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Angela's Diary - 6
by Gregg X (senorsmut@gmail.com) 

***

In which Angela, our suburban housewife heroine, sees 
her world crumble around her and finally hits bottom. 
(MF)

***

Chapter 8

I have to confess that what happened over the next few 
hours, and even the next few days, is kind of a blur. 
I'll do my best to give you an honest recollection of 
that occurred and how, but I can't promise that it's 
the God's honest truth. All I can tell you is that I'll 
tell it as I remember it, even when my memories don't 
make all that much sense.

One thing I do recall with perfect clarity is that when 
David turned off the DVD I sat next to him on the sofa 
for about thirty seconds. Neither one of us moved and 
neither one of us spoke. My mind was such a whirl of 
thoughts and emotions that it would be completely 
pointless even to try to explain it. In fact, it took 
me half a minute even to summon the ability to move –

And then I spun in my seat and slapped David across the 
face as hard as I could. I hit him so hard I felt it in 
my shoulder, and my palm stung from the force of the 
blow. I left a bright, angry red mark on his cheek – I 
remember him looking at me with wide, astonished eyes, 
his left cheek as red as a cherry – and then I leaped 
up and began screaming at the top of my lungs. "YOU 
LITTLE SHIT! YOU GOD DAMNED LYING PIECE OF SHIT!"

He was looking at me like I'd lost my mind (which I 
had), but it's to his credit that he reacted with a 
simple, "Wh-huh?" rather than hitting back.

"You liar! God damn you David! Tears were flowing down 
my cheeks, but I didn't realize I was crying. I didn't 
even realize my vision was blurry. "How could you DO 
that?"

"How could I do what?" he asked, completely bewildered.

"You made it up!" I cried, stamping my foot in rage. 
"You made all of it up!"

"What are you talking about?"

"You! You made all of that up, that whole damned thing 
to try to get me into bed, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?"

"Mom...you saw the films—"

"And you REALLY think I believe it? Do you REALLY think 
I don't know that you faked the whole thing?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You faked those movies!" Even as I said it, I knew I 
wasn't making sense – my son was a teenage delinquent, 
not George Lucas – and I didn't really believe that 
he'd fabricated what he'd shown me. But at the same 
instant I believed it absolutely and completely, 
without a doubt – because I had to believe it. The 
alternative was worse. And so I believed two mutually 
contradictory things at the same moment. Get used to 
it, you'll be hearing it a lot from me in the near 
future. 

"Mom, that's..."

"ADMIT IT!"

He stood up, hands open and palms forward, trying to 
calm me down. "OK, listen I know this is hard for 
you..."

I shoved him with both hands on his chest and he went 
sprawling over backward onto the sofa again. Yes, I 
knew he was stronger than me and yes I knew he'd 
handled me easily before, but with the rage I was 
feeling now, I almost welcomed a rematch. I'd have 
clawed his eyes right out of their sockets with half an 
excuse. "Stop lying to me! Christ David, can't you be 
honest for one fucking second of your miserable life?"

I don't know what reaction he had expected from me when 
he showed me his DVD, but I seriously doubt he expected 
this. He looked positively helpless, like he was 
witness to a hurricane or a tornado and all he could do 
was hope to keep his head and survive it. "Mom, please, 
I didn't make any of that up. I wouldn't even know 
how!"

"So you just expect me to BELIEVE it? You expect me to 
believe that my HUSBAND is molesting my DAUGHTER and 
fucking some...some FLOOZY?"

"Well you saw it as well as I did."

"Your father hates sex, David! If you were going to 
make up a lie, at least you could have made up a 
believable one!"

He sighed heavily, looking miserably sad. "Mom... it's 
not that he doesn't want sex. He just doesn't want it 
with you. He's been cheating on you for years."

"Oh you are so full of shit, David! You are just–"

"Mom, will you listen to me?" he asked forcefully, 
rising from the sofa again. "Please!"

"How do you know, huh? How did you find this out? Did 
he come up to you and say, 'Oh by the way I'm cheating 
on your mom with a girl who looks like Laurel, so don't 
tell her.' Huh?"

"You want to know? Fine, I'll tell you exactly how I 
found out, if you'll listen! Will you listen to me?"

I glared at him for a hard moment, then spread my hands 
and made a disgusted, "get on with it" noise.

"OK, look, this last winter I was at a party," he 
began. "Over at Denny Trigg's house." Denny Trigg was a 
little vandal that David ran with who had gotten 
arrested a month or so back for dealing marijuana. 
"There was this girl there who I thought looked 
familiar but I couldn't place her. 

"She came with this older guy, about 30 or something, 
and she was about eleven and a half sheets to the wind 
when she got to the party. Seriously, you could have 
sold her blood in a liquor store at that point. She 
could barely even stand and this asshole dumps her off 
on the couch where I was sitting while he went to get 
her some more wine coolers. So I'm looking at her 
wondering where I know her from, and she looks at me 
and starts laughing and asks me the same question."

"I don't see where this is going, David," I snapped 
impatiently.

"Just listen, please! She thought she knew me and I 
thought I knew her and so we got to talking, trying to 
figure out where we knew each other from. And then all 
at once it hit me: she looks like Laurel."

"Uh huh," I said dubiously.

"And it was right about then that she asked me what my 
name was. I told her, and she started laughing and 
asked me if I knew Tim Reeves. I was like, yeah, he's 
my dad. And then she just starts roaring with laughter 
and she says, 'Dude, I'm fucking your dad!'"

I could feel my anger at David evaporating like dew on 
a hot summer morning. He was a better liar than this. 
If he were going to make up a story, he'd have made up 
a more probable one. He was telling the truth.

"And I was like, what, you know?" he pressed on. "And 
she just lays out the whole thing, how she ran into him 
in a T.J. Maxx and he bought her a couple of blouses, 
took her out to his car and fucked her right there in 
the parking lot."

I felt my stomach begin to twist inside of me, as 
though it had come alive and wanted out. I so very 
desperately wanted to believe my son was lying, but I 
knew he wasn't. This whole thing just explained too 
much about Tim for it not to be true. "How...how old 
was she?"

"Fifteen then. This was last fall so she's probably 16 
now. Since then they've been meeting at least once a 
weekend at that motel, usually twice. Sometimes during 
the week, too."

I sat back down on the sofa. It was either that or fall 
on my butt because my legs decided not to support me 
anymore. "And she told you all this?" My voice sounded 
like a lost little girl's. 

"Like I said, she was drunk as hell. She didn't know 
what she was saying. I doubt she remembered a word of 
it the next day."

"But you did."

He nodded. "I followed them once to see where they 
went. That motel in the video? He's been going there 
for years – all his little 'work lunches.' I slipped 
the desk guy a hundred and he told me all about it. 
Before this girl there was another, a brunette, around 
the same age. She lasted for a couple of years. Before 
that there was another, and another before that. I 
think he'd been doing it since I was little."

His words were hitting me like fists and all I could do 
was sit there and take them. There were tears rolling 
down my cheeks, but whether it was sorrow or betrayal 
or shame or rage that was making them, I couldn't say. 
I guess it was all of them and more. The weirdest thing 
about it is the physical sensations that went with it. 
Sometimes emotions cause physical feelings, sure, but 
this... look, you know the big mixing machines they 
have in paint stores? You put a whole can of paint in 
there and it shakes the hell out of it? That's what it 
felt like inside me at that moment.

I felt like my arms and legs were going to fly off and 
go their separate ways, like I was just going to 
explode all over the place. I felt a million emotions, 
but they were vibrating so fast inside me, swirling and 
running into each other, disintegrating from the impact 
and making new emotions, and faster than I could put a 
name to them they would collide with others and 
disappear and turns into something else. And all of 
that was ha
ppening while I sat nailed to the sofa, motionless as a 
Buddha. 

And then suddenly I wasn't motionless anymore. I was up 
off the sofa and charging for the phone, sprinting, 
grabbing it off the cradle. David was a step behind me, 
and he put his hand over it before I could punch more 
than one button. "Who are you calling?"

"The police!" I spat. For the moment, the emotion had 
crystallized into a deep, terrible betrayal. Tim hadn't 
fucked me during our whole marriage because he was 
screwing a procession of teenage girls. I wasn't good 
enough for him! Well I'd show him what fucking little 
girls got a man. "I'm going to have that son of a bitch 
arrested. Today! Now!"

David frowned and tried to take the phone away from me. 
I struggled a bit, but he was serious about it and had 
it out of my hand in a flash. "Mom, listen to me, you 
can't do that."

"The hell I can't! Just watch me! Give me that phone!"

"No, mom, listen! You can't do that because if you call 
the cops and tell them your husband is a pedophile, 
what's going to happen?"

"They'll arrest him and throw him in jail where he 
belongs!"

"And what are they going to use for evidence, mom?"

My mind wasn't at a point where I could follow this 
argument. "I don't care! I want that fucker put away! I 
want him in prison forever!"

"Mom! If you call the cops and tell them, they'll want 
to know how you found out."

"I'll tell them! I'll show them that goddamned DVD!"

"And then they'll search my computer for more 
evidence!" he said, his voice rising. "And what else is 
on there, mom? You and Charlie! You and ME!"

