Bob's Will

I knew I should have ordered a hot stone massage as soon as I had left the office. The second my supervisor is stressing me, my automatic will is to treat myself to a better rest of my night. It is evening time, roughly 5:30P.M. when I arrive home to a nearly silent house. The TV is shut off, despite the lights on. The only sound to be heard was the grandfather clock that was purchased at last year's charity auction; one of those events I don’t know why Bob insisted on going to. My husband is rather… asocial. Our weekend plans involved staying home to watch stock news, plan vacations I went on alone and visiting properties he had purchased with no intentions of making memories at. My stalemate often left me to make my own, which just included wine and nights ended in intense m**********n sessions and a good night’s rest for the next morning I had to spend the rest of my day around pure underachievers like myself. There is something about marrying wealthy men that implants one thought into every woman’s head – the need to never strive in a workplace setting again. I know I am intelligent enough of a woman to go back to college and amount to something better than an administrative assistant. However, Bob insists I do what I can to live the least stressful life, and so I do. The cost it comes at, however, is knowing I was bought. The reality that you are no longer an independent woman but rather a piece of replaceable meat to your man does leave a hint of resentment inside of me. He is fifteen years older than I am and knows nothing of bringing me to a climax. I walk on my tiptoes up the stairs, passing by Bob’s empty office. He is finished for the day and awaiting my entry in the master bedroom, where I often find myself affirmed to my purple vibrator as he begins his deep sleep for his next day of selling those ridiculous private yachts people overpay for on a daily basis. The summer has just begun and he has told me twice that his boss, Danielle, has his scheduled to the very last hour they are open. Usually, his coworker, Frances takes over the sales but this year Bob has been competitive. Quite the turn on I had not neglected. In deep thought, I stub my toe on the last step and mutter, the word f**k as I land on my hands and knees. Oh, how I wish he was there to plow me right there on the stairs. In my thirty years of being, I have simply not been to heaven and back with my husband. In fact, he called his mother for half of our honeymoon as she warned him several times to “quit trying to have an escapade with a young gold digger” between her church visits. This only turned me on as I gave him a footjob in the hot tub with his mother on the line, mouthing what a jealous freak she was. Bob in his prime of course laughed until he came buckets in the warm water. It was the only time I ever got to recall sitting on his face. So I am deprived and on some sort of a prowl to get laid by my obviously tired husband. It has been weeks, I hate to admit. Though I am barely attracted to him on a physical level, his work ethic is a turn on. His faithfulness is a turn on. The fact that I can never imagine him actually scoring a date with someone to envy provides infinite security no other woman could want more of. That is, until I enter our bedroom. Whatever suspicion flew over my head hit me like a butterfly on a windshield at the point I had been striding through lala land in my bare feet. In my bed, laying over top of a body, is my husband, Bob, going down on another woman. I don't scream. I watch for thirty seconds in pure shock and amusement. The sight of him eating her – the sight of her with his head in her hands, her cellulite-infested legs in the air and her loud deep moans identifying a woman who was beyond her prime – has me flustered for the first time in awhile. My anger builds beneath my arousal, an obvious paradox between extremely disgusted and turned on as though animal in heat taking ownership of their mate. Only that I don't make a single move. I feel my face turn red as I watched her toes curl. His tongue traced her c******l area before he began full-on flicking it at speeds I had never seen him capable of moving in. I waited longer to make my presence known once I see her legs begin to shudder and shake. Her abdomen rocks back and forth as she shoves her pelvis in towards his face. I watch my husband induce her orgasm as she squeals in my bed, moaning loud and humping against his face so intensely I end up setting my jaw as I wait for their little show to be over. He continues to lick her soaking wet, now red, vulva before chuckling at her and giving it one last kiss. My blood is boiling at that point. The second he pulls back, I am spotted in the doorway. He freezes, his look of pure admiration for self disappearing off his face and quickly replaced with a startled stare. I don't know what to say. As soon as I turn around to leave the room, I hear him yell my name whilst muttering a couple words to his confidante, whom I recognize as his boss, Danielle. A woman well in her sixties who I didn't assume to be quite the skank. She wears beige. She has dark circles. Her smile is that of a conservative businesswoman, a shark whose estrogen had stopped producing a decade ago. Her own wrinkles speak volumes and tell stories of the worst narcissism one could face. I’ve only made it to the stairway before I am confronted by Bob. If I could throw him down the staircase, I truly