A Hard Time – NSFW

 

Laina left me after finding tetra-bytes of pornography on my private computer. Thousands upon thousands of clips and full length videos of sperm-laden women doing things that made me wake up in the middle of the night in a sticky sweat. I thought I was smart. I had the files tucked away neatly in a sub-folder labeled ‘Old Tax Forms,’ but I wasn’t smart enough to put a password on the computer. I tried to reason with her but she screamed that she’d had enough and flew out the door. That was seven months a go and I still find myself waiting to hear her car pull into the drive.

I never deserved her. She is a knock-out. Tall, strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, and curves exactly where they should be. Her breasts point gracefully to the ceiling and the place where her ass meets her legs looks like a perfect upside down heart. Next to her I look like a troll. I stand at 5’6″ and as my mom always said, I’m as wide as I am tall. My hair is thinning, I have a eczema, and I snore when I sleep on my back. None of that mattered to Laina, however. She once said she loved be because I was genuine, kind, and I made her laugh. I was shocked when she said yes to our first date and stunned when she agreed to marry me. On our wedding night, my best man said during his speech, “I see you let her out of the basement tonight. You know, the one where you keep her chained.” Everyone laughed, but me. Everyone knew she was out of my league, including me.

I don’t know if it was the porn that bothered her so much as it was the fact that we didn’t have much of a sex life. When we started dating, I was too preoccupied with her to be bothered with porn. All of my energy and lust was directed towards her. However, once we settled into married life I started watching porn again. I’d spend hours holed up in my office with the door shut downloading everything I came across, cranking it until I was sore. Laina would spend money on expensive lingerie and try to seduce me, but I couldn’t get it up for her.The rare occasions that we did have sex, I’d lose it five minutes into the process. She’d end up crying and go to bed frustrated. I’d wait until she was sound asleep to sneak into the office to finish things up.

I’ve went over it all in my head hundreds of times before and after the split. Laina was more than enough of a woman for me, yet I needed something else. Years of being alone had desensitized me. The break from porn had helped but when I began to use it again, Laina’s touch did nothing for me. As our distance grew, I started drinking more and my once charming sense of humor turned on me. I’d get hammered at social functions and say inappropriate things to other men’s wives. The worst is when we’d be out in public and a hot young girl with big tits would pass by and I’d get a hard-on. I couldn’t help myself. Every woman I saw, I undressed and fucked with my eyes, my dick responding accordingly.

Yesterday morning I was served with divorce papers. I decided I’m not going down without a fight, not that Laina and I had anything to actually fight over. We didn’t have children so there was no custody to arrange. I owned the townhouse we lived in upstate and she moved into a flashy new apartment in Lower Manhattan. Both of us have our own money and we even signed a prenuptial before marriage. The only thing I want from Laina is forgiveness and hopefully, a mercy lay.

Today is the day. I got up early, ate a balanced breakfast, and cleaned the house to clear my head. When I made it to the door to the office, I froze.Two months a go I started going to a sex addicts meeting at the hospital a quarter mile from my favorite pizza place and hadn’t stepped foot in the office since. I bought a new laptop shortly after attending the meetings and kept it porn free. The second week in, I had an epiphany. Like a person does after receiving a DUI, I asked the group leader to sign and date a sheet of paper documenting my attendance. When I first asked Raul, he gave me a queer look and tilted his head.

“You know this group is anonymous and I don’t want my name out there. I know you don’t have a judge to be taking this to. So, what is it for,” he inquired with his quick, high-pitched Puerto Rican accent. I told him it was to get my ex back. He rolled his eyes and with  one hand on his hip, he signed the paper.

I walked away from the office and returned to the sheet of paper hanging on the fridge. I traced my finger down the written dates. Five weeks in, I stopped masturbating to porn. Thanks to Raul, there was a shiny gold star next to each porn-free week. I was so excited to tell Laina.

It was now 2 pm I still wasn’t dressed. Instead, I was standing in front of the mirror wearing underwear, trying to suck in my gut while appearing casual. My face was red and my ears were hot. I looked at the room behind me, clean clothes strewn everywhere. I had tried on a half-dozen suit pants that tugged at my balls every time I breathed.The button-up shirts weren’t any better. Each button screams as I painstakingly try to make it past my belly. I huffed as I settled on a pair of grey slacks and white collared shirt that made me look like an overstuffed feather pillow.