He couldn't have rocked me more if he'd have punched me 
in the chest. I took a step back, feeling like the 
world was dropping away beneath me and I was falling 
with it. If I put Tim in jail, I'd be right behind him. 
I was trapped, trapped by my own wickedness, my own 
weakness. I had put myself in a box and now I couldn't 
get out of it even to hurt the man who, at that moment, 
I hated more than I'd ever hated anyone. 

I tried to talk; I don't know what I tried to say, but 
all that came out was a formless scream of absolute 
rage and humiliation and helplessness. I clutched the 
side of my head like the Munch painting and just 
howled. David tried to put his arms around me but I 
shoved him back and took a few steps away before I 
collapsed against the wall, sobbing. 

"Mom?" David asked, worry in his voice as he stepped 
closer. "Are you OK?" I couldn't answer; my whole body 
was wracked with sobs and my chest was heaving like I'd 
just run a marathon. My son put his arms around me, 
gently, firmly, lovingly, and pulled me to my feet. He 
took me to his chest, enfolding me in his strength and 
warmth and solidity, and for a moment I let him, let 
myself fall into that embrace –

And then I pushed him away with everything I had, 
sending him staggering back three feet and me thudding 
into the wall again. "Don't TOUCH me!" I howled. "Don't 
put your hands on me! I'm not some girl you can pick up 
and fuck, I'm your MOTHER! YOUR MOTHER!"

"Mom..."

He might have said something else too, but I didn't 
hear it because at that moment I spotted the vase I'd 
bought at the Mall of America on Sunday when I'd been 
shopping with Laurel, that pretty little green vase, 
all inoffensive and quiet on the nearby end table. And 
at that moment I hated that vase so badly I would 
rather have died than let it be. I bounded to it and 
snatched it up, thinking of how Laurel had displayed me 
like a whore, how she had watched me expose myself and 
all the while she knew what she had done with my 
husband, MY HUSBAND, and how utterly she must despise 
me, how she must laugh at me when my back is turned, 
how she must laugh at me to Tim. I hurled the vase, 
sending it smashing into the wall where it shattered 
into shards of porcelain, scattering across the floor.

Outside, Charlie began to back. No doubt he had heard 
the crash, just like he'd heard me shouting before, and 
he was worried.

David grabbed my arms before I could wreck anything 
else. "Mom! Mom, listen to me! You have to calm down!"

"I told you not to touch me!" I shoved him back. "Give 
me the phone! Give it to me! If I can't call the cops I 
am damned well calling your father! That disgusting 
bastard! Give me the phone!"

He put the phone behind his back. The expression on his 
face was one of intense worry; I don't think he had any 
idea what I was going to say or do next and it scared 
him. "You can't call him, mom," he said, his voice 
deliberately calm. 

"The hell I can't! Don't you tell me what I can and 
can't do!"

"Mom!"

"DON'T! DON'T YOU TALK DOWN TO ME! DON'T YOU FUCKING 
DARE! I AM YOUR MOTHER!"

He bit back something harsh, then said, "Mom, I'm not 
talking down to you, I'm not. OK? I promise. But please 
listen to me when I say that if you call dad, it will 
only make things worse."

Once again, the anger was keeping me from following 
him. "How? What are you talking about?"

"He's going to ask how you know, and what are you going 
to say?"

"I'll tell him to fuck himself and get the hell out of 
my house!"

"And he'll ask why."

"And I'll TELL HIM! I'll tell him I saw videos of him 
and Laurel, videos of him and that little teenage tramp 
he's whoring around with–"

"And he'll ask who showed you, and you'll say me. Mom, 
what's he going to do then? If you tell him you know 
he's having sex with a minor and that he's messing 
around with Laurel, you're going to put his back to the 
wall. Do you really think he won't start asking 
questions of his own? Do you really think he won't find 
out about you and me? Then you'll be in the same 
position he is and–"

I screamed. I grabbed my head and screamed like Fay 
Wray when she saw King Kong for the first time, I 
screamed like every bimbo who was about to get knifed 
in a slasher movie. I screamed a single long, keening 
wail that tore my throat like sandpaper and that only 
ended when I lacked enough breath to keep it going. I'm 
pretty sure I sounded like a damned soul on the floor 
of Hell. David stepped in again, trying to put his arms 
around me again –

And suddenly my stomach did a brutal flip-flop. I 
slapped my hand over my mouth as the vomit rose in my 
gorge, pushed past my son, and sprinted for the 
bathroom. I struggled hugely to hold it in until I 
reached the toilet because I had this inexplicable 
thought about how it wouldn't be ladylike to barf all 
over the floor – that's the kind of thing you think 
when you lose your mind. 

I slammed the door to the downstairs bathroom open with 
my shoulder, and there was so much puke coming up that 
I could feel it flowing out my nose. I know, too much 
information, but that just smells so nasty. I made it 
to the toilet and completely lost it, vomiting hard 
enough to make my stomach muscles ache and then staying 
there for minutes afterward, dry-heaving and retching 
and spitting and crying.

"Mom?" came David's voice, along with a soft rap at the 
door. I didn't remember closing it but I must have. 
"Are you OK?"

"Leave me alone!" I gasped, feeling utterly wrung out 
in the way you do after you vomit really brutally. 

"I'm coming in," he said, opening the door. I didn't 
look at him. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't do 
anything but think how Tim had thrown me over since 
right after our marriage for a procession of 
teenybopper sluts, and how our daughter was the latest 
in the line, and how his behavior had driven me into 
the arms of my own son and how that fact trapped me 
inside the situation. My mind was racing faster than it 
ever had and suddenly I felt like the walls were 
closing in, the ceiling was coming down, like my heart 
was going to explode out of my chest. 

I was sobbing and suddenly I couldn't catch my breath. 
I was gasping air, sucking for it, but the harder I 
breathed the more out of breath I felt. David tried to 
hold me once more – I know he was saying something 
about calming down but his words weren't making any 
sense at the time – but I squirmed away. 

I felt like I needed to run, I felt like I needed to 
curl up in a ball, I felt like I needed to get away 
from Tim and David and Laurel and I felt like 
I needed to fight for my family and I felt like I was 
going to detonate like an atomic bomb and take out half 
the city when I went. My skin felt like a stranger and 
my tongue was twisting in my mouth like a fish. In 
other words, I was having a massive panic attack. I 
wasn't even aware that I had thrust myself past David 
and run up the stairs until I slammed my bedroom door 
behind me and threw myself onto my bed, my eyes closed 
tightly. 

I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think, I felt like I was 
having a heart attack. Honestly, at that moment I felt 
like I was going to die. The worst part of it is that 
it actually sounded like a pretty good idea at the 
time.

A few moments later David came into my bedroom. I tried 
to scream at him to get out but my mouth wouldn't work 
and instead I ended up curled in the fetal position, 
eyes closed, shaking like a leaf and sucking great, 
useless breaths that just made my lungs hurt more. A 
few moments later David sat down on my bed, tucked his 
hand under my head and lifted it gently. "Come on mom, 
open your eyes. You need to take this." 

I tried to tell him I didn't want to take anything but 
I couldn't exactly talk. I did manage to open my eyes 
and saw that he had a glass of water and a little white 
pill – an Ativan that I had left over from a couple of 
years before when I got rear-ended on the highway (not 
nearly as sexy as it sounds, unfortunately) and had 
some anxiety in cars for a while. Usually I only took 
half a tablet, but David put the whole thing in my 
mouth and forced me to drink some water to wash it 
down. Then he left me alone to cry, which I did until I 
fell asleep. Ativan's a hell of a drug.

I didn't sleep for long, maybe 45 minutes, but when I 
woke up I wasn't panicking anymore. I felt like hell, 
but I wasn't panicking. In fact, I was focused on a 
single thought: how much I hated Tim.

I can't even tell you how I felt about my husband at 
that moment. Since we married, or shortly thereafter, I 
was with a man who was cheating on me, repeatedly, over 
and over and over again, with one underage girl after 
another. How many had it been? How many little girls 
had he seduced, corrupted, used? How many times had he 
watched over our friends' daughter when they were 5 of 
7 or 9 years old and lusted after them? How young was 
the youngest girl he ruined? And now his sights were 
set on our daughter, our lovely, precious, innocent 
daughter. He was corrupting her, making her lust after 
him because she didn't know any better. And soon, if I 
didn't stop it, he would have his way with her, just 
like he'd done with the girl he was using as her 
surrogate. 

And that wasn't all. Because he was a disgusting, 
perverted monster, he had ignored me. He had scorned my 
needs and my wants and my happiness and made me turn to 
others. It was his fault I had done what I did with 
Charlie. It was his fault that David now had the 
opening to work his designs upon me. It was his fault 
that I had been driven into the arms of women to find a 
little comfort and release. Him, it was all him. Tim 
was the author of my misery as surely as I breathed. 
His perversions had perverted me without my even 
knowing about them, and because they had perverted me I 
was powerless to do anything about it. I was trapped, 
and that animal, that less than human thing I had 
married, had trapped me.

I was no longer panicking, but my thoughts were black 
and I wanted to do something with myself, something 
physical that would burn away some of the energy I felt 
surging for release. It occurred to me that I had some 
flowers that needed to be put in; I've never been as 
much on gardening as Tim is, but right now the idea of 
wielding shovel and trowel and breaking earth seemed 
like about the most useful thing I could do to prevent 
another freak-out, so I put on an old pair of jeans and 
a battered, shapeless tee shirt and headed outside.

