He grunted softly. "Pretty thing, she is. Congratulations."
"Thanks. Uh, the problem is, she's twenty-two—"
He cackled and puffed on his cigar. Blowing out, he said, "Nothing wrong with that… How old are you now? Twenty… nine?"
"Thirty-five."
"Shee-it, time flies." He shook his head.
"The thing is, she doesn't… share the same ideas about… people."
"What's the problem?" He made a rolling motion with his cigar hand.
"She flirts. Guys flirt with her. It drives me insane—"
"She's interested in other guys?" His eyebrows dropped down dangerously.
"No, I don't think so; it's just that she doesn't do a lot to dissuade them—"
"One of those fun gals, huh?"
I nodded.
"And you want to change her?"
"Well, I'd love to, but… the issue is more me, I think."
"What do you mean?"
"I get so angry; I throw things…"
"Jealous, huh?"
I nodded slowly, feeling better at being able to talk to someone – even if it was the man who fathered me and I hadn't seen in almost twenty years. "That's my problem – the jealousy. It's… bad. Very, very bad."
"Well… I might have some advice on that…"
I said gently, coaxing, "Like?"
"First thing is, stop thinking of it as a failure."
"But it is! It ruins everything. It—"
"Stop, son." He held up his old hand, palm out. "If you grind it into yourself that it's a failure, you'll never overcome it. Because, no one's perfect."
I coughed and held up my hands. "That's… some advice—"
"I didn't say I was done." He coughed several times, wheezing with the effort. When he calmed down, he continued. "Excuse me. Anyway, don't consider it a character flaw. Look at it as a strength."
I asked incredulously, "A strength?" I began wondering if my old man was crazy.
"Sure, look at it this way: you have a strong and dedicated drive of devotion to your girl. Instead of turning your natural emotions into defects or failures, try to look at it as highlighting your strength. Otherwise, you'll get deeper and deeper into self-destructive emotions--"
"But the anger…"
"I know. That's you torturing yourself. Try turning that effort towards your wife. You spend a lot of energy being angry and jealous, right? Imagine if you could use all that effort without guilt or shame. Building on your strength is far more effective than trying to correct it as a weakness."
"How do I—"
"Right now, I'd say you're angry and jealous and all that at yourself, more than anything else. Jealousy is an indication that you don't think you can measure up to your partner. What's her name?"
"Tess. Tessa. Tess for short…"
He blinked at me. "Yeah, I get that…" He drew on the cigar and blew it out. "You're likely affected more because of the age difference. Worried about keeping up with the younger set?"
I absolutely did not want to tell him I had ED. "I guess, yeah…"
"She married you, though. That means she loves you. That she sees other guys her age coming on to her flatters her. My guess, anyway. Nothing wrong with that. But you're jealous because you feel you might not be able to keep up."
No, I'm jealous that I can't even get it up. "I guess something like that." Except that I do get hard when I'm angry… Maybe you have some legitimate advice after all? I sat up straighter, thinking. "So… I should try turning that anger away from myself and towards her?"
"Not the anger, son, the effort."
I nodded slowly, looking down at his dusty and crusted work boots.
"Turn all that effort into flirting with her, yourself. Engage her on her level that made you jealous."
I stared at my father until he looked away. That my impulsive contact with him could potentially yield a solution made me feel my life was entering a phase of change – a potential to become something else - something other than a jealous man with impotence. Again, I found myself nodding slowly as my wheels turned on the subject.
I had to play my anger that gave me erections into something non-destructive and mutually supportive. I croaked almost as gravelly as my father, "I think I'm going to give this a try…"
His smile revealed old teeth, crammed together and white, with ivory in the crevices. He flicked ash off the cigar in a gesture of self-satisfaction.
CHAPTER 8
I texted Tessa.
Me: Where are you?
Tessa: Grocery store
Tessa: Almost done
I left it at that, stamping down inside myself the visions that men were following her around and flirting with her.