§

When the elevator door opened I stepped inside and pushed the button for the 20th floor. As it ascended, I sucked in my gut but forgot to breathe. Sweat beaded on forehead and I could faintly smell my armpits. I’d forgotten to put on deodorant. I fanned my underarms using the the file that contained the speech I prepared for Laina, the divorce form, and the dated paper from the sex addicts meetings. I began flapping my arms up and down at my sides like a bird trying to speed up the drying process. The elevator door snapped open at the 18th floor. All the air left my lungs and my belly went flaccid as Laina and a muscular black man stood in front of me, waiting to enter. Unfettered, the man with Laina entered confidently and held the elevator door open for her. Laina stood there stunned, staring into my eyes.

“What are you doing here,” she demanded.

I didn’t know what to say. This isn’t how I planned to approach Laina – not in the elevator and definitely not in the company of another man. I uttered something that barely resembled English and accidently dropped the file, covering the floor with paperwork. The sweat beads turned into sweat trails and my underarms were soaked, the stench undeniable. I scrambled to pick up the papers as Laina timidly stepped into the elevator and the man bent over to assist me. Recognizing the divorce papers, Laina kneeled down and picked them up.

“Is this what you’re here for,” she asked sharply.

I looked up at her still unable to talk. I looked over at the man as he said to Laina, “Do you know this guy?”

She sighed. “It’s my ex-husband. Well, soon to be.”

The man stifled a laugh as he said, “Oh, I see.”

As he spoke the muscles in his body flexed. “How the hell does he flex while speaking,” I thought to myself. He handed me the paperwork, Laina handed me back the divorce forms, and I attempted to smooth out my sweat drenched shirt. The man, now half-smiling, stood close to Laina with his arm behind her back.

“We’re not doing this here. Not now. I don’t know why you would even show up unannounced,” Laina held her palm to her forehead in an attempt to stave off a headache.

“It’s all good, Laina. Don’t sweat it,” he consoled her, now smiling widely as if amused by the entire display.

With the papers clenched tightly to my chest, I sized him up. He was probably in his mid-twenties, neatly shaven, and his white polo shirt effortlessly embraced his well sculpted body. His jeans were dark denim and without meaning to, I noted the outline of his package. My mind immediately envisioned him grabbing her by the waist, turning her towards the elevator wall, lifting the hem of her floral sundress, and pulling her panties to the side, taking her from behind.

“Dude, do you have a boner?”

I snapped back to reality and looked down at my pants. Yes, I had a raging hard-on.

“You’re disgusting,” Laina said.

I hadn’t noticed the elevator descending and as they stepped off,the paperwork fell back to the floor, and I stood there drenched in my own stench, unable to speak, and with a sad boner. I bent over to pick up the divorce form, reached for the pen clipped to the file folder, and signed the divorces papers.

Funny Feet

View Writing Prompt: Funny Feet

Becoming an established journalist has been my dream since 7th grade. When I moved to Boston, I set my sights high. I was fresh out of Penn State, free of the rural countryside, and the persistent smell of cow manure. I moved into the first apartment I found with running water and a stove that had at least two operating burners. With nothing more than two month’s worth of rent in savings, a suitcase of clothes, and a limited supply of toiletries, I began looking for my first job. My resume was perfect – aesthetically pleasing and focused on my diverse skill set with only minor embellishments showcasing my extra-curricular activities.

When Boston Globe hired me, I was elated. When they assigned me to the Arts and Entertainment section, I could feel the balloon burst. It wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for. I wanted to write hard hitting news stories on political scandals, criminal trials, or global economics. Instead, I found myself semi-conscious at dog shows, wine tastings, and book signings. Luckily, my superior seemed to like my work and I liked her, even though most days I couldn’t look her in the eye or anywhere else for that matter. Don’t get me wrong, she is a mega-babe. Her name is Eva. She’s a tall, curvy Brazilian woman with dark brown hair, and sharp green eyes that could make anyone feel as if she knew all your secrets.