Charlie was there to greet me with an enthusiastic tail 
wag and a snout thrust between my legs; he was 
surprised and confused when I put my both hands on his 
head and shoved him away roughly. I put his head low 
and his tail between his legs, immediately assuming he 
had done something wrong. That's the thing about dogs, 
of course, they just assume they deserve whatever 
treatment you give them. But of all of us, he was the 
only one who couldn't be blamed for a thing. He was the 
only innocent member of my family. All he had done was 
what instinct and my own desires pushed him to do...

And of course that made me realize that my own desires 
were no better than Tim's. Tim fucked little girls, I 
fucked dogs. What was the difference between us? How 
was I better than he was? What room did I have to claim 
moral high ground? No doubt he'd think I was as 
disgusting and sick as I thought him. No doubt he'd be 
right.

I felt my rage bleeding out of me as I walked with 
stiff, numb legs to the garden shed. Tim and I were bad 
enough to deserve each other. More accurately, we were 
bad enough to deserve prison. Our children deserved 
someone else for parents, someone not wicked and 
diseased and twisted, someone who could teach them to 
be good and decent and honorable human beings. Neither 
Tim nor I had a chance at doing that; neither of us had 
any first hand experience. We were catastrophes.

I got the shovel and the trowel, the rake and the hose 
and the fertilizer. I was moving like a zombie, and, to 
be honest, I think I had all the higher brain function 
of one too. I retrieved the flowers from the workbench 
in the garage and set about putting them in, 
mechanically, row after row. My body and my hands moved 
but I don't know what I was thinking, except that I 
hated myself more and more with every passing minute. 

Poor David had been twisted by Tim and I into a 
criminal, and now poor Laurel was going to be ruined 
too. It wasn't bad enough that we had fucked up our own 
lives but we had to take two blameless children with 
us. We were the worst monsters in the history of the 
world.

I'd lost track of time there because I was surprised 
when I heard Laurel's chipper voice behind me saying, 
"Hey, there you are! Oooh, pretty flowers!" 

And when she spoke, a flash of pure, undiluted hatred 
roared through me. I've heard the term "seeing red" 
when you want to kill someone, but it had never 
happened to me before this moment. I turned slowly to 
see Laurel coming through the back door into the yard, 
dressed in her school clothes, a big smile on her face, 
and my vision actually went the tint of blood – her 
blood. In that instant I loathed her. How could such a 
corrupt, husband-stealing abomination ever have crawled 
out of my womb? She had perverted my sweet, innocent 
husband, torn him from me for her own foul use. I felt 
my hand tighten around he handle of my trowel as she 
walked without a care across the lawn toward me and my 
garden.

She stood by my side, surveying my work, and asked, 
"What are the purple ones?"

I stood and, in a single smooth motion, drove the 
trowel blade up underneath her jaw, into the soft part 
that was unprotected by bone. I felt the tissue of skin 
and tongue yield before me as it swept up through her 
mouth, and felt the crunch of skull as the trowel blade 
penetrated her brain from below. I saw her eyes flare 
wide in surprise and, in her final moment of life, as 
blood bubbled on her lips, I saw guilt in her eyes as 
she realized why I had to kill her.

Except, of course, that only happened in my mind. I 
kept my eyes on the hole I was digging and said, "Those 
are African violets."

I was amazed at how normal my voice sounded. It wasn't 
harsh or angry. It wasn't tense. It wasn't even numb. 
It was just...me, normal, like nothing was wrong in the 
world and I didn't just find out that the fucking evil 
scum-whore daughter standing by my side was trying her 
best to take my husband from me. There wasn't a trace 
of the bitter, bone-deep hatred I felt toward her.

"They're really pretty, I like them," she chirped 
wickedly. 

I forced a smile onto my face as I stood up, though it 
felt brittle and false and deceitful. I could feel the 
muscles in my arm contracting, itching, wanting to 
drive a balled up fist into my daughter's effortlessly 
flat stomach or slam an open palm across her little-
girl face. To this day I have no idea how I kept from 
hitting her as she leaned in, unsuspecting, and kissed 
my cheek. I hated her so much, so vividly! I wanted to 
bring her the pain she had brought me, the agony, the 
feeling of being suspended between earth and sky with 
nothing solid to rest her feet on. It would have felt 
so marvelously perfect to strike her, drive her to her 
knees, kick her when she fell, feel hand and foot, 
elbow and knee, colliding with the treacherous flesh of 
my flesh and seeing the perverted blood of my blood 
flow. I wanted it so badly... but I didn't do it. 

Somehow, I didn't do it. Instead I hugged her just a 
bit, feeling my flesh crawl where she touched me, and 
then pretended I could hear her voice instead of the 
blood hammering in my ears when she told me about her 
day, about the minutia of her worthless teenage 
temptress life. I even managed to make some appropriate 
sounds at the right times, though I have no idea how I 
managed that. 

When she asked what was for dinner, it suddenly hit me 
that I had to cook for three other people, two of whom 
has stabbed me in the back and the other one of whom 
who knew it, and the very thought made me ill. I 
couldn't prepare food for them – I'd spike it with 
something that made them all sick as hell, as sick as 
they made me. And so I said, "We're ordering pizza."

Laurel arched an eyebrow. "Takeout two nights in a row? 
You feeling OK?"

Laurel knew my rule about healthy eating – take out 
once in a while was all right for a treat, but you 
never, ever had it on back to back nights. I knew she'd 
volunteer to cook if I said I didn't want to – she 
loved preparing meals for the family – but I knew that 
anything she made would feel like ashes in my mouth and 
make me vomit. So I forced that fake smile again and 
said, "I sure am. I just want pizza tonight. I hope you 
don't mind?"

"Heck no, I love pizza!" We passed a few more moments 
in conversation and then she left me alone. I didn't 
watch as she walked back into the house for fear I'd 
snatch up my shovel and brain her with it. I just went 
back to my flowers and thought about how much I hated 
her.

I was still stewing in those juices an hour later when 
Tim drove up. I felt all the anger at my daughter 
suddenly shift and fall away, replaced instantly by 
rage directed at my husband. He would could out and 
find me, I knew, and he would put his lips on my cheek 
the way he always did, those lips that had been around 
our daughter's nipples, and he would touch me with the 
hands that had caressed our daughter's skin, and how I 
would keep from flying into a rage and attacking him I 
didn't know –

"Oh, there you are!" came his voice as he stepped into 
the back yard and came toward me, a smile on his face. 

And suddenly all he anger toward him simply melted and 
was replaced by an ache, a deep-down pain of regret and 
loss. Because he wasn't mine anymore, even if he never 
touched Laurel again. It was one thing to think he had 
simply lost interest in sex altogether; that was 
galling and hurtful, but it wasn't a betrayal. But this 
– him catting around with teenaged girls, lusting after 
our own daughter, probably bedding her soon enough – 
was a knife right into my heart. I was already tearing 
up when he reached me.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, genuine concern in his 
voice as he put his hands on my shoulder and looked 
into my eyes.

"Oh, nothing," I said, fighting to keep my voice from 
cracking. "It's pollen or something, I've been doing it 
all afternoon."

His frown deepened, and I knew instantly he didn't 
believe me for a second. "Really?"

"Yeah, just something in the wind. How was your day?"

"Fine" he answered, still looking at me searchingly. 
"Just another day. I think we may be getting a new 
contract though, which is good. In this economy, every 
little bit helps, right?"

I nodded, and as I did I knew I shouldn't ask the 
question that was forcing its way to my lips, but I 
heard myself speaking before I could stop myself. 
"That'll probably mean more weekend lunch meetings, I 
guess? And evenings?"

"Probably," he replied. There was a tone of regret in 
his voice, but I couldn't tell if it was a fraud put 
there to placate me or a real sense of loss as not 
being able to fuck his substitute daughter in a sleazy 
motel as often. "But at least I have a job."

"At least you do."

He looked at me strangely again, then changed tack. 
"What did you have planned for dinner tonight?"

"I thought we'd get pizza."

He looked surprised. "Take out two nights in–"

"Takeout two nights in a row, yes," I cut in, a tiny 
but genuine smile forcing itself to my lips. I had 
trained my family well. "I just want pizza."

"Oh...well, OK. Um... is everything all right?"

Nothing was all right. I didn't know if anything would 
ever be all right again. But I didn't tell Tim that. I 
simply nodded and told him that it was, and he turned 
and went inside the house again. As I watched him walk 
away, it felt like he was walking away from my grave 
and I was watching him from below six feet of soil. 
Tim... oh God, Tim, why couldn't you just have loved 
me? Why couldn't I have been what you wanted and 
needed? None of this would ever have happened if you 
had just been able to want me.

I was so miserable by the time Tim came back with the 
pizzas an hour later that the thought of eating turned 
my stomach, but I couldn't avoid the family. I would 
have to face them, with my husband and daughter 
exchanging secret glances and my son knowing that I 
knew and was miserable. I had to swallow my bile, put a 
smile on my face and act normal. I had to because David 
was right: I had to hold myself together until I 
figured some way out of this, some way to rescue 
myself, or punish myself, rescue Tim or punish him, 
punish Laurel or rescue her. I had to make sense of the 
nonsense I was feeling. I had to control myself.

