by Porphyro
THE END
5. HOW TO EXPLAIN THE CUCKOLD DESIRE
Her husband was always an angry one when he awoke. Not that he would punch you or anything if you stirred him up. No. But he would certainly shoot you the meanest looks you’d ever seen. He’d scowl at you like a gargoyle--the nose all bunched into a thousand wrinkles and everything. His fangs would show and--but this is getting excessive. He was a furious man, not a caricature of one. A caricature would at least be funny. But there was nothing funny about her husband waking up. At times, she thought he’d really hit her. She really did.
But I suppose the man had a good excuse after all. You see, his dreams weren’t the usual dreams. Not like the neighbor’s dreams, or his wife’s dreams, or any other standard person’s dreams. His dreams were particularly cruel dreams. “What is a cruel dream?” That’s an excellent question. You’d think they were nightmares, huh? But think again, my friend. Think better this time. Think to yourself: why would the husband be so goddamn livid waking up from a nightmare? No. All that temper and spleen only makes sense if the husband were being taken out of heaven.
And that’s exactly what it was. His dreams were so beautiful and so very, very precious--ah! You’d be frothing too if you wife shook you up. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ she says. ‘You’re going to miss work!’ Well who cares two blimineys? In the husband’s dreams work didn’t even exist. But that’s not even the most of it. That makes him sound rather lazy. And it wasn’t about that. No, it wasn’t. You see, in his dreams, the poor fellow imagined such a world…. Well, for starters, everybody loved him. His wife cherished him and said the nicest things. She encouraged him greatly and told him not to worry. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘Don’t worry.’ Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t worry. And he never did. Not in his dreams, he didn’t.
That’s why they were cruel dreams.
Or, well, at least they were until now.
Recently--this started just a few days ago, in fact--his wife has been shaking him up and doing all of the usual business, the, you know, ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ stuff, only now she doesn’t even get to the first ‘up!’ before he’s all awake. He clings to her arm and kisses her hand and looks intensely relieved. It isn’t at all like him, you understand. He strokes her hair and kisses her cheeks and kisses her bulbous nose and tells her that he loves her, loves her, loves her like no other man possibly can. No, it isn’t at all like him. Some nights, he doesn’t even sleep anymore. He looks so tired, but so miserable and scared as well.
The wife ponders to herself. ‘What could he possibly be dreaming of?’
Well she only needs to look in the mirror to begin to get a clue. Male psychology is a funny, funny thing. All he ever wants is a pretty wife, the male does. Pretty little lips and pretty little hips and the pretty little thing all to himself. That’s what he wants. And why? Not because she’s pretty--no, no, no. That would be too straightforward. That wouldn’t be so pathetic. No, the male wants a pretty, pretty wife so that he can torture himself. Every man who’s ever had a pretty wife eventually goes through it. For some, it starts right away. Before he’s even married, actually. Yes, after the third date--oh, let’s be honest! after only the first date--he’s already in agony picturing that she’s…but I won’t say it! It’s too painful what he imagines. Suffice it to say, he envisions other men. Many, many other men. (And their grubby, greedy cocks as well. There! I said it.) For other men, the anguish doesn’t start until a few years later. Yes, for the first little bit of the relationship, this type of man is fine, just fine. He’s self-confident and self-handsome and has plenty of strength and money. You’d never suspect he’d suspect his wife. All it takes to get him started, though, is getting fired from a job. Or getting laughed at in public. Or making some imbecilic error that calls his intelligence into question. Anything that brings him down a step on the ladder of pride. Suddenly, he realizes he has a pretty wife and it begins to overwhelm him. He begins to have a hunch about her.
The wife ponders to herself. ‘What could he possibly be dreaming of?’ If only she understood male psychology, she’d know immediately he was dreaming of her.
Indeed, ever since a few days ago, the man has been having the same terrible dream over and over again. I’m telling you, every night it’s the same terrible dream. It takes place in some huge, infinite ballroom. And everyone’s wearing the fanciest wardrobes. I’m telling you, they’re all wearing the fanciest dresses and the fanciest coats and--but why did I mention the fanciest dresses? Dresses? That implies there’s more than one. No, in the husband’s dream, the only one wearing a dress is his wife. You see, she’s the only woman in a sea of endless, elegant men. They’re all crammed into the ballroom and they’re all overeager to dance with her. And, lucky for them, she complies. She dances with each and every one of them. It wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t blush before each dance. And it wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t so easy to seduce. She would be dancing with some fellow, for instance, when her eyes would suddenly meet with somebody else’s across the room. And then she’d blush and lose her step and ask to sit down. And her dancing partner would oblige and let her go. And she’d go sit down and fan herself when all of a sudden, the other gentlemen would appear and take her hand and pluck her up from her little stool like a little rose. And she would blush and she would blush and she would blush. And sometimes, depending on the severity of the dream, they would even kiss.
Oh, it drove the husband absolutely nuts! Given enough nights of the same recurring dream, he was sure he’d lose his head.
After a year of this, what else could he do, then, but love it?
THE END