But there was definitely one of mine she did not know. In fact, it’s a secret I’ve done my best to hide from absolutely everyone. Ever since I was a child I’ve had this thing about feet. Not in a sexual way. Unfortunately, whenever I’ve tried to open up to people about issue with feet, they automatically think I’m some sort of foot fetishist. In reality, it’s nothing even close to that. Feet do not turn me on, they just make me…extremely uncomfortable. And when I’m uncomfortable, I laugh. A lot. I mean laughing to the point that my eyes well with tears, my face turns maroon, and I have to hold my stomach for fear that my insides might spill on the floor. What’s worse is that I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is about feet that makes them so absurd to me. I’m thinking its the toes and the way they curl into the ground for balance or the fact that they simply look clumsy on the end of most legs. Whatever it is, it’s uncontrollable. Once I start laughing, I can not quit until my entire body aches.

This may not seem like a big deal to most people but it has had huge ramifications in my life. Most girlfriend’s were to insecure to understand that it wasn’t them, it was their feet. As a result, I’ve been single and without sex for nearly a year. Also, there isn’t any type of support group for this sort of thing. I suppose I could see a therapist but without health insurance I could never justify spending hundreds of dollars talking to some old guy about feet. So I keep it to myself and keep my eyes above the waist.

I’d been at the job for a few weeks when feet once again became an issue. I thought journalism would be a safe zone for me but unfortunately, working closely within tight quarters and having a desk placed precisely in the aisle row makes feet an every day concern. Come Monday mornings, I have to mentally prepare myself for the work week ahead. For most people it has everything to do with the workload and deadlines, but for me, it’s all about feet. Not just anyone’s feet, however. Eva’s feet. Every single day, Eva saunters into the office donning a new pair of heels. I found I could contain myself most days; however, on days that she wears peep toe shoes, I have to keep my eyes fixed firmly to my computer screen. I held my breath each morning as she’d stroll by with her tanned hooves shoved into stilettos and two to three toes spilling over the front platform. She would say hello and I’d muster something that vaguely resembled a spoken language as a response. I’m sure I came across as rude, imbecilic, or really into screen-savers. Maybe all of the above.

Monday she wore a sleek black pointed toe heel. No big deal. I made it through another day without incident. But today when I came into the office I noted that the unseasonably warm weather and sure enough, Eva took full advantage of global warming by wearing a pair of  red leather peep toe shoes. As I stared into the blank word document on my screen, she casually stops at my desk and requests a one-on-one meeting before lunch. “I have something to run by you,” she said with a smile. I nod as a means of confirmation and gulp in large a bubble of air as she walks away. “Of course she has something to run by me on Peep Toe Tuesday,” I thought and I spent the rest of the morning looking at job openings. “Maybe I should become a postal worker,” I pondered. “Everyone on the job wears reasonable shoes.” As I envision my new career path, I’m interrupted by a ding coming from outlook. It is an email from Eva reading, “I’m available now if you are.”

I walk into the large, sunlit room to find her sitting cross legged in a Barcelona chair adjacent to her desk instead of behind it. “God dammit,” I thought to myself. After greeting her, I nervously put my hands in my pockets and eyed the ceiling as she began to speak to me. “Well, Marcus. I have to say you’ve been doing a wonderful job. I love the last piece you wrote on the Grand Opening of the new boutique on Harrison. I decided it’s time to give you something a little more exciting to write about.”

“Oh, thank you.” Still staring at the ceiling.

“As you know, New York fashion week is approaching in a couple of weeks. A local designer and a dear friend of mine is working on a line. I’d like you to visit her studio as the models are being photographed and fitted into her new collection.”

I shifted my gaze to her face then down to the floor where I stood and back to her face out of nervousness, making every attempt to avoid looking at her feet.

“I have to be quite honest with you, actually. It was a piece I was supposed to write but I can’t bring myself to do it.”

Confused, I managed to maintain eye contact with her.”Can I ask what the problem is, if you don’t mind me asking.” I wanted to know what I was getting myself into.

“Well, the truth is,” she paused and then let out a lyrical giggle, “it’s for a new shoe line and as much as I love her work, I have a problem with feet.” Through her smile and casual demeanor, I could see her face begin to blush.

“What…what kind of problem,” I stammered while maintaining eye contact past the point of awkwardness.

“I don’t have a problem with my feet, it’s just other people’s feet. It’s silly, really. It’s just that whenever I go shoe shopping or am around people bare foot at the beach or gym, I start to giggle uncontrollably. I know it sounds absurd. I just do not want to make a fool of myself…”

She trailed on like this for a few more minute and I looked at her feet. I began to laugh.

“What’s so funny, Marcus?”

“Nothing, I’m sorry,” I said through tears of laughter. Nothing was wrong. I was in love.

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