Somehow.

To say that dinner was a profoundly uncomfortable 
experience would be to dramatically understate how 
uncomfortable it was. Tim and Laurel both came to the 
table bright and bubbly, but my black, conflicted, 
turbulent mood drained them of joy pretty quickly. 
David just kept his eyes on his plate and his mouth 
shut. Charlie caught the mood, of course, but the scent 
of pizza overrode his caution so he was the only truly 
relaxed and eager member of the family in the room. 
There were a few attempts at small talk that died like 
kittens under a steamroller and after a few minutes we 
all just ate in silence, staring at our plates.

Five minutes after dinner was done, I threw it all up 
again.

An hour later I was sitting in the living room staring 
at the television (not watching it, because I couldn't 
have told you one thing I saw) and thinking about what 
my daughter and her father were doing up in her 
bedroom. There was a knot of tension in my gut, like a 
fist twisting my intestines. I thought I might vomit 
again. Every couple of minutes I felt tears flowing 
down my cheeks, though I was never really conscious of 
crying – I felt too desolate for that. Somewhere in the 
back of my head I knew I needed to focus, to figure out 
what the hell I was going to do – but I couldn't. I 
couldn't hold a thought in my brain for more than a few 
seconds before something even worse came along and 
knocked it out again. 

It was around then that David came and sat down in the 
easy chair across from mine, leaning forward, hands 
clasped in front of him. He looked at me; I didn't look 
back. He waited for me to speak until the waiting 
became uncomfortable and then he asked, quietly, "Mom? 
You want to talk?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing. Everything. What difference does it make?"

"I'm sorry, mom. For what it's worth, I really am."

"Oh, David...I don't believe you for a second."

He paused at that, then continued. "Well, it's true 
anyway. I wish it wasn't."

"Why did you show it to me?"

I guess the question caught him by surprise, or else he 
wanted me to think it did, because he took his time 
answering. "I thought you needed to know."

"Why?"

"Because your husband and your daughter are fooling 
around with each other, and your husband is fooling 
around with one teenage girl after another. I figured 
you ought to know about that."

"Oh."

Another pause, then, "And I couldn't just go on knowing 
and not telling you. That would have been messed up. I 
mean, I know this is hard on you, but not knowing would 
have been worse."

"How?"

"Well...isn't it always better to know the truth?"

I chuckled humorlessly. "No. No, it is not."

"So you'd rather not know about dad and those girls? 
About dad and Laurel? Really?"

"I don't know, David. I don't know anything right now 
except that I want to crawl under a rock and die."

He stood up and crossed to me, kneeling down beside me 
and taking my hands in his. "Mom, do you know I love 
you?"

I looked at him for a long moment. I don't have any 
idea what showed on my face because inside I was 
feeling so many different things at the same time that 
I was basically feeling nothing at all. I don't know if 
that makes any sense, but there it is. Finally, I said, 
"No, I don't. I don't know anything."

A look of hurt flickered through his lovely eyes and he 
leaned in. His lips found mine and were warm and soft, 
gentle, coaxing, and it would have been the easiest 
thing in the world to let myself fall into them, to 
fall into him, my son, to give myself to him wholly and 
completely and never look back. I would have everything 
I needed in his arms...

And then once more my emotions narrowed to a single 
steel-hard point. I put both hands on his chest and 
shoved as hard as I could while I leaped up, and I sent 
him sprawling back onto his ass with a stunned 
expression on his face. "God DAMN you, David!" I told 
him, fighting to keep my voice low enough that Tim and 
Laurel wouldn't hear it over their make-out session 
above. "Don't! Don't you DO this to me!"

"Mom, I just–"

"No!" I cut him off sharply, wagging my finger at him 
as he sprawled on the floor. "Don't you say a word! I 
can't trust you! I can't trust a word you say or a 
thing you do! We are finished, David!"

He looked very surprised at that, and I don't think 
even he's a good enough liar to fake how stunned he 
looked. He rose to his knees and slowly got to his 
feet, and I could see him fighting to keep irritation 
off his face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you keep your god damned hands to yourself from 
now on!" I hissed, real venom behind my words. I was 
just as angry at him as I had been at Laurel, and at 
Tim before that. "You don't touch me, you don't kiss 
me, you don't even fucking look at me. We're finished. 
You're not my lover and you never will be. Understand? 
You're barely even my son anymore!"

He tried to protest but I spun on my heel, stomped out 
of the room, and went off for a drive in the May 
twilight. I wasn't even really aware of where I was 
going, I was just driving. All I really remember about 
it is that, when I was on Highway 7, I realized I was 
going too fast and crossing the center line, aimed 
straight at an oncoming semi. I wasn't even aware of a 
conscious decision to do it, I was only aware that I 
was doing it, and for an instant – less than a second, 
I suppose, though it was timeless when it was happening 
– I was pretty sure I would just keep going and drive 
smack into the truck, just end it all. 

It seemed like such a seductive idea! There would be no 
problems and nothing would matter, not Tim or Laurel, 
not David, not the home that had suddenly become a nest 
of perversion, not threats or intimidation. There would 
be a brief instant of pain, perhaps a bright flash of 
light, a sound of tearing metal and shattering plastic, 
and then it would all be done with. It sounded so 
attractive...

But the truck's horn blew and I veered off, back into 
my lane; the driver flipped me the bird and shouted 
something I couldn't hear as we passed. As quickly as 
it had come, that urge for death passed me by and left 
me numb again...

I got home well after dark. Laurel's light was on in 
her bedroom, and I wondered again what she had done 
with Tim that night, how far they had gone. This time 
when the hatred and anger flared up it wasn't focused 
on one more than the other; they shared it equally 
between them, a pair of monsters who were conspiring 
against me, against the home I had struggled to make 
for them. They had both betrayed me, driven me to 
something I never wanted before they did what they did. 
I was blameless and they were evil, both of them, souls 
as black as night.

And yes, I know how untrue that is – the last part 
especially – but that was how I felt then. Like I said, 
I want to be as honest and as open here as I can be. I 
don't want to hide anything. I'll just throw it all out 
there and you can be the judge, if it's judging you 
want.

Tim was already – or still – upstairs when I got 
inside, but Charlie was there with his whumping, 
thumping tail and his love, and his desire to be 
petted. He sniffed my pussy and once more I pushed him 
away; I just stayed in the kitchen petting him and 
trying to steel myself to go and lie down next to my 
philandering pedophile husband. How the hell was I 
going to do that, knowing what I knew now? How could I 
sleep next to him, knowing that he had certainly 
discussed my failings as a lover, a mother, and a woman 
with my own daughter? How could I not strangle him in 
his sleep? Would I have the courage to do that, any of 
it? 

God I wanted to leave. I wanted to run away from this 
place and never look back. This house, this place that 
was my soul and my refuge and the center of my world, 
suddenly felt like a slaughterhouse. I was the dumb cow 
who was going to march up the stairs and pretend I 
didn't know what was going on, pretend that my daughter 
and my husband weren't the gun at the back of my head. 
I had to smile at the man who destroyed my life and 
somehow keep from showing him the pain and the rage and 
the betrayal. I had to act like I didn't know any of 
the things I knew. 

I honestly didn't believe I could do it. 

After 20 or so minutes in the living room I forced 
myself to get up and move to the living room, but it 
took a physical effort to make myself get out of the 
chair. I felt like I weighed a thousand pounds. I laid 
down on the sofa, Charlie on the floor beside me, 
turned on the TV, and just stared.

A few minutes later I heard feet coming down the 
stairs. My mind ran through the possibilities of who it 
could be, and somehow each member of my family seemed 
worse than the other two, until I thought of another 
one, who then seemed worse. I hated them all.

It was David. He stood by the sofa looking at me spread 
out. I ignored him. Finally he said, "Mind if I sit 
down?"

"Yes."

His voice was peevish when he said, "Mom, we need to 
talk."

"No we don't. What do we have to talk about?"

"This. This whole situation. You're holding everything 
inside and you need to have someone to talk about it 
with."

"And that someone should be you, huh? An impartial 
observer? Just a friendly ear?"

"Look," he said, placing his body between my eyes and 
the television and crouching. "I know what's going on 
here. In the house, I mean. Nobody else does. You need 
to talk and I'm the only one you can talk to, so yes, 
you ought to talk to me."

My eyes narrowed. "I don't want to talk to you, David. 
In fact, I'm not planning to talk to you at all, at 
least not any more than is absolutely unavoidable. Now 
leave me the fuck alone."

I wasn't looking at his face to see his reaction, but 
his voice definitely held an edge of being peeved. 
"Mom... I don't think you're being reasonable about 
this."

I snorted a laugh. "Oh, I'm not being reasonable? My 
husband has carried on a series of affairs with 
underage girls, my daughter is the next willing victim 
on his hit list, and the only person I can talk to is 
my son, who incidentally has blackmailed me and pledged 
to fuck me. Gee, I can't imagine why I'm not being 
reasonable!"

"Mom..."

Leave me alone, David. Leave me alone. Leave me alone."

He paused there for a moment, then grunted and 
muttered, "Shit."

"Watch your language."

Another pause, then a disbelieving, "Wow."

