Husband Dot Com (8 page)

A few weeks went by, an
d I was still coughing up blood-soaked feathers from my bird cage being rattled. Trent and I fell asleep together once again, and hours later, I shot right out of bed like a rocket. I was in the middle a horrible nightmare that black snakes were surrounding my feet! I was hitting the sheets before my eyes even opened— the dream was so vivid. I could feel the heaviness of the snakes twirling around my ankles. I automatically hit the left side of the bed with my arm and it fell into emptiness. Trent was gone. I flew downstairs to find my resident pervert on a live sex site that had a black snake as the main logo. It was as if my subconscious was screaming, “Wake up from denial town, girlfriend!”  The entire thing was surreal to me. He was such a sneaky guy who had me on eggshells even in my sleep. It was a terrible omen that my dreams had to make me aware of the problems that affected me in my waking hours.
Much to my horror, I would wake up quite often and not find Trent in bed with me, but online and virtually sexing it up with strangers. He even had a webcam so that he could put on amateur live sex shows when I wasn't home. I reluctantly became a part-time investigator in my own marriage. Trent thought it was nothing and was angry at me for being upset with him. I felt stabbed in the heart. He had met me online, so naturally I felt threatened by his behavior. There was nothing stopping him from meeting local sex partners behind my back.

I knew there had to be more dirt on that mysterious whore lady. So, I we
nt through the garage and snooped inside his suitcase. I found his video camera hidden inside of an old white shirt. I was a nervous wreck when I ran inside to plug the damn thing in. I sat at the kitchen table watching Trent, some skank bitch, and a gross middle-age man having sex in a cheap hotel room. They were actually taking turns screwing her while the other one watched! I was hysterical, not laughing, but rather, crying! I threw the camera down on the Italian tile and it smashed to plastic smithereens. I sat there with a chilling numbness until Trent came home from his softball game. He said the threesome happened way before we ever met. He was pissed off that I broke the video camera, and I was outraged over seeing him behaving like a full-fledged human sausage and loving his three-way action. There was no way that I could lie to myself anymore about his torrid past after witnessing that video firsthand.
Trent’s past was garishly decorated with random sex encounters at human swap-shops. He frequented sex clubs in South Florida as a part of his normal weekend routine—before I came trotting along. I never understood that, because he was not blessed with a spectacular member or anything. The visual of him walking around naked in those secret clubs like a proud peacock seemed curiously odd to me. If I were a man, I’d never prance around in my birthday suit in public unless my Johnson was slapping both sides of my knees. Apparently, Trent wished he still was living the naked life during our disastrous new marriage. He promised me, with tears in his eyes, that he was over that phase of his “sex obsessed” life.
I daydreamed about more children, family cookouts, and theme park vacations. I wanted to skip down Main Street in Disney World at midnight, holding hands and sniffing cotton candy. Oh, and I also wished for a passionate sex life. Unfortunately, the naked ghosts from Trent’s past rolled around in our king-sized bed with us! Our minds and genitals were in very different places, and yet we were sleeping under the same golden comforter.

Nothing in my life made sense anymore. That empty excuse of a man had ruined my life, one porn experience at a time. How could I ever feel secure with him again? I was vulnerable and afraid. I was not able to love Trent with all of myself. I could not shake the fact that someone I committed my life to was as void of human emotion as he was. Trent never really loved me. He was only caught up in an illusion of having a wife and a daughter. He wanted to for
ce us to fit inside of his make-believe life.

11).
Wench

In a last minute attempt to save our drowning marriage, Trent and I went to church instead of
taking a mini vacation. I felt myself being pulled under water as we walked into the church. The last bubbles of oxygen I had left escaped my nostrils and floated upward, tickling my eyelashes.  I was submerged in a roaring religious river—right in the middle of broad daylight. The outing was a transparent plea to appease me, rather than a life changing excursion for Trent. The church field trip was a full on holy disappointment. Trent felt that he needed to confess his sins of the flesh.

