Is It My Fault?
By Wayne Scheer
It's not cheating if I don't have sex with them, that's what I tried telling Beth. But she left me anyway. Twenty-six years of marriage, two kids and an upside down mortgage because we used the house to pay for Paul and Emma's college, and she's gone. She says she won't put up with a man she can't trust. Then she had the nerve to call me a pervert.
I told her she's the one that hired the private detective, so she's the one that can't be trusted.
And who's calling who a pervert? I reminded her of the stuff she likes to do in bed, that sexy talk when she gets hot and the thing with her tongue. But I didn't go crazy and pack my bags and threaten to tell the kids or her boss, did I? I respect her privacy.
"That's different," she says. "And you know it's different. That's why you tried keeping it secret."
We all have our secrets, I told her. We keep some things to ourselves because we're afraid other people won't understand. Well, Beth sure as hell proved me right.
She's mad, she said, because I was spending our money. She spent our money getting her hair done and her nails, even her toes. You think I care what her toes look like? But I never complained. Why can't I spend some money on myself? I earned it just like she did. I don't drink and I hardly ever eat lunch with the guys at work because I save my money for my little treat.
Once a month--and sometimes not even that often—I put an ad in a local adult newspaper and within a day or two I get a response. I rent a hotel room and we have some fun. No sex. I don't even ask them to take off their clothes, and I leave mine on, too.
But this private detective she hired found the ad and showed it to her. All hell broke loose for no damn good reason. She cried and asked why I don't find her attractive. I told her I think she's beautiful. And I wasn't lying. I've loved her since the day we met when I was only eighteen.
She just can't do what I want. I don't blame her for it. She just can't, like I can't dunk a basketball.
Look, here's the ad:
I have a simple proposition to offer. 45 minutes of tickling. No nudity/video. You must be a very ticklish female. Send pic.
Is it my fault Beth isn't ticklish?
- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
By Wayne Scheer
It's not cheating if I don't have sex with them, that's what I tried telling Beth. But she left me anyway. Twenty-six years of marriage, two kids and an upside down mortgage because we used the house to pay for Paul and Emma's college, and she's gone. She says she won't put up with a man she can't trust. Then she had the nerve to call me a pervert.
I told her she's the one that hired the private detective, so she's the one that can't be trusted.
And who's calling who a pervert? I reminded her of the stuff she likes to do in bed, that sexy talk when she gets hot and the thing with her tongue. But I didn't go crazy and pack my bags and threaten to tell the kids or her boss, did I? I respect her privacy.
"That's different," she says. "And you know it's different. That's why you tried keeping it secret."
We all have our secrets, I told her. We keep some things to ourselves because we're afraid other people won't understand. Well, Beth sure as hell proved me right.
She's mad, she said, because I was spending our money. She spent our money getting her hair done and her nails, even her toes. You think I care what her toes look like? But I never complained. Why can't I spend some money on myself? I earned it just like she did. I don't drink and I hardly ever eat lunch with the guys at work because I save my money for my little treat.
Once a month--and sometimes not even that often—I put an ad in a local adult newspaper and within a day or two I get a response. I rent a hotel room and we have some fun. No sex. I don't even ask them to take off their clothes, and I leave mine on, too.
But this private detective she hired found the ad and showed it to her. All hell broke loose for no damn good reason. She cried and asked why I don't find her attractive. I told her I think she's beautiful. And I wasn't lying. I've loved her since the day we met when I was only eighteen.
She just can't do what I want. I don't blame her for it. She just can't, like I can't dunk a basketball.
Look, here's the ad:
I have a simple proposition to offer. 45 minutes of tickling. No nudity/video. You must be a very ticklish female. Send pic.
Is it my fault Beth isn't ticklish?
- - -
Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
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