I thumbed to the text from Dustin and enlarged the picture. Tessa's younger and beautiful face made my heart swell. However, the cock lying across her open mouth made me angry. How do I turn this to something positive? I deleted the picture. Maybe, eventually, Dustin would just stop sending them. People forget, right?
I showered, wanting to get all the gummy and sticky waxes and cleaners off my skin before she got home. Wearing the products of my work made me feel like a mannequin – except, mannequins don't get angry.
In the few months that had passed since our marriage, anger and jealousy had wiggled into my life like some parasite on our relationship. I had carried it, ignoring it as if that would make it go away, but it hadn't. Ignoring problems sometimes made them worse and this was one of those problems. Like mold growing on a wall, it wasn't just going to go away by itself; no, it was going to take over the whole damned house if it wasn't taken care of. My anger was a growing stain that was going to lead to ruin, unless my father's advice could alter that fatal course.
Fatal?
I dropped the soap in the shower, staring numbly at the tile as thoughts of potential outcomes twisted through my head. Would I ever get angry enough, if it kept growing, to do something… fatal? To myself? To… her? The realization that I could even think about it sent cold ice water through my veins – despite the heat of the shower.
I grew angry at my anger.
And then I laughed with disgust at my plight.
How weak was I?
Could I really allow such a course of events to take place? But I knew that the mind often acted as a rudderless boat in some situations, pulled along by the current of what we think we cannot escape. But all of life comes down to choices. Good choices. Bad choices. Profitable choices.
Destructive choices.
I had to avoid that.
I got out of the shower, weights on my shoulders and psyche as I dried off. I regarded the old tile of the bathroom – a decidedly calamine color that didn't relieve any itches – and wondered if my parents had thought the color was ugly when they had both lived here. If they had, did they simply live with it, knowing other people had less?
Make do?
Or was it the flavor of the times?
I had Tessa; other people had less.
That some guys sniffed after her made me angry, but that wasn't what my mind was pursuing. I had Tessa; my Tess. This was a good thing in life and I needed to focus on my astounding good fortune; she could have rejected me and went for Dustin or Garth – more her age.
But she hadn't, she had picked me.
All right, Clark, let's get our head on straight. Tessa is a good thing. I dressed, shrugging into my clothes as if it were a necessary evil. My manhood swung limp, but I didn't want to think about that.
No, I had to.
I had to. This anger and jealousy had robbed me of the one manly thing I could use to show Tessa how much I loved her. Can I turn my anger erections to help instead of to harm? That I could get erections at all implied there wasn't anything physically wrong with me – it was mental. Despite all the jabber back and forth on the internet about Erectile Dysfunction and men denying it was mental, I had to concede that my case certainly was centered up in my brain.
Okay.
; I said it aloud, in the mirror, as I brushed my hair, "Okay, Clark, it's mental. Let's quit agonizing over the why of it and force it to be…"
Be what?
I didn't move from the mirror, studying my scowl as if I could read the answer on my face. But would the answer be backwards because of the mirror? Had my father looked in this mirror before leaving mom and made some kind of similar self-constructive decision?
I shied away from their past; it was my future that meant everything right now.
I seized the edge of the sink, feeling the familiar fastening of failure entwine upon the essential essence of my personal character. I ground my teeth tight, angry again. But this time, I was angry at the imposition of something that was ruining my life.
I have strength. I really do get erections. I forced the anger to come face to face with my mental grinding. Desperately avoiding thinking of that damned picture, I left the bathroom, clinging precariously to the simple mantra that I wasn't angry at Tessa, myself, or my dick.
I was in a stasis at the moment – however brief – where for once I wasn't blaming myself.
I went into the kitchen and looked out the front window to the park.
That was a huge mistake.
Instantly, I thought of that idiot Garth and his immodesty in front of my wife. Even I had seen his dick; how could my wife fail to notice it? He might as well pull it out, wave it around, and hoot and holler like a kid.