Trent followed Father Murphy
into his sanctuary like a five-year-old boy. I felt like a basket of wilted Gerber daisies as I sat on the bench waiting for him. Mere moments later, Trent walked out of the priest's office with the weight of his dark clouds lifted off his shoulders. Trent headed my way at a fast clip, sporting a smile across his face. He was smiling at me as if he had huge flipping white plastic angel wings stapled to his back. Going across my mind was,
Oh no, what just happened in there?
That monstrosity had years of screwed-up shit that he needed to purge. Trent told me that he just "confessed" to the man of the cloth, telling him that he did a lot of questionable things in his torrid past. The priest said he was forgiven! I said, "Did you tell him about all of the sick shit you did?" Trent informed me that he was not asked to give any details about his actions. I could feel my stomach melting like wax in a microwave as he explained what had transpired. I wanted him to boil in a giant, murky lobster pot of confessions! Where the heck was the gloomy, black confession box? I think the priest should have sold us a used confession box that he may have had hidden somewhere in the back. Shoot, we could have kept it at our house, right next to his cum-encrusted webcam. Lord knows, we could have used one of those black boxes at our house!
Not to be an evil wench, but I did want him to feel some sort of pain or remorse. Why would he ever change if it was that easy to obtain a “get out of jail free” card? I thought my butt would at least have gone numb waiting hours as he spilled his sour jelly beans all over the sacred floor. Trent could have been in there for weeks with stories of all the sickening penis poking he committed. However, he totally got off the hook like a sneaky water moccasin and slithered away beneath the holy water. I wanted him to be punished by his very own dirty tongue. Wishing something and reality are two different animals. Those two polar-opposite species would never meet—especially between a priest and a swinger.

12). Apples

I had not one ounce of respect left for Trent—not even in the trunk of my car. I could not stand to look at his face any longer. When I glared at him, I could not help but to fixate on his flaws. So, loathing him was as easy as slicing wa
rm butter. I was afraid of him. Trying to build trust again with Trent was an ice-covered glacier that was unfathomable to climb with a pair of rubber flip-flops on.
My subconscious was in overdrive with Trent and my dreams and actions were simply warnings in order to protect myself. Sometimes, I have wanted something or someone so bad, that I have had a one-track mind and would not heed warnings until it found its way into my clutches. I will admit that, when it came to protecting myself, I got in my own way where Trent was concerned. The danger signs in our relationship kept popping up everywhere. It was kind of like bobbing for apples with him. There would always be one more apple popping up in the murky, spit-filled water bucket.

Trent was no dandy when it came to spending money. He should have worn a tarnished,
gold-plated, necklace that said “Cheapskate.”  I have uncovered my own crackpot correlation between men who are tight with money and those who are openly gregarious. Men who keep their wallets zipped up in their pockets seem to keep their hearts under lock and key as well. The guys who are free flowing with money have a tendency to be kind and bighearted. It’s not rocket science here, but rather an insight gathered from my honorary Master’s degree in the hard-knock's classroom of love.
Trent taught me a huge lesson about how penny- pincher men can equal a thrifty life of pure psychological torture. Cheapness can extend outward like poisonous tentacles into every facet of a female’s existence. I am extremely careful these days if I sniff out any tightwad action. I was a scorned woman who blew off the cheap guy warning signs. I subsequently paid an expensive price for being with an emotionally cheap man!

In a weak moment during our final days, Trent confessed to me that he found a hardcore sex magazine when he was a kid. Some piece of his brain must have become fixated on the heavy-duty stuff and he could not shake it. I could have tried to figure him out for the rest of my life, but then I would have lost my own way. Everything Trent did started to rub me
with an indescribable rawness. It was the kind of effect that nails on a chalkboard has, except it scratches away at your soul.
 

