The Keys to my Diary: Marina

5. April 5

April 5

OMG...I saw a skank coming out of my house. Well, I guess it's not technically my house anymore, but that knowledge doesn't keep it from feeling like it is still mine. I can't block the horrid mental image that keeps popping into my mind of her (more than likely stinky) lady parts touching my bed in my room while my husband's p***s grinds inside her.

Frank can be a magnificent lover when he puts effort into it, which he hadn't bothered to exert with me in a long time. In recent years, our coupling had become merely a connection of parts to satiate mutual need. There was little to no foreplay, cuddling, or intimacy. In fact, our s*x lives had morphed into an animalistic, base ritual that gave us both physical release, but little else. I had given up on trying to make it anything more satisfying, assuming that he had used all of his creative and sensual energy on his current conquest. The simmering anger that bubbled under the surface made it so I didn't have the energy or desire to make love to him either. So, our s*x lives became just that––frantic and unromantic mating.

Here's a disturbing thought that just reared its ugly head in my mind... I bet he hasn't changed the sheets on our bed since I left, which means he's spreading that bimbo's legs on the luxurious bamboo sheets I purchased last Christmas as a special treat for both me and Frank. I miss those sheets, but they are King-sized, so they would be huge on this trailer's Full-sized bed. I certainly don't want them back now that I am confident they have been hussy-tarnished.

It's just not right. Even though I have been presented with blatant evidence of Frank's cheating on numerous occasions, he had never cheated in my home––that I know of. To the best of my knowledge, he always engaged in his adulterous affairs in seedy hotel rooms... until now. Now, he's bringing his wife-for-a-night into the home where we lived as a somewhat happy married couple for so many years. It cuts deep that he doesn't have any more respect for our marriage than that, but I suppose it shouldn't overly surprise me.

I keep picturing that woman teetering out of my house this morning on the stripper heels that she was wearing with short-shorts and a belly-baring cut-off shirt. It's not like I am qualified to be the fashion police or anything, but she clearly needs a lesson in dressing for success. Of course, if she was looking for a handsome man to bone her all night long, she probably considers herself to be a raging success.

It feels good to write about this. It's not like I can talk to anyone about it. I have great friends, but they would give me that downcast look of pity that seems to surface any time my failed marriage is discussed.

Fern is the only one I would consider sharing this with, but I already know she would be up in my grill about why I was driving past my former house in the first place. In my defense, our house is on a small canal-wrapped lane that shoots off US 1 (the main thoroughfare in the Keys). I have to pass by it on my way to work. Turning my head to peer down at my former house is an ingrained reaction. It's not like I plan it or even want to look, but my eyes wander that way every time I pass by, as if they are magnetized.

When I saw the s**t puppy doddering out to her car, it was as if my car's steering wheel turned itself to go check out the situation. Slamming on my brakes to get turned and almost getting rear-ended by the tourist behind me were unintended consequences of my involuntary looksy.

I did feel a bit like a stalker as I drove slowly past the house to get a good view of her. The concern that Frank would see my car wasn't overwhelming because I figured he had already hopped into the shower to cleanse away her stench. There was not any fear of her recognizing me or my car because I'm sure Frank hadn't mentioned anything about an ex-wife.

The problem with my rash decision to do a drive-by was that our lane dead-ends into a house that overlooks the ocean. It's a beautiful location, but the cul de sac left me no alternative but to turn around and drive back by in the other direction. On the second pass, I started feeling a lot like a stalker.

My concerns were multiplied when I neared our driveway and realized the questionable lady was backing out onto the street without bothering to check for oncoming vehicles. I was on the road and clearly had the right-of-way, but had to lock up my brakes to keep from hitting her as she reared back out of our drive and blocked the entire road. I felt like blaring my horn at her––for more reasons than her lack of driving skills––but I couldn't for fear that it would draw Frank's attention from inside.

I managed to get my car stopped without ramming into her, she put her car in drive, and nearly sideswiped our mailbox as she swung around to leave. She was so much in her own little bubble world of dippy elation that she never even realized I was behind her. As I suspected, she must be totally clueless––a brainless vajayjay for him to pound.

Confession time...I just reread that last part and realized maybe I do hold just a tad bit of anger towards the women my husband beds. The rational side of me recognizes that this isn't fair, but the hurt and angry side of me just wants to lash out at them. I guess I better work on that.

For now, I'm going to bed and will probably cry myself to sleep. Goodnight.