It Felt Like A Massage

He's taken to demanding I phone him before he'll tell me the latest juicy twists of his life. My depraved German lover accidentally butt dialed his wife a while back while he was talking to a lady friend, telling her of the dreadful things his wife does, and the fallout was extensive.  So he's reluctant to put anything down in writing to me, either in an email or via chat.  I pointed out to him that I take extensive notes while we talk on the phone, and write up tales of his exploits. Those stories will be - please God - published in my novels, but he continues to insist I ring him anyway.

I think he likes the sound of a woman's voice, the sound of a woman's laughter.  I am happy to provide that to him, because I enjoy the sound of his voice, and his dry witticisms.  But some of the things he says do not make me laugh.  They make me worry.

"She was mad as a hornet on Friday night," he told me.  "I snuck out to hear some live music."

"Snuck out?" I asked.  "Wait...I thought you went openly, that it was part of your hall pass agreement."

"She doesn't want me to go out since the butt dialing," he said.  "So I waited until she was asleep and went.  But she woke up.  I really got it when I got back home."

"Ah," I replied, waiting for what came next.  I should have seen it coming.  But I was naively assuming it was just words, not deeds.  That's how I was raised.  People said things when they were angry.  They did not use fists of fury. Of course, his wife had several glasses of chardonnay fueling her rage, so that changes the equation.  At least, that is what I tell myself.  But I know that booze is not always present when someone hits another person.

"She started hitting me," he said.  I tensed and made some sound of distressed concern.  I cannot remember exactly what I said.  "No, it wasn't bad," he assured me.  "It felt like a massage.  You know, where they pound the muscles."

I laughed, relieved.  He sounded okay.  "Did you say 'thank you, Mistress'?" I asked him, teasing about his love of BDSM.  Our shared love of BDSM, now that I think of it.

"No," he said, "because she started hitting me in the head."

My brows drew together and I breathed in sharply.  "Do you hear that?" I asked rhetorically. 

"What?" he asked, confused.

"The sound of me not laughing any more.  You have got to get her into therapy."

He changed the subject, as he always does when I begin urging him to take action to protect himself or compel her to change her behaviour.    We talked of other things, and he got me laughing again.  Finally, after a lengthy conversation about many things sexual and otherwise, he began to sound a little distracted.  He does that.  He'll start to multitask, and I can tell by something in his voice that he needs to move on to something else.  "Bye, darling," I said. 

"So long," he said, and I could tell he'd walked someplace where he could be overheard by one of his employees.  He'd adopted his professional voice, friendly but not flirting.

After I hung up, I thought about his wife.  What kind of woman hits a man in the head?  She is clearly a dreadful person.  And yet I know all too well what's it like to be driven to manhandle someone else.  A few years ago, when my husband was drinking to the point of inebriation on an almost daily basis, when the children were distressed by his actions, when I was fearful that he was going to kill someone by drinking and driving, I snapped a bit and did something of which I am ashamed.

I didn't hit him, exactly.  Though I certainly wanted to. I wanted to beat the everliving **** out of him.  To just pummel the crap out of this man who had so disappointed me with his refusal to love me properly, with his mooning for years over a young woman who clearly didn't love him, with his drinking. 

I shoved him.  I was angry, we were fighting about him being drunk again, and I shoved him.  I shoved his scrawny, shitfaced *** onto the front porch because I just wanted to get him out of my house, out of my life.  I didn't hit him.  But I attacked him physically, nonetheless.  And my desire to hit him - to hurt him - left me shaken.  I felt like a really terrible person.  But there was a little part of me that wished it was really that easy to remove him from our lives, that my amazing feat of strength in shoving him out there could be repeated in a non-violent manner.

I've never touched him since then.  In an angry way, I mean.  It would be too easy to give in to the desire to smack him for all the grievances I hold.  And civilized people do not do that.  But I realize I cannot really throw stones at my depraved German lover's wife because I did that shoving.  And I know what it's like to want to hit someone in the head.  I can fathom it, you see.  So in judging her, I can't truthfully say "I would never hit someone in the head."  I could have.  Still, I don't understand why she would do that to him.  But booze makes people do crazy things. 
I endured one incident in which my husband manhandled me when he was drunk.  I was bruised and ached for days afterward.  I told him if it ever happened again, he'd receive divorce papers.  To his credit, he has not touched me that way again.  By the same token, neither of us touch the other the way we did when we were first married.  That's a bummer.

My depraved German lover's wife needs to go to rehab.  And then if she persists in trying to solve her frustrations in a hands-on way, she needs to receive divorce papers.  And anger management counseling.  At least, that's my take on it.
milkynips milkynips
46-50, F
1 Response Nov 27, 2012

By the time that I had met my then 22 year old wife, she had had many lovers and one night stands. A high school dropout, she had a stearn alcoholic father, got pregnant and married a drug using abuser at 17. She left him the night he stuck a loaded shotgun in her face threatening to kill her and her baby daughter. She had another boyfriend she was engaged to who was a prison parole. She had no talent for finding decent guys. A young Army officer, I was a 180 degree opposite of all the guys that had used her.

When we had our first serious argument, she got up in my face all tough chic fashion and started pushing on me wanting a physical fight. That's what she was used to. But I refused to push or hit back and just walked away angry. I told her that I wasn't like all the ******** she had known. I don't hit women and despise those who do. That encounter changed her. Not once have I ever shoved nor hit her and I've never called her names. Those are threshold acts that lead you to the brink. Going over that slippery slope leads to nothing good.