Nothing is one hundred percent—es
pecially in love. Maybe the not-knowing is part of the equation is what keeps me on my toes. What I know now is: when an empty relationship boat sails away, I need to save myself and throw myself overboard. Trying to save something that has already mustered off was a total waste of time. I could never fix the emptiness of Trent's emotion to my liking, no matter how hard I tried, not ever!
Our depraved and twisted marriage ship had sunk for good. The damaged vessel was filled with used sex toys and two broken hearts—or maybe only one? I actually think that ship left the dock on our very first date. Our marriage was a war zone, blown to smithereens by grenades filled with anger and fear. We had one last, big battle over something trivial, but the frazzled camel's back had finally snapped for good. I ran out of the front door in the middle of a rainstorm as if it was for dear life—and in retrospect it was.

My heart could not take any more pain from that shell of a man. I did make a commitment to Trent. However, the price was too high in that game of love to stick around and see another day unfold. Our internet marriage was finally
over; the judge had granted us our coveted divorce. The last time I ever saw Trent he was walking out of the courtroom doors. I made sure I was walking ahead of him in some strange race to get to the parking lot first. I did feel an immense relief to have him emotionally and legally out of my life for good. I cried a lifetime's worth of tears over a man who would always love his penis more than me.
It took time to heal and place my broken pieces back together.  I pulled myself out of a lonely slump and found my way back online again—nothing like getting bubble gum stuck in your hair over and over again. I had to wonder how many rainbows I needed to slide down to finally end up in a pot of gold.

I was smack dab in the middle of major emotional damage control, after my divorce with Trent was finalized, when my boss announced that it was imperative for me to attend a mandatory sales meeting in the Windy City. At first, I was annoyed to leave town on such short notice with so much life crap piling up on my plate. My parents said they would watch Hope, and they mentioned that maybe the quick trip would do wonders for my bruised spirit.

I went straight to the meeting from the airport
, and I thought that I would simply die from the excruciating boredom of the day’s meetings. Finally the meeting ended and I was so looking forward to checking into my hotel. As I set foot into the lobby, I was stunned that my boss put me up in such a luxurious five-star hotel. The first thing I did when I walked in the room was call down to room service. I ordered a big slice of peanut butter cheesecake and a bigger slice of pure relaxation. It felt decadent to be alone in such a beautiful place, devouring my treat and watching reruns of The Housewives of the OC—a perfect day.

I called the concierge to inquire about a taxi
, and she mentioned to me that I should check out the tapas loft on the rooftop. She informed me that it was always fun between eight and ten. She said, “It’s a hotspot that you should not miss.” My full belly and I decided to take a delightful nap for a few hours. I cuddled with the oversized pillows and my plush cotton robe. I woke up starving and jumped in the shower like a wild beast. I summoned up the energy to check out the rooftop scene for myself. I had always been a little reserved about going out to eat alone, but I mustered up the courage to tell my shy self to kiss off. I quickly slid on my top-secret glitter heels and off I went.
I sat all alone at the bar, feeling awkward, twirling my straw around and chasing the lemon inside my wine spritzer. That was until I noticed a striking younger guy approaching the bar. He sat three chairs away from me, casually ordered a beer then asked for a menu. I was extremely giddy about this new fellow sitting near me and I wanted his attention in the worst way. I threw a few of my ice cubes at his shoes to get him to notice me—it always works like a charm. He started laughing and introduced himself with the brightest smile that illuminated the rooftop beautifully. Yes, serendipity was holding my hand that night, and the angels were giggling as they twirled my hair! I secretly thanked the love cherubs for their abundant peace offering.

His name was Patrick and his name fit him ever so perfectly. Patrick was my new temptation. It turned out that Patrick was an art professor from a small art school in Mich
igan. He was in town for a gallery opening. Patrick was about six-two with golden brown hair. He had the sweetest freckles that were gently nestled across the bridge of his nose. He was twenty-five, newly divorced, and ripe for the picking. He had a pure gentleness about him that the guys down south were lacking. I was sadly accustomed to the Friday night alligators that lurked in the swamps of the boondocks, patiently waiting for their prey’s glass slippers to get caught in their moss-covered traps.