I said nothing, and he said nothing, and finally he 
emitted a disgusted sound and walked back upstairs. I 
stayed were I was, looking at nothing and feeling like 
I wanted to puke, for another hour. I couldn't bring 
myself to go upstairs, and I guess I thought if I 
waited long enough Tim would be asleep. Finally the ten 
o'clock news wrapped up and I made myself rise off the 
couch. I let Charlie out, turned off the lights, and 
trudged up the stairs like a condemned criminal walking 
to the guillotine.

Laurel's light was out, thank God, but my heart dropped 
when I saw that the light in my bedroom was still on. 
My feet kept moving though, and I opened the door and 
stepped inside. Tim was sitting up in bed, reading a 
novel, and he smiled at me a little worriedly. "Hi."

"Hi." I hoped I just sounded tired and not shattered.

He pulled down the covers on my side of the bed, 
watching me as I undressed. "Where'd you get off to 
tonight?"

My back was to him as I put my clothes in my hamper and 
found my nightgown, which made it a little easier to 
lie. "Oh, I got a bug to do a little shopping and I 
lost track of time."

"Oh," he said, and I could hear the relief in his 
voice. "I was wondering if maybe something was on your 
mind?"

I let the cotton nightgown fall over my head and turned 
to face him with a smile I couldn't feel. "No, nothing 
much. Why?"

"Well, this afternoon you seemed a little preoccupied."

I sat down on the edge of the bed. "Honestly, fast food 
two nights in a row and you guys think the world is 
ending."

He chuckled. "Well, that was part of it. But it really 
seems like there's something bothering you. Do you want 
to talk about anything?"

Yes Tim I want to talk about how you've been banging 
high school girls since were married. I want to talk 
about how you've neglected and scorned me and nearly 
driven me into the arms of my own son. I want to talk 
about how you're corrupting our daughter and about how 
she's seducing you. I want to talk about how much I 
hate you. I want to talk about wanting to see you 
choking on your own blood. I want to talk about a 
divorce. I want to talk to you through the bullet-proof 
glass of a prison visiting area. "Ummm...no, not 
really. Are you mad I went shopping tonight?"

"No, of course not," he said as I made myself lift my 
legs and swing into bed next to a monster. "You can go 
shopping whenever you want, you know that. But I think 
there's something bugging you. You know you can talk to 
me about anything."

I know I can talk to you about nothing. "I know," is 
what I said as I leaned across and put a kiss on his 
cheek. "Was there something you wanted to talk about?"

He looked me in the eyes and shook his head, and I 
suddenly knew what he thought, just as surely as if I 
had telepathy: he thought I was having an affair. He 
hoped I was having an affair. He wanted me to be 
getting it on the side good and hard from some young 
stallion, not because he wanted us to be over and 
divorced, but because he loved me and he wanted me to 
be happy and he thought a fling would satisfy me. He 
knew he couldn't give me what I needed and so he was 
hoping that what was bothering me was the same guilt 
that he must occasionally have felt when he was with 
one of his young lovers so that he could hold me and 
tell me that it was all right, he accepted it, it 
wouldn't come between us if I was just discrete...

I almost laughed, but if I did there would have been no 
humor in it. God, I knew him so well. Fuck you, 
asshole. You aren't getting off that easy.

"Nope. I'm just worried about you, that's all."

"Don't be worried, silly," I replied, pulling the sheet 
over me and nestling in. "I'm all right. If it's 
anything I'm just worried about getting old and saggy."

He chuckled. "Well, you've got a long time before you 
have to worry about getting saggy."

"Oh, you're a liar." Somehow my voice was teasing, but 
I tasted vomit. "I'm gonna go to sleep, I'm beat."

"Ok. Want me to turn off the light?"

"Oh no, I'm fine. Good night, Tim."

"Good night, babe. You know I love you?"

"I know, babe. I love you too. Good night."

I closed my eyes and in a few minutes I pretended to be 
asleep. I know Tim was watching me, and I know I didn't 
convince him. He still knew something was up. But 
dammit, it's hard to lie to someone who knows you so 
well; especially when you've just found out some 
horrible secret they keep. So I lay there for another 
fifteen minutes, feeling my skin crawl at being so 
close to him, until he turned off the light. A few 
minutes later he began to snore in the faint, familiar 
way he has that I had always found so comforting but 
now thought was repellent and sickening. 

From the first I knew sleep was impossible. I laid 
there in the darkness with my eyes wide open, facing 
away from Tim and staring at the wall, my foot idly 
rubbing Charlie as he slept on the bed. It was as bad 
as I thought it would be, lying in this bed with Tim. I 
could feel his warmth and the way his body depressed 
the mattress and I hated it. For the first time ever, I 
hated being in bed with my husband.

I won't bore you with the details of every little thing 
that ran through my mind that night. Most of it wasn't 
very coherent anyway, and just me rehashing all the 
other incoherent thoughts I'd already told you about. 
Tim and Laurel, Laurel and Tim, whose fault it was and 
what was I going to do...

The clock said it was 3:26 AM when the thought occurred 
to me. I didn't seek it out. I didn't "think my way to 
it." It just popped into my head, fully formed, and 
when it did I nearly sat bolt-upright like someone who 
awakens from a nightmare in a TV show. The thought, 
simply, was this: this cleared the way for me and David 
to be together. I know, I know, most people reading 
this probably thought that right away, but the shock 
and the hurt kept my mind away from it until now. Now, 
though...now I knew that Tim couldn't possibly object, 
even if he found out. I could go to David's bed and he 
could take me, touch me, love me, fuck me. And he could 
make me happy – I knew that he could, I knew it in my 
bones, completely and without question. 

He would be everything I have ever, ever wanted in a 
lover, willingly and eagerly.  I would never need to 
beg him for sex, no matter what time day or night I 
wanted it. There would be nothing I wanted to try that 
he wouldn't be willing to try with me, no fantasy or 
desire too corrupt or outrι for him to satisfy. He 
would accept me for who I was, love me, cherish me, and 
never even think of condemning me. Let my husband and 
my daughter do what they wanted to – I would have my 
beautiful son's beautiful cock, and his mouth and his 
fingers and his hard body and deliciously wicked mind 
to keep my body thrumming with joy. There wouldn't even 
be a need to hide it, or to feel ashamed. I could 
simply be me with the mate I had always needed...

And no sooner had that thought occurred to me than 
another followed, one less pleasant by far: I had been 
set up. David wanted me and Laurel wanted Tim and they 
worked together to lay a trap for us both. That was how 
David knew to put a camera in Laurel's room that night. 
That was how Laurel knew to look in my lingerie drawer 
right after I bought some naughty things. My children, 
my wicked children, had hatched a scheme together and 
my husband and I had fallen right into it!

All right, with the perspective of time, I know how 
ridiculous that is. Laurel and David couldn't spend two 
minutes together without fighting, much less cook up a 
cockamamie plan like that and make it work. But in the 
state of mind I was in, at 3:30 in the morning on a 
sleepless and miserable night of almost unbearable 
stress, I believed it completely and without question. 
A sick feeling settled in my gut at the implications of 
so unnatural and monstrous a plot, and I very nearly 
woke up Tim and told him of my "realization." 

Lord, I'm glad I didn't. Instead I stayed where I was, 
more awake than ever, getting angrier and angrier at my 
children until, had I seen either of them, I'm sure I 
would have attacked them physically. It seems so silly 
now, but there it is. All I can say is that at the 
time, it didn't just seem reasonable, it seemed 
inescapable.

And it led, with as much logic as my brain was capable 
of at that moment, to my next conclusion: I needed to 
stop everything I was doing. I needed to get off the 
crazy train I had been on since David found me getting 
licked by Charlie. No more fooling around with my dog. 
No more fooling around with my son. No more sneaking 
off to have sex with women or flash my body in public. 
No more wearing slutty clothes, even underwear. 

Hell, no more shaving my pussy. I had to stop the march 
to madness before I took it one more step. If I could 
stop it for myself, then I could figure out a way to 
stop it for Tim, and for my children. Poor Charlie 
wouldn't understand, but that was a price that needed 
to be paid. I had to put things back the way they were. 
I had to do it or we'd all go to a hell of our own 
devising, and I couldn't let that happen to my family. 

Yes, I know, all the king's horses and all the king's 
men. But the certainty of my ludicrous conviction 
brought me a kind of peace, and it wasn't all that long 
before I actually went to sleep.


May 28

I was strong in the morning. I really was. I put my new 
clothes and new lingerie in a bag and stuffed it into 
the back of the closet, and dug out the sensible 
underwear from where I had it stored. When Charlie sat 
down and whined for me to dig out my dog-fucking 
clothes, I gave him a very firm no and sent him outside 
(it was raining, so he didn't like that much!). When I 
took my morning shower I ran my hand over the faint 
stubble on my crotch and smiled, sure that I had shaved 
it for the last time. As I ate lunch I had a few dark 
thoughts but I pushed them aside. This was, I thought, 
a problem I could handle. I could figure out a way. I 
was smart, I was determined, and I would make an out. 
That was all there was to it.