Blood surged and stomped, driving my anger higher. My jaw clenched tighter.
Determination.
Maybe it wasn't a mistake to look out at the lawns of the park, the trees and kids playing out there, and the memory of Garth jogging with an erection.
No.
Vital blood flowed through me and filled that part of me that had become most sensitive to failure. I hardened. Was there truth to what Tessa had said? Did I find other men getting hard over her soothing to my physical plight? If I couldn't get hard, then other men should?
I shook my head. No, that isn't it; she's wrong.
I clenched my jaw as tight as I could and squeezed the slick tile of the counter top. I forced my mind to move along an unfamiliar cycle of sense.
I let my eyesight lose its focus and turned inward. Garth found Tessa attractive, of course.
I suppressed my anger over that, pushing beyond those previous prison-like confines.
Of course he found her attractive – because she was. He wasn't coming on to her because of me, but rather because of her beauty.
My dick pounded away in my pants, throbbing at my anger and jealousy.
She was mine, but Garth wasn't considering that. That wasn't even in the orbit of his head. Was he even smart enough to think of such manly competition?
Abruptly, I barked derisive laughter.
Fuck no, he isn't.
Tingles and heat danced along my forearms and I relaxed my clutch on the counter ever so slightly.
I gave voice to my efforts, "That's right, you're not fucking smart enough, Garth."
In a mental flash that left me reeling, I gripped again the edge of the counter with shaking hands. My respiration went through the roof, but I was only marginally aware of the acceleration.
Curious.
Of course Garth wasn't smart enough, he was simply reacting to Tessa, not to me. Yes, it was that simple, and with that realization came satisfaction that at least the idiot was smart enough to recognize Tessa as beautiful and… sexy.
I trembled violently as a cold wash of permutation battered away at my anger.
I blinked, trying to grasp the raw remodeling of my usual belly-flop off the cliff of my mental reasoning into my personal trap of jealousy and ruin.
The anger was there… but not as hot.
The new emotion was there, too, but what was it? And had I introduced something even more destructive?
Garth was obviously attracted to her and he did know that I was her husband. That he didn't challenge me was something… He recognized her beauty and the way it was displayed in her clothing. A small smile tensed at the corners of my mouth; I found her clothing sexy, too. So maybe the jogger couldn't help himself. Of course he would get hard.
Seriously? Duh.
I… can't get mad over that. I shifted my stance; my dick was getting uncomfortable.
Tessa's silver Honda CR-V pulled into the driveway. The car was older than she was, but it fit her as if it was made specifically for her.
I was unable to pursue my critical and essential line of thought. It would have to wait.
For now, anyway, the gratifying throb in my dick promised an agreeable diversion.
CHAPTER 9
I moaned in bed as Tessa stroked my shaft up and down.
Her eyes sparkled with delight. "So you're really sorry about—"
"Yeah, let's forget about it." I didn't want to think about breaking the bowl. I wanted to concentrate on my cock working.
Finally.
Fuck!
She giggled, happy. "What's gotten into you?"
"More like what isn't," I muttered.
"Hmm?"
"I was angry over him ogling you, but…"
"But what?" Her hand slowed, cautious and delicate – as if afraid to reawaken those emotions within me.
I shrugged in bed. "I don't know, I guess it makes sense that…" I made a face, unsure how to go on with my thoughts. They had been interrupted and I didn't have any answers.
"I was thinking that maybe I should wear regular baggy sweats."
I was offended. Cover up her sexy figure? I frowned, angry.
Her eyes got large and she said quickly, "Maybe I shouldn't run anymore…"
And right there I was pinned to the bed by my astonishment that the anger I had harbored could be so destructive. I knew it affected me, but my Tessa? I gasped, "No, Tess, don't stop." I shook my head. "That's who you are. I married you, not some gal in baggy sweats."
She watched me warily.
I said, "No, I… I've come to like seeing you in your yoga shorts." I blinked rapidly and frowned.
