Had she not also screwed your boss, your neighborhood postman, a shaggy, stray Irish Setter, this transgression might not warrant your informing. But it was very erotic—mind you—all of this screwing. As the male was inside of her, she made a face; you saw this when you pleased her. That furry sound of a moan under a tolerant pillow, that teeth grit of a camel spitting. You remember; you masturbate in the shower, nightly, thinking of it. Ah, but this past wasn’t stored in the derelict, tin-covered shanties of your subconscious, while you were away. It was alive, twisted around a thick neck, sticky and blissful.
"Wasn’t it you who told your best friend that he’d never get a woman?"
Imagine (though I expect you have already), your brick and mortar sanctuary, desecrated by twisted pubic hairs, faint bruises on her thighs and back. On the family bed, on the family dinner table. As soon as James and Clare were off to school—skipping and blameless—your wife was in your bathtub, lifting a leg or an arm, running scented pink soap over herself to ease inclusion (your toothbrush was used twice, but I fear I cannot divulge specific information without cringing).
I’m telling you this now, and this telling is the only account you’ll ever receive. Of course, your wife will not admit to it; she, on some level, pities you, maybe even still loves you. You’ll know, in very faint senses, that her smile is both as wonderful and as contained as the red sun setting behind a mountain. She will not leave you; if she does, it will be only for a night.
I must warn you, however: a woman’s guilt depends wholly on your unconcern of its exposure. As an angry man, you will not be able to conceal your mistrust. She’ll remain like a pair of tennis shoes, tied and dangling on a power line. She will be untouchable and quiet, but indicative of everything definite and wrong and unchangeable in this World. Try to remember that anger is not breakable, only malleable, manageable, and treat her as you have always treated her.
Feel pacified. Your wife had no previous plans of screwing your best friend, your boss, the dog or the postman. All of these acts were only indulged opportunities, moments in which passion struck her; her principles—the morals sworn to in, say, your wedding vows—were simply quieted. There was no master plan. Your best friend was returning a book. Your boss was delivering a paycheck. The postman was doing his job (three bills and a magazine subscription to Rolling Stone). The dog was in search of a meal. As you well may know, from experience or otherwise, the World accommodates the beautiful and your wife is much of a looker. Her body is in need—when it advocates gratification and you are simply not present, there are penises who are.
Your best friend, for one. Though he feels guilty, he has a strange sense of satisfaction as a result of screwing your wife. Wasn’t it you who said that he’d never get a woman, living the life of a drunken vagabond? It is a dented, rusty birdcage, your friendship. Do not play poker with this man ever again. He is a friend, and will continue to be so. However, see him as what he is: a tar-beaten slave erecting an impossible monument to honor his own masculinity. It is a legacy that lasts only one generation, will be forgotten by his grandson.
Your boss. He feels no shame at all. This man is accustomed to dominating you, a delighted overseer. The screwing was yet another step in his process of whittling you down into something that affirms his own maleness… something… something… a compliant drone. His air of superiority is a bubble of paradise. His definition of man is one line in the Book of Life: Man: Noun. Champion Cowboy, Wrestler, Bully. Do not lose your job, keep silent. He is a bee, eating then vomiting pulp, digging through wood that leads to nowhere.
The Irish Setter, of course, is a dog. He finds consolation in chasing cars… large, red balls… etc. Shoot him, if you feel it necessary to assuage some anger. Only remember that he, too, abides by the taunting rules of penis ownership.
In truth, it is important that all males feel like males. It is important for us to chip flint in the shapes of arrowheads, to rape, to handcuff, to browbeat, to instruct. It is important to drive, to perfect, to own something entirely, to win. Do you see the irony, then?
They are much like you, these men. They are angry. They are in need. Are not their days just as long? Isn’t your wife’s vagina just as enticing to them as it was to you? Doesn’t it hold the defining power of life for us all?
Wives are sad, virgin Queens, ruling lands of inequity. It is a constant barrage of penises needing to be labeled “Biggest and Best of All!”
Do you know, now, that we are but serfs, presenting ourselves, crying out, aspiring for the Title?