would. "Celeste, its not what it looks like. ” I'm ready to snarl. “You never perform oral s*x! You said it always makes you feel sick-“ “It-it does. I thought you understood.” Oh, God. He is trying to guilt trip me and it hasn’t even been five minutes. There is no possible way he can succeed at deceiving me at this point. “You looked like you were enjoying it.” I argue. “I haven’t had it in six years!” Bob’s face stayed neutral. "Celeste, I had to do it for a promotion. I’ve been seeing her for two months. It was a request to be done after penetration sessions.” My jaw drops. “I will never have s*x with you again. What kind of a man sells his s*x skills for a promotion?” I exclaim, “And wash the f*****g sheets!” Bob, seemingly ambivalent to my embarrassment stands at the doorway watching me yell. I storm off as he begins speaking again, not a single word of his registering in my head. The only thing on my mind is what hotel I’m staying in tonight. Where I’m going to celebrate my new life without Bob. — I decide a vacation is the most practical thing I can do before contacting a divorce lawyer. I haven’t called into work in regards to my leave of absence for Idon’tknowhowlong. This evening, my mind is somewhere else. I have no intention on thinking over my actions. I intend to empty our travel savings account, leaving pennies of it left. As soon as I arrive at the hotel, I head to the bath tub to distress. A beautiful session between the faucet and myself awaited. I undressed quickly as I turned the tap, curling my toes as my fingers felt the pressure of the jacuzzi jets. I get in as soon as I can and slide my bum under the faucet, spreading my lips open and shoving two fingers in with the other hand. I make an contortionist of myself positioning my legs on the ledges of the tub in attempt to hit the right spot on my awaiting c******s, in which I have not taken care of in about a week. f**k Bob. f**k him very much. I begin to moan as soon as I find it. I take both hands and part my lips as far as they can stretch open. I feel my body tense up as I approach orgasm, borderline screaming as I moan and feel myself getting off. I arch my back, my eyes rolling dramatically. I am powerless to my orgasm that overtakes me. And just like Bob’s dirty slut, I fiend for more. I come about four more times under the faucet before I call it a night and head to sleep, ready to take on tomorrow. My plans to take a flight out of Tampa to Miami were already into play. Bob, simply a mere figment of my past. That night, I dream repeatedly of catching Bob with another woman everywhere I went; faces of women I have never seen before bringing fury to my fragile complex. I wake up to my phone buzzing multiple times, all calls from him. I am ready to spend the next fifteen days alone, come home and divorce him. No words other than a text once I’m on the boat four days in. As my phone vibrates, I shove it in my panties against my hardening c******s and continue reading my book. A classic thriller, one that gives me nightmares every time I read it. One that doesn’t compare to the horrific feelings I have remembering the look on Danielle’s face when she saw me watching her, however. Her lifted eyebrows– Fuck them both. I head to the shower, ready to embrace the rest of my day after changing out of my soaked purple g-string. The weather may be perfect outside but my mood remains low. In my vision are elderly women with their husbands who were obviously sick of them. You can smell it on them. The hopelessness. The wanting to marry new and leave their longterm partners behind as they stare at the ground following them around in public. I married an older man for a reason. He will deal with the divorce papers. Although an inconspicuous cheater, Bob is a yes man. He won’t let me down. Maybe in a court setting but I do not see him pursuing me in attempt to win me back. He just… isn’t like that. I see another sad couple enter my vision and hold my breath as I walk past them. This older woman has a scent coming off her neck, one of rotting flesh, that her husband seems to give zero f***s about. I am flustered once again as I stride away from them, my sandals wearing out against the street. I need to catch my flight as soon as possible. As I approach my taxi waiting outside the hotel, I begin to wonder about the homicide rate in elder couples. I know my partner doesn't care about what I saw. My face was twisted with overbearing pain of having seen my man with such an aged woman. I needed a job promotion. Yup, that's all I care about. My mind begins to formulate different ways of strangling myself on my way to the airport. — Too many f*****g lovebirds, I am surrounded by. I wonder how many were bisexual. How many rampant orgies they have participated in together, just to stay in love with each other for longer. How insipid I was for being a straight woman who married for money and lost her s**t to the sight of an actual woman. I deserve to die. I stare at the plane window glass and aspire to smash it with my fist. I am still wearing my wedding ring. I envision my long golden locks being turned a crimson-cherry red as the wind sucks me out of the window. All of this over a f*****g goat. And man’s will. Compared to Danielle, in my husband’s eyes, I am nothing. I could break her neck, I could break my own– “Celeste Iliana,” I hear someone say. I nearly orgasm at the sound of their inflection. I am a dirty woman, creaming my panties