It was on my run with Charlie that I broke down. I was 
moving along, feeling my legs pumping and my heart 
beating and honestly not thinking about anything in 
particular when suddenly the image of Tim and Laurel 
together exploded into my mind. And not the way you'd 
think, either – the image was them post-coital, sweaty 
and naked, a pile of bare flesh and tangled limbs, his 
arm around her as he whispered into her ear what a 
failure I was as a mother, as a human being, how I had 
never pleased him in bed or out, how he had only gone 
out with me out of pity, how he pitied me now, and she 
would say she pitied me too and they would pity me 
together because I was pitiful and beneath contempt, I 
was nothing more than a minor obstacle to keep them 
from finding happiness together but not to worry she'll 
be out of way soon and you and I can be together and 
we'll never have to think of her again –

I stumbled on the rain-slick running path, floundered 
into a telephone pole and leaned against it with all my 
weight, both hands on it. The rain was hammering at my 
bent back in cold sheets but I barely even noticed it – 
I was lost in another attack of sheer, unadulterated 
panic. Charlie snuffled and me and chuffed in concern, 
but I didn't even have the strength to try to comfort 
him. I knew I needed to make it home, swallow another 
Ativan and let myself freak out in the privacy of my 
own bedroom, but the idea of going back there was 
terrifying to me. Laurel would come home and find me 
there and I was so utterly terrified of her!

Yes, terrified. Not angry or resentful, just scared, 
plain and simple. I know it's a baffling reaction to 
have – she being the kid and me being the adult – but I 
didn't know what Tim had told her about me, or what she 
had told him. I didn't know what promises he had made 
to her. I didn't even know how far they'd gone 
together. And most of all I didn't know what it was 
about her that let her steal Tim from me. She had 
something I didn't some power, some ability, some 
quality that made Tim want her when he didn't want me, 
and whatever it was terrified me.

I don't mean to suggest that my fear was rational, 
because it wasn't, but that doesn't make it any less 
real. It took me fifteen minutes before I could force 
myself up and get myself moving again, and every step 
required force of will. On the way home I stopped twice 
more, overcome with panic and unable to take a step. 
Poor Charlie and I were both freezing by the time we 
got home – the rain was cold and we weren't moving 
anything like fast enough to keep warm. I dried him 
off, trying not to think about Laurel or Tim or 
anything at all, but my mind kept coming back to the 
same things over and over again like steel to a magnet. 

I took an Ativan and a hot shower and laid on my bed 
feeling like the walls were closing in on me. I 
couldn't get past the image of Laurel coming home and 
looking at me with those eyes, eyes that pretended at 
innocence but had secrets and knowledge and power I 
couldn't understand or match. She had my husband – the 
man who couldn't bear to touch me was wrapped around 
her finger and had fucked a series of substitutes for 
her, only now she was old enough he didn't need those 
substitutes anymore and he would take her and they 
would do things and say things and I was helpless and 
hopeless...

And I had to make dinner. I could just barely get away 
with having takeout twice in a row, but three times and 
my family would call the police. If I was going to 
avoid suspicion, I needed to get up, get out of bed, 
and prepare a meal. It would have to be something 
simple, like baked chicken, but it would have to be 
SOMETHING. And so it was that I wound up in the kitchen 
when Laurel came home and I nearly sliced my finger 
off.

Maybe I ought to explain. I cut up a chicken for 
baking, scrubbed some potatoes and washed a head of 
lettuce for a salad, and all the time I was dreading 
Laurel getting home because I knew that when she did 
I'd have to look at her and honestly I didn't know if I 
could do that. It was bad enough that I was even hoping 
David would get home before her, not because I wanted 
to see him (I didn't) but because I knew he would talk 
me down off my cliff if I let him; unfortunately, he 
picked that day to go out with friends after school, 
which meant that the time before Laurel walked in the 
door was an absolutely miserable two hours that took 
about 47 years. 

I had just decided to add some fresh asparagus to the 
meal and was cutting it up when Laurel strolled in with 
a cheery, "Hi mom!" I jumped about a foot and the (very 
sharp) knife I was using slid right into my left index 
finger. And I mean slid into my finger, as in I felt 
the blade scrape into the bone and I instantly started 
bleeding like a pig. 

"MOM!" Laurel cried, leaping to my side and turning on 
the cold water in the sink. I held my hand underneath 
the spray, clutching at it and watching the crimson 
swirl go down the drain. I felt very...outside myself 
as Laurel fluttered and gasped and said she was going 
to puke, and all I could do was nod dumbly when she 
said, "I don't think the bleeding's gonna stop on its 
own, mom. Oh my God, that's so gross. You better go to 
the ER."

"But I have to finish making dinner," I said meekly, as 
though Laurel would have snapped and beaten me if I 
didn't feed her. 

"Gah! I'll finish cooking, not like I'm gonna eat after 
this! Go! Go!"

I did as I was told, trembling from head to toe as I 
did – not because of the cut (it was a bleeder but I've 
had worse) but because she told me to and I was so 
damned scared of her that I'd have jumped off the roof 
if she'd have ordered me to do it. I slapped an old 
dish towel around it so I wouldn't bleed all over my 
car, marched myself out to the garage, and drove to the 
urgent care clinic near Southdale shopping mall. 

It was a very peculiar experience, sitting there in the 
lobby quietly bleeding while my mind ran a million 
miles an hour. In a way I was even glad I'd sliced 
myself like a ham because it got me away from the 
little girl who had suddenly become so unknowable and 
terrifying. A part of me knew it was silly to be so 
afraid of her but honestly I couldn't stop. After 20 
minutes they took me back into the exam room, put in a 
couple of stitches, and gave me a prescription for an 
antibiotic; I HATE being on antibiotics because they 
give me the worst diarrhea (too much information 
again?) but I didn't utter a peep, I just took the 
scrip and drove to the Target just on the other side of 
the mall to get it filled.

Another weird thing happened there, as I stood waiting 
silent and motionless for the pharmacist to give me my 
med. The sudden conviction hit me that this whole thing 
was entirely and completely my fault. All of it. David 
was treating me like a whore because I deserved to be 
treated that way. Tim had sworn off sex with me because 
I wasn't worth having sex with. Laurel had stolen his 
affections because I wasn't good enough to keep them. 
It was all me, all my fault, and I was getting exactly 
what I deserved.

Now, coupled with my continuing terror of my daughter, 
this made me feel as bad as I ever have in my life. I 
felt like the lowest thing on the planet, the most 
shameful, most worthless, most disgusting person ever 
to walk or crawl. I felt ugly, stupid, senseless, 
awkward. I felt despicable and lowly. Tears were 
rolling down my face by the time I took the medication 
from the pharmacist, and she even asked me what was 
wrong. I was too low even to speak, I just shook my 
head and made my unsteady way out of the store, my 
vision so blurry from crying that I nearly collided 
with four or five people on the way. 

I made it to my car before I started blubbering, but as 
soon as the door closed I was wracked with sobs and a 
weird feeling of pain shooting up my spine that was so 
intense I couldn't even feel the cut on my finger. I 
held onto the steering wheel with both hands and wailed 
as the cold rain pummeled down on my car and people 
walking past in the parking lot gave me strange looks.

Oddly, I felt a little better after that. Sometimes a 
good breakdown does wonders. By the time I got home I 
was still leery and nervous of Laurel and still pretty 
sure I had somehow fucked up and brought all this hell 
on myself, but I felt ten times better than I had 
before. I still felt edgy as anything when Laurel came 
running up to me and demanded to see my finger, and I 
still felt miserable when Tim hugged me, but I was 
strong enough that I didn't have another panic attack. 
Thank God for small favors, huh?

I was exhausted from not having slept much the night 
before and having a heaping helping of stress all day 
long, so after a re-heated dinner and a little while 
reading a cheesy romance novel (oh bite me, like you 
don't have any guilty pleasures) I tried to go to 
sleep. I was almost there when Tim came in to go to 
bed, and that set off another flutter in my chest that 
I was coming to recognize as the first stage of panic. 
I went into the bathroom, got another Ativan, and 
managed to get to sleep. Thank God.


May 29

When I woke up and marched down the stairs to make 
breakfast, I felt a lot stronger than I did the day 
before. I wasn't afraid of Laurel anymore; I thought 
she might hate me, given that I was married to the man 
she wanted, but I wasn't afraid of her. It didn't seem 
to me that the whole thing was my fault, though I 
thought some of it might be – maybe I just hadn't 
insisted hard enough that Tim stay physical with me. I 
didn't know, but I didn't feel bad. After a good 
night's sleep, I actually felt like the situation might 
be handleable. I'm not sure if "handleable" is a word, 
come to think of it, but you know what I mean. 

Laurel was excited about school coming to an end; this 
was their second to last week before summer vacation 
started, and Laurel was thrilled with the summer 
activities she had planned, not to mention the fact 
that this weekend was her last track meet of the year 
(unless she made the State tournament, which she 
thought she still had a good chance at, in which case 
she'd be running the first week of vacation). She was 
going to riding camp, wilderness camping in the 
Boundary Waters for a week and a half, white-water 
rafting in Jackson Hole...and David was looking at her 
with undisguised contempt. "Jesus, could you be more 
pathetic?" he asked her finally. "You're like a walking 
advertisement for Teen Spirit."

David's not much of a one for organized activities.

Laurel just sneered at him. "Well I was thinking of 
sitting around on my butt all summer getting high with 
a bunch of losers but I don't want you to accuse me of 
being a copycat."