Her head jerked up, alert. "What?"
Of course. I could turn my anger easily. My jealousy? I didn't know, but my anger… I said, "I get hard when I get angry…"
"Right? But you're not angry now."
"No, but before. And I was angry because some guy would see you in your cute clothing, but… it was because you are hot. So, really, I'm getting hard because you're hot."
"So why weren't you getting hard when we were alone?"
"I know it sounds strange, but… the jealousy kills my erections, except when it's right in my face and immediate." A weight lifted off me and I frowned deeper.
Panicked, she asked, "What is it?"
I waved her off, even though my erection had started to wilt as I thought. "I'm not mad, just thinking. I like you dressing sexy. But I get hard when some guy sees it because I'm jealous. Then the anger sets in and the jealousy ends the erection because I can't solve their attraction. But… I shouldn't be angry at their attraction. Or jealous." I indicated my dick. "Or limp."
"So you're not really mad at me, then?"
"No." Then I knew I had lied. I sighed with exasperation because I had spoken before thinking – except, I just hadn't had time to think this through. "I mean, yes, sort of. I was at times mad at you, and I'm sorry; that wasn't fair."
She just watched me, hand still as I wilted further in her hand.
I went on. "I think I was lashing out because I didn't know what was going on. I'm still angry and jealous, but maybe now I can control it or even fight it."
"Mad at me?"
"No, I am no longer mad at you. I'm really sorry I was placing the blame on you. I was doing it because I couldn't understand why this was all happening."
She angled her head away, looking at me from the side. "And you still want me to dress sexy?"
I laughed. "Yes. From the very beginning, I wanted it. Then things went wrong."
"Don't y
ou think it was because how I dressed?"
"Tess, you could wear the baggiest sweats and still be sexy."
"Then what was it?"
I let out a slow breath. "Maybe… it's my age."
She looked offended. "What's wrong with your age?"
"I'm ten years older than you—"
"Thirteen."
"Thanks," I said drily. "I'm thinking I started worrying subconsciously that you'd find a younger guy and…"
She coughed with irritation. "Not ever."
I said nothing, but just basked in the love from her.
"Are you sure you still want me to run? I can stop, for you."
Nothing she could have said would've driven that nail deeper into my heart. It was my failure, not hers. "I don't want you to stop. And I don't want to see you in baggies."
"Are you sure?"
The idea that Garth was going to continue flirting with her and getting outrageously indecent erections around her made me angry.
It also woke up my dick.
I wanted to beat Garth, but could I really blame him?
She tilted her head with curiosity, smiling as her eyes flicked to my growing excitement.
My voice was shaky with tension. "Keep running. Keep dressing in the clothes I buy you."
"All right…"
"I mean it."
Her hand began moving up and down. "You get hard when men look down my tops or check out my shorts."
My heart began pounding harder, fueling my anger and excitement. "Yeah, I guess so."
She giggled. "You get so hard when I dress slutty - when I wear dresses with no panties."
I hummed.
"The dresses you buy me keep getting shorter. Are you hoping someone will see up my dress? That I might flash someone? Would that make you super hard?"
I was about to shake my head when I was forced to comprehend the undeniable throbbing stiffness of my manhood. I said hoarsely, "Get on me."
Her eyes shone with interest and happiness. She climbed up over me, straddling my waist.
I grabbed her hips, twisted a little for better aim, and pulled her down. I imagined her wearing some skimpy dress with no panties.
Easy access.
Total slut.
My cock pulsed and pounded to my lust. I drove my shaft up into her as I pulled down. Her eyes closed in pleasure and she bit her lower lip as I stuffed her full. I began pumping my hips up and down, fucking my young bride eagerly. Slut dress, fuck. Easy fuck. No panties, just sex. Sexy slut… I ranted in my mind, amazed at how stiff I was without a hint of softening. Was this all just temporary insanity? Or was it epiphany?
Jealousy Page 5