on the plane at the same rate I fantasize about my suicide. I turn my head and keep the glow in my eyes bright. And my excitement is gone. This man is hideous. I want to die all over again. Or take a cocktail of my would-be daughter’s Valium prescription. Suicidal, once again, I try not to sound like I just laid in a coffin for fun. “One martini please,” I answer after breaking into a weak smile. “Nothing else, thank you.” My last words sound like a raspy f*****g train wreck. I burst out crying for the first time in months. This hideous man puts his arm on my shoulder and I cry harder. Not because he’s one of the ugliest men I’ve seen. Okay, it is. I know I’ve made a mistake leaving my husband. Over an informal business deal, I left him to serenade himself in our riches. I need to masturbate. Like, right now. Instead I’m sobbing like a f*****g fool in front of these people belonging to the general public. These feckless weaklings just sit there and watch. I’m surprised Miss Granny in the back isn’t dying her hair to this on the endless amount of shrooms packed away in her purse. f**k. I wish myself gone. Because I see Danielle in her. I see red. All. Because. Of. Her. I fantasize about slitting my wrists above her body as she m*********s. I wouldn’t copulate an old bag like herself. Only spit on her face for acknowledging my pain. She knows I left my husband just yesterday. All the while I am lost in my thoughts, the flight attendant is still wondering what to do. I want him gone as far away as possible. And I still seriously want to f**k up that elderly woman with the hiker’s grin on her face as my thoughts shift between my sickening reality and having s*x with her. I’m not even bisexual. I’m merely hyper s****l – this I didn’t know prior to separating myself from Bob. “Can you please leave?” I say feebly. “Yes,” he says. It takes everything inside myself not to scream at him to move faster away from my space. My God. — We land safely. Unfortunately. I remain suicidal as I leave the plane and airport. I keep my useless poker face on, however. Just in case. I also come to terms in that I no longer love my husband anymore. Gosh, why am I crying so much? I begin to question my sanity as I walk to the taxi. As I alternate between thoughts of killing myself and which lawyer I should run to, a very attractive woman enters my sight. I nearly have a mini stroke observing her features. She is a fellow happy-go-lucky blonde. Just like I was before I left home. I stare at her for too long that once she turns her head, I am caught gazing at her. Her gawk isn’t intimidating at all. “Hi,” she says in a demeanour that hypnotizes me instantly. I mimic her in response. Not pitch perfect, but close. Something makes me want to say more, perhaps flirt with her a little. But I don’t make a single move. I may have been bi in my teens but not today. After all, she is too gorgeous to burden in the midst of my desperate need to find catharsis. Once our interaction is over, I walk away somewhat light-hearted. Until I see my husband. Not close by. In my thoughts. Suddenly, I worship manslaughter. f**k him. f**k Danielle. f**k the hideous flight attendant and everyone who looks like him. As soon as I see my taxi, I run. A somewhat overweight woman runs at the same speed, and by some miracle, she outruns me. A wide grin is spread across her mediocre-featured face. I look to my left and drop it. Some people are just not worth thinking about. Being angry at. Forget it. — Something still makes me wish that airplane crashed. That goddamned pilot, doing his job properly. I’m in my hotel room sobbing. I look for one of my favourite channels on the TV and cannot find anything that doesn’t romanticize healthy living for losers and new age spirituality. f**k healthy living. It got me nowhere. I had everything before two nights ago. Now all I have is travel money. I take my vibrator out of my bag and throw it at the TV screen in sheer disgust and apathy. Though I am smiling, I feel chaotic. I have a strong sense that nothing will make me a better person to myself for the next while. I am a mess, and yet again, I am at a crossroads with how I’m going to go about my self-care. A bath won’t help. Ever since I saw that ugly man. During the flight, I ruminated about him and the older woman who sat there watching me cry like some pathetic skank. I look out my window and stare at the vehicles passing by. I consider buying one just to hire someone to run me over in it. I back away from the glass, in yet another terrible mind state. Another migraine forms inside of me like a pond full of nitrogen. Overcoming every barrier within my body, my will, I begin to reside in my emotional turmoil. I don’t suffer from suicidal thoughts often enough, I figure. This tempts me to off myself in some peculiar way. I walk over to the phone, surprised I haven’t smashed my cell yet. All of my nude photos he probably envisioned being his mother. I wish him the worst beneath my whispering. I begin to sing as I walk to the door. I pull down my panties and twist the handle and lay against the door hinge. I spread my legs wide and take one photo of my snatch on my cellphone, my thoughts focussed on the lady from the airplane. I wish her hell as I take more photographs. Cunt photo after photo. I can feel the herpes growing inside of me as I expose myself to whomever walks down this hallway – a rather ugly one. Wallpapers any skinhead would come all over.