"Enough from both of you!" Tim interjected on his way 
out the door, giving both kids an equally stern look. I 
have to admit I thought it was remarkable that he could 
be doing what he was doing with Laurel and still treat 
her the same as David when they were both at fault for 
something; oh, don't get me wrong, I still thought he 
was a perverted son of a bitch, but at least he was a 
fair one. "I'm tired of you two arguing all the time. 
You're brother and sister and I expect you to treat 
each other decently, all right?"

Neither David nor Laurel answered, and so I kissed Tim 
on the cheek and sent him on his way. I did it 
automatically, without even thinking, and the weird 
thing was that it didn't even feel grotesque, the way 
it had the night before. It was just...Tim, and I was 
just kissing him goodbye the way I did every day. It 
was just normal. I didn't realize until after he was 
out the door what I'd done, and I marveled at myself 
for being able to do it.

Laurel left a few minutes later and she got a kiss and 
a hug too, same as always, as she ran out the door to 
catch her bus. David watched all this, of course, and 
when we were alone he said, "So you're feeling better, 
I see."

"I'm...stronger, I guess. That's fair to say."

"Do you feel like talking about it now?"

I shrugged, even though a twitter of nervousness 
rippled through me at the thought of actually 
discussing things in detail with him. "Well not right 
now, you have to go to school."

"This afternoon? Before Laurel gets home?"

"We'll see. I'm not sure I'm that strong yet."

He stood as he downed the last of his milk. "You'll 
need to deal with it sooner or later, mom. This 
situation isn't going anywhere. Dad and Laurel are 
still doing what they're doing."

I paused. I didn't want to ask he question, but I had 
to. "Are you sure? The camera..."

"I took the camera out of her room. I don't leave it in 
there all the time, just once in a while. I don't want 
it to be found."

"So you don't know..."

He gave a soft chuckle, more of a dismissive exhalation 
than anything else. "Why would you think they stopped?"

On that note, he left me alone. 

In the morning I talked to Sue and a few girlfriends. 
Patty had another date with Maria scheduled for that 
night, and they were both practically in heat; they had 
a nice dinner at Maria's place planned, but Patty was 
pretty sure there wouldn't be much food eaten. Pussy, 
yes, lots of it, but not food. I cleaned, went to the 
post office, called the repairman about the water 
heater that had been acting weird, and was generally 
productive...

Until that is, around noon, when a damned fool idea hit 
me. Isn't it funny how the really foolish ideas always 
seem so obviously foolish later on, but sound like such 
good thinking at first? This was definitely one of 
those situations. The whole thing turned out to be so 
embarrassing, but...well, my idea was that I would 
seduce Tim. I would show him I was a great wife, a 
great lover, someone worthy of his respect and 
adoration – and his fidelity. I would fuck his brains 
out. I would show him I was better than any little 
underage bimbo could ever be – especially our daughter 
– and when I was done with him he'd never even look at 
another pussy but mine ever again. 

It honestly seemed like a good idea at the time, and I 
was convinced it would work. I didn't have a shadow of 
a doubt. I would recapture my husband, rescue my 
daughter, save my marriage and extricate myself from 
the fix I was in with David with a single night of 
unbridled marital passion. 

What could possibly go wrong?

I decided I'd begin by making Tim's favorite dinner: 
moussaka with eggplant (not my favorite but Tim loves 
it) with a tomato and feta salad, crusty Italian bread, 
a nice Argentinean Malbec, and for dessert some little 
fried honey balls called loukoumathes. Candles, some 
soft music...

Of course, this meant that the kids couldn't be around 
for dinner, so I called them on their cells and told 
them to find somewhere else to eat. Kind of a jerk move 
at such short notice, I know, but I felt I was 
justified – and besides, neither of them minded. Laurel 
seemed to guess right away that I was planning a 
romantic dinner and she wished me luck with what 
sounded like sincerity; I accepted it with what sounded 
like grace. David just laughed and said he'd be home 
about nine. 

I spent the rest of the afternoon making the perfect 
dinner, the perfect setting, and the perfect me – I 
spent a long time on my hair and my makeup, and I wore 
exactly what I did on my date with David: the slinky 
red dress, the hooker shoes, and not a damned thing 
else. I know it should have made me feel guilty to wear 
that dress to seduce my husband, given what else had 
happened when I wore it, but it didn't occur to me. I 
was, to put it simply, focused. And I was positive it 
would work.

Tim called to say he'd be fifteen minutes late because 
he was in a meeting that ran late, which was fine. I 
used the time to put finishing touches on the table 
settings. The shades were pulled, the candles were lit, 
the silver was glistening, and soft, sexy jazz was 
playing when Tim drove up. I stood in the middle of the 
kitchen, posed just exactly so, a seductive smile on my 
face and one hand draped with studied casualness over a 
chair. Tim opened the door, started to say hi, and then 
froze, a puzzled and pleased expression on his face. 
"Oh...well hello."

"Hello," I replied, sashaying across the room. I 
pressed my body against his...and then took his 
briefcase from him. "Come on in, I have some wine ready 
and the moussaka is almost done."

"Moussaka? What's the occasion?"

"Mmmm, no occasion, sweety. Can't a wife cook for her 
husband?"

He smiled. "Well you won't hear me complaining. And you 
look fantastic."

I did a little runway twirl and walked off to pour him 
a glass of wine – and, of course, to let him look at my 
ass. I had a woman's ass, not Laurel's flat little 
thing, and I knew I looked fantastic. And furthermore, 
I knew Tim would be drooling. "By the way, the kids 
won't be joining us. They've made other plans for 
dinner."

"No kidding," he chuckled as he sat at the table. When 
I turned around with a glass of his favorite wine, he 
was wearing an expression of mostly-concealed 
curiosity, like he couldn't quite figure out my angle. 
Well, I said to myself, that was all right. It would 
become apparent to him soon enough! I handed him his 
wine – leaning over and giving him a look at my girls 
as I did – and then went back to the oven to check the 
moussaka. I returned with the salads and snuggled down 
in the chair I had carefully placed next to his. 

"Well this is fantastic," he said after a bit. "Are you 
sure it's not my birthday or something?"

"Well...I'll have a present for you later, but it's not 
your birthday."

He laughed, but I detected a note of unease in it. I 
didn't let it bother me though – I had no doubt he'd 
succumb to me in due time and forget all about his 
little girls. We made some chitchat until the moussaka 
was ready to serve, and I didn't let the fact that he 
seemed uncomfortable bother me. 

I started getting a little uneasy myself as dinner wore 
on...and "wore on" is a deliberate choice of words. Tim 
was uneasy and it showed. I was expecting him to be 
looser by this time, anticipating an evening of wild 
sex with his gorgeous wife. Even if he didn't walk in 
the door wanting it, I thought any man would be 
lubricated by great food, good wine and the prospect of 
pussy. 

Apparently I was wrong.

By the time dessert rolled around, I knew things 
weren't going to be as easy as I'd thought. I hadn't 
given up – not by a damned sight – but I knew we 
wouldn't be rushing up to bed from the dinner table, 
much less fucking ON the dinner table like I'd 
imagined. Some dancing might do the trick...yes, slow 
dancing, moving together to soft jazz, me pressing my 
softness against his hardness...him smelling my hair 
and my arousal...my hands on him, his on me...that 
would do it. No doubt about that.

"Well," he said with feigned reluctance as I cleared 
away the dessert dishes, "I have some work I need to 
do. There was this meeting at the office that ran 
late..."

"Oh, no, let's dance," I urged softly, taking his hand 
across the table. "It's been ages since we danced 
together, hasn't it?"

"Well...yes. I mean, I don't even know if I can 
remember the last time..."

"Come on then," I whispered, standing and tugging him. 
After a moment he got up, looking a bit green around 
the gills. A flicker of irritation crossed my mind – 
Christ, what was he so scared about? Was I that ugly? I 
pushed it aside though; I'd still get him. He was just 
nervous because it had been so long since he'd been 
with a real woman, that was all. He'd get over it when 
I got him hard and he slid into me – no girl could 
compare to a woman with experience and determination!

We moved into the living room and I moved into his 
arms. It was dark, lit only by the lights of the 
stereo, and I put myself against him the way I used to 
do when we were dating, my arms around his back, my 
head nestled into his chest, my breasts pillowed out 
against his ribs. We used to dance like this all the 
time...except that then he didn't have the nervous, 
awkward feel that was coming off of him in waves now. 
He held me like I was made of porcelain, his hands well 
above my waist, and he barely moved at all. 

And I felt absolutely no stirring whatsoever in his 
pants.

After three songs, even I began to get the hint that I 
wasn't getting anywhere with this. The thought made me 
cringe inside – I had absolutely not been prepared to 
fail, and this was stinging. As I shuffled slowly and 
halfheartedly in his arms it occurred to me that if I 
were Laurel, or one of his girlfriends, he would be 
hard as a rock right now. He would have his hands all 
over me and urging me to my knees to take him into my 
mouth and get him wet so he could fuck me right here on 
the floor, fuck me like a slut...

No. I was better than that. I had to be better than 
that. I took him by surprise when I started pushing him 
backward. He let me guide him, not completely sure what 
I had planned, and when the backs of his knees met the 
edge of the sofa he sat down abruptly. I was down in a 
flash, on my knees and tugging at his belt and his 
zipper, loosening his pants. 

