me going down to see her, only to turn and walk away, clearly repulsed, upon seeing her injuries. So repulsed, apparently, I had then proceeded to come home and lock her out of the house.

Anyone who knew me, and they certainly should have after twenty-plus years, would know none of Barbara's story fit my character.

It didn't even take me a nanosecond to decide there was no reason for me to be loyal, or even a gentleman, as I'm sure, Barbara thought I'd be, (maybe, she didn't know me as well as she thought, either) and support the person who had just destroyed my faith in humanity, so I replied with three simple sentences.

"So, she didn't tell you that I know all about her latest lover, John? That he let me know, in vivid detail, I might add, all about their last three sordid little hook-ups in Goulburn. Heard it from his own lips."

The quiet from her parents on the other end of the line allowed me to hear a gasp and a muffled sob, "He wasn't my latest lover, Dad. I swear he was the only one."

Well, I think that's what she said. You try understanding someone talking with a nose swollen shut and no front teeth. I thanked her parents for forcing us to sign a prenup all those years ago, specifically mentioning adultery.

The three gasps I heard as I hung up on them was a small salve to the wound inflicted by their lies and insults.

Having no illusions about what happened in the aftermath of relationships, particularly after the conversation with her parents, I spoke to Marie and our closest friends before Barbara could give them the spun version.

To a person, they weren't happy with her. Marie was cold to her mother for months, but eventually softened her stance when Barbara's plight continued to deteriorate. I didn't begrudge Marie that, after all, what Barbara did, she did predominantly to me, Marie no longer being a child.

I, however, didn't soften and refused to listen when she tried to talk about her mother and I have no shame in admitting I'm glad that they never fully regained their former closeness. There should be a price to pay for betrayal. I was happy that Barbara was made to pay in some way for her deceit and faithlessness.

To expedite the divorce, I agreed to the three sessions of Family Court mandated counselling. The rules said I had to attend. They said nothing about participating. I sat through the three two-hour sessions, while Barbara alternated between remorse and trying to justify the unjustifiable.

It was during those sessions, I learned far more about Barbara. So many things she'd left unsaid, so many things she'd denied me the opportunity to do something about. It was as if I was meant to have been psychic—she wouldn't tell me what she wanted and needed but reserved the right to punish me and look elsewhere when I didn't magically figure it out and provide it.

Funny, but she didn't see it that way. I could tell by the way she worded her every sentence.

Let's see; with tears streaming down her cheeks she admitted she was bored with our sex life. Well, so was I, had been for years, but I didn't go looking elsewhere and she only had herself to blame—she was the one who'd rebuffed all my attempts to liven it up. A man can take only so many knock-backs.

She pleaded with me, her eyes on the counsellor, looking for support, to understand how worried she was about getting old. This one really riled me. Did she, hell, did all women, think they had the cornerstone of fear of aging? What about us guys? Can't run as fast or as far. Can't last as long. Can't get it up as much. Hell, some men struggle to get it up at all, poor bastards. It's socially acceptable for women to have plastic surgery, dye their hair, and hide the ravages of time under a layer of make-up. What do we men get to do?, Oh yeah, we get to embrace our greying hair and receding hairlines.

And then Barbara, the salesman put in an appearance.

She had divorced friends who described in graphic detail how good their sex lives were. She was envious, scared life, or, at least, a satisfying sex life, had passed her by. She just wanted to experience it once. Yes, she admitted, like she was doing me a favour by confessing, she knew she'd been sexually unadventurous in our marriage, but, she went on, as if confiding, she planned to use the experience to rejuvenate our relationship.

Later that night, I chuckled over a glass of red over that one, picturing Barb trying to introduce anal play into the bedroom after twenty odd years of shooting me down in flames over the very same thing. Same with oral sex. Did she think I'd just accept without question her suddenly enthusiastically diving down on my cock or pushing my head down between her legs? Did she honestly think that such a reversal in attitude wouldn't have raised some red flags?

With a return of tears, she went on about how she'd taken extraordinary precautions to prevent me finding out because she didn't want to hurt me that way. Apparently, she loved me so much she'd gone to the trouble of using a false name and lying to lover-boy about where she was from. Her love was so great, she'd even removed her rings before the first and second meetings. She sobbed as she described nearly forgetting her rings in the motel bedside drawer after her second tryst, hence her decision not to remove them for the third meeting.

She was obviously very remorseful and claimed to still love me deeply. If only her love had been deep enough to keep her legs shut.

With hands extended toward me, hands I ignored, she swore this was going to be the last time she ever strayed.

This angered me, though I didn't let it show while in the session. Didn't want to hurt me? Like I wouldn't be hurt because of not knowing. We'd always said we'd have no secrets. Well, had I not found out I'd be the only one in the relationship with no secrets, she'd have had a whopper to hide for the rest of our lives. How could that not be harmful? Hurtful? A slow release poison in our relationship?

And did she think me so stupid? Last tryst? My ass. Why then the suggestion of signing up for trips to Newcastle, Nowra, and Broken Hill if not to line a bit more variety?

Barbara had always considered herself a smart woman and it was blatantly obvious that not knowing how I found her out was killing her. Several times during each of the counselling sessions she tried to get me to reveal my source. Each time I resisted. I didn't even tell Marie or any of our friends. Petty, perhaps, but I relished returning a tiny amount of frustration by thwarting her efforts to find out.

At the end of the third session, we were invited to give the counsellor closing arguments, as it were. The counsellor obviously expected me to remain as silent as I had been until then, but I knew her recommendations were critical, so I spoke briefly.

"This marriage is over. I couldn't possibly live with someone whose lips say they love me but whose actions say otherwise. Betrayal and humiliation speak not of love, but of contempt. I can't share my life with someone that is such a good actress that she hid from me the most heinous crimes imaginable that she committed against me. Shit, she could be acting her tears right now as far as I know. I can't place my faith and trust in someone who has revealed herself to be far from the guileless, beautiful woman I thought I knew. This marriage is over."

I don't know whether Barbara had a speech prepared or not, but my words obviously threw her. She wasted her allotted time crying and repeating herself; one moment remorseful, the next on the offensive. She even said I was only hurt because I'd found out. That my ego was the problem. (I struggled to keep my posture and expression neutral, on that one).

She claimed she'd tried her hardest to protect me by being cautious. Couldn't I see that? Couldn't I see she did love me, and that I could trust her going forward?

If I forgave her, she would bring all her newfound tricks to our bedroom and I'd be one satisfied husband. Her voice trailed off when my look of contempt, of utter distaste, for that idea broke through whatever delusions were keeping her going.

I think it was that look that told her there was no hope for us.