"Honey..." he began, but I shushed him with a hand 
across his lips as I yanked his underwear down over his 
hips. His cock was in front of me, timid and flaccid 
and useless, but I didn't hesitate. I knew how to get a 
cock hard – I knew it better than some ignorant little 
teenage bitch, and I sure knew it better than my own 
daughter! I put my mouth on it, taking it past my lips. 
My tongue met the velvety softness of the head and I 
flicked at it with the tip, caressing the hole and 
working underneath the crown in the way I knew men 
adored...

Nothing.

"Oh...Angela..." He sounded vaguely worried. 

I ignored him. I took the whole thing into my mouth, 
burying my nose in his pubic hair and sucking, licking, 
rolling it against lip and tongue a cheek, then slowly 
let my mouth off of it, then back down again. I pulled 
my tight little dress down over my shoulder and let my 
breasts free, knowing that my pale skin would glow in 
the faint stereo light...

A twitch. A shiver, perhaps. The ghost of excitement.

That was all the encouragement I needed (and it was all 
I got, because the tiny, worried sounds my husband was 
making were anything but encouraging). I sucked, 
licked, teased his balls with my fingertips. When that 
didn't make him any harder I lifted his cock and took 
his balls into my mouth, one after the other, as I 
gazed up at him lustfully...

It was pretty dark, but I'd almost swear the expression 
on his face was anxious and a bit miserable. "Honey...I 
don't know...I'm sorry..."

And that was when it hit me. I had made the biggest 
jackass out of myself that I had ever done in my life. 
It's odd how clear it all was in retrospect, how 
obvious that my little plan stood no chance of working. 
If Tim had wanted me, he'd have taken me some time in 
the last ...what, five or six years since the last time 
we did it? He didn't want me, and so he didn't take me. 
He wanted teenagers. He wanted our daughter. And here I 
was, dressed like a desperate middle aged slut with his 
limp cock in my mouth. Humiliation? You're soaking in 
it.

The worst part is that I didn't stop when I realized 
it. I mean, I should have, but the humiliation was just 
too intense to let me cut the humiliation short. Again, 
nonsensical, but then I suppose you're used to that by 
now. It had been a nonsensical few days. And so I 
carried on, sucking my husband's cock, sucking his 
balls, licking him, moaning, telling him how good he 
tasted. I got him to about half mast, but he only 
stayed there for a few seconds before fading away 
again. Honestly, I think I'd still be there, sucking 
like an idiot, if he hadn't put his hand on my cheek 
and said, in a voice hollow with genuine sorrow, "I'm 
sorry, honey."

I paused for a long heartbeat, his limpness still in my 
motionless mouth, and then slowly pushed myself back, 
glad of the darkness in the room as the miserable gut-
punch of failure landed on me. I was an idiot. Pure and 
simple, I was an idiot. I couldn't look at him; I just 
kept my eyes on the persistently soft cock that was the 
symbol of my foolishness until, after a few moments, he 
moved his hands over it defensively.

"Honey, I'm so sorry..."

I interrupted him with some kind of a noise that didn't 
reach the level of a word. It was somewhere between a 
sigh and a moan and a sob (though I wasn't crying) and 
while you couldn't look it up in the dictionary, I 
think my meaning was pretty plain. 

"Honey..."

I just shook my head as I pulled my dress back up to 
cover myself. I couldn't say a word. 

"I'm really sorry, it's just..."

I stood slowly and began to walk to the stairs.

"Baby...can we please talk about this?"

I paused at the foot of the stairs and managed to say, 
"Would you mind washing the dishes?" I was amazed at 
how completely ordinary my voice sounded. It was almost 
as though I wasn't just completely and utterly 
humiliated. 

"Um...sure. Honey?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

Another heartbeat, and I pronounced the simple epitaph 
of my sex life with my husband: "OK."

I went up the stairs with legs as heavy as lead, 
feeling as utterly and completely stupid as I ever have 
in my life. I felt about an inch tall. I wanted to find 
a deep, dark hole, crawl inside, and never come out 
again. What a fool I had been. What a complete fool.

In my bedroom I sat on the edge of my bed with my head 
in my hands, naked, staring at the floor and wondering 
at myself, at the sheer stupidity I had displayed and 
how completely I had humiliated myself. I knew that...

Honestly, I don't even want to talk about it anymore. I 
know I said I'd come clean about everything, and I 
tried, but this thing just hurts too goddamned much, 
even now. 


May 30

It was 2:48 AM when I woke up from a dream I can't 
remember. One second I was sound asleep and the next I 
was wide awake, eyes open, staring at the red numbers 
on the clock and feeling the most profound sense of 
relief I think I have ever felt in my life. I had given 
my marital bed every single chance in the world, and it 
had failed. It had failed not because I lacked the 
desire or the ability, but because of Tim. He wanted 
something I couldn't give him anymore – youth – and 
that was no fault of mine. I had done my best.

I was free.

I can't even start to tell you how that thought made me 
feel. I owed Tim nothing now – sexually at least. Did I 
owe him anything else? Was I to stay married to him? 
Was I to be a good and dutiful wife? I didn't know, but 
at that moment I can truthfully say it didn't matter 
either. Those things could sort themselves out later, 
and they would. I didn't need to figure everything out 
now. I could take things one step at a time, because 
one step at a time was fast enough. And if something 
happened between Tim and Laurel in that time...well, 
then something would happen between them. I couldn't 
stop it.

And tomorrow, I was going to let my beautiful dog 
Charlie fuck my ever loving brains right out of my 
head. If Tim had shown the slightest interest in me – 
even if he hadn't been able to maintain an erection, if 
he'd have at least gotten one – then I wouldn't have 
been able to go to Charlie. But now there was no reason 
in the whole world to deny myself the pleasure and the 
completeness my dog brought me.

I went back to sleep with a smile on my face.

Tim looked sheepish when I came into the kitchen that 
morning, but I was all smiles. I didn't feel great – 
the worries were still there, for all my bravado – but 
I did feel as though an enormous weight had been lifted 
off my shoulders. In fact, I felt younger than I had 
since before I got pregnant for the first time. I guess 
that's what a whole world of new opportunities opening 
itself in front of you can do. 

Tim seemed immensely relieved that I wasn't angry at 
him, and he relaxed visibly when I kissed him good 
morning on the cheek. Laurel shot me a significant 
look, and I knew that my husband would fill my daughter 
in on my abortive sexual efforts ("All I could think 
about was you, baby...") but what difference did that 
make? If that was the road they both wanted to travel, 
then so be it. 

David shot me a significant look too. I didn't even 
need to tell him what had happened. I was sure he had 
known how it would go down as soon as I told him about 
my bright idea the day before.

"Mom, are you coming to the track meet on Saturday?" 
Laurel asked.

"I sure am," I said brightly. "I wouldn't miss it for 
the world."

"Oh, great!" she said excitedly. "You and daddy will 
both be there and –"

"Oh crap!" I interjected as my memory suddenly kicked 
into gear. "I can't! I promised I'd help grandpa set up 
his financial software on Saturday!" And the thing was, 
I wasn't even lying. My dad was trying to start a small 
part-time business doing custom woodworking, and he was 
overdue on getting his financial end in order. He was 
going to be audited, and if he didn't have everything 
straightened out within the next few days, he was going 
to be in Dutch with the IRS. It was only because of all 
the stress over the past few days that it had slipped 
my mind at all. "I'm sorry, honey!"

"Oh...well... all right." She didn't look too terribly 
disappointed, truth be told. "Well, daddy will be 
there, right?"

"I sure will," Tim nodded around a mouthful of jelly 
toast. He swallowed, washed it down with a swig of 
coffee, and added, "And I was thinking – since we're 
going to be all the way up in Hibbing anyway, maybe we 
could swing by the North Shore? Maybe even spend 
Saturday night in Duluth."

"Oh, wow! I'd love that!" Laurel said, genuinely 
enthused. The North Shore of Lake Superior was one of 
Laurel's favorite places in the world, true enough, but 
I wasn't foolish enough to believe that that was the 
reason she was excited. Not today I wasn't that 
foolish. 

The weird thing was, I found I didn't mind that much. 
Oh, it stung, and it made me a little woozy, but I was 
nowhere near the rage or the panic I'd have felt 
before. I had recognized my limitations, I guess...for 
the moment. Later it was a different story, but for the 
moment I was able to accept that my husband and my 
daughter would, in every likelihood, be sharing a bed 
on Saturday night. 

Isn't it strange how the mind can become accustomed to 
almost anything?

A few minutes later Tim was out the door, and I was 
honestly thinking mostly about Charlie screwing me 
later on. It had been a while; I wasn't really horny, 
but I did need it. I needed to feel it, to know that it 
was something I was doing because I wanted to. I think 
most of all I needed it because I needed to prove to 
myself that my twat didn't die the night before. Laurel 
ran off to the bus, leaving just me and my son. I was 
expecting him to say something flip about me making a 
fool of myself last night, or maybe once more urge me 
to talk to him about what was going on. I was not, 
however, prepared for what he really did say.

"Mom," he told me casually as he finished his 
cornflakes, "when Dad and Laurel are gone this weekend, 
I'm taking you to bed."


To be continued...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 62