I'm George, mwm, 52

by George Everyman

  One of the main things that Abby and I discuss, i.e. fight about, is families. Hers and mine. In her black and white world, her family is perfect and mine is shit. I'm not being totally fair here, but almost. It's not really that my family is shit in her eyes. It's just that they are different from hers, and that makes them suspect.

  In my more measured perspective, seeing the shades of gray that I do, much better than Abby I should say, I can see the best of each family and try to play to the strengths of each. Now I know that sounds terribly arrogant and perhaps even self righteous, but I have to take my own side, sometimes, don't I? I'm not a total pussy, and when I'm right I have to admit it. Right?

  So seeing those shades of gray that I do, when I'm up North I act a whole lot differently than I do down south. Believing that the strength of Abby's family is in its chaotic nature, and holding back and acting with Southern gentility just doesn't seem appropriate, I drink and cuss and say bad things about every public official who I can think of, and I don't take myself seriously, and I generally have one hell of a good time up there.

  Chapter 59: Back Down South

  I'm not trying to turn this into a reenactment of the civil war. Excuse me, I meant to say 'the war of Northern aggression' as they say down here. I love a lot of things about the South, BBQ being near the top of the list.

  If you've never gone to some mountain store, way back in the middle of fucking nowhere, on a warm summer Saturday night, and sat on a rock or a stump, because it's outside and there are no chairs unless you bring them, and I always forget, and listen to a blue grass band made up of some really sketchy, sketchy to Abby at least, mountain folk, you haven't really heard music at all. I don't care if you've been to Carnegie fucking Hall, you haven't heard music this good.

  In addition to BBQ and bluegrass, I like the Southern black folk a lot. Now I know you are going to pick me apart for being politically incorrect and prejudiced and insensitive and all of that shit. And there may be an element of all of that in me. I plead totally and absolutely guilty to not being politically correct. Hang me for that. But I plead totally innocent to having any bigotry or hatred in my heart, and if I seem insensitive, then so be it, because I'm not.

  Back to the Southern black folk, and why I like them and why I'm not stereotyping them at all, even though it may seem that I am. I'm a Southern cracker. A white devil. I can't help that. I was born white. But my soul is a lot darker. And darker is good to me.

  The blacks in the South have withstood terrible things. Can you possibly imagine a bunch of white thugs breaking into your shack, taking out your brother or uncle or father or cousin, and hanging him? Just take a minute to think about that. Stop reading. Close this book or turn off your e-reader. Maybe for five minutes. Just spend five minutes of your entire life, an infinitesimally small portion of it, i.e. your life, putting yourself in that position.

  Think about your family, currently. Think about a bunch of thugs breaking in and taking someone and killing them. Then think about the absolutely brutal, inhuman, unbelievable, undeniable fact that there is absolutely nothing you can do or could have done to save them. They won't be punished. Even though everyone knows who did it. Including the whole legal establishment. The sheriff knows. The judge knows. The whole fucking town knows and no fucking body is going to do a fucking thing about it.

  The holocaust was a terrible thing. An unbelievable thing. An unforgiveable thing. But so was the treatment of blacks in the South. Not on as grand a scale in numbers, but try telling that to the family that lost a father because some motherfucking idiot of a human being said he saw the N look at a white woman in a lustful way.

  That's what I hate about the South. Its past. Not all of its past, but that part in spades. And any race that can endure that treatment and come out on top with love in their hearts, wins my vote as to a place at the very top of the thing we call humanity.

  So yeah, I love the Southern black folk, and I would bet that most of them would forgive me for being politically incorrect and look past my choice of words and see what is in my heart and soul, because I know for a fact, they are very capable of and willing to do just that.

  I think one of the best things that ever happened to the South was the influx of people from outside. They brought new ideas and new ways of seeing and doing things, and they brought, most importantly, the unwillingness to allow certain things to be perpetuated.

  Lest you think I am condemning the South and its heritage and everything in its past, remember this is George, not Abby, and I'm quite capable of seeing the whole picture in shades of gray. I could have chosen to leave the South at any time, but I've spent the best part of my life here, and I love it, generally. But that doesn't mean I'm going to keep my mouth shut when I see something I don't like.

  Perhaps hanging out with Abby's family has been good for me in that respect, i.e. calling a spade a spade, even if that metaphor might not be the best one to use because I just remembered that spade was a racial slur too, but since I've delved deeply, and probably dangerously, into the miasma of race, I guess I'll leave it here, in this sentence, knowing that I sometimes give ammunition to my enemies, but then again, I really don't accept the concept of enemies in the first place, but I'll save that for another chapter, and besides, this sentence is getting ridiculously long.

  Now that I've totally exposed myself as an insensitive prejudiced bigoted bastard, in some people's eyes I am guessing, but not in my own, let me tell you what else I like about the South.

  Fried Okra. Fried chicken. Fried catfish. Grits.

  So up North, people think that grits are some part of some animal's innards, apparently. Abby's mother came down South right after we were married and living in marital bliss, as all couples do for a short period of time, before they start getting on each other's nerves and then either learn to live with what they perceive are each other's short comings, or they embrace and learn to love the differences, or thirdly, move toward divorce.

  Abby and her mom and I were having a Southern breakfast, and the mom got a plate with eggs and bacon, both of which she wanted, and grits, which she didn't, but in most places that serve Southern breakfasts, they are included, and basically free, so most places don't ask you if you want grits or not, because they assume you do since they are free and most of their customers are from the South and love grits.

  So her mom kind of just looked at them and ate around them, and then after breakfast, when it was clear she wasn't going to eat them, I asked her "don't you like grits?," knowing full well that she didn't, and she said "is that was sliding on my plate, getting closer and closer to my eggs?"

  Abby and her mom laughed, but I didn't because it was a waste of good grits, which are just ground corn and nothing else I might add. Up North they call the same thing polenta and go crazy over it and pay high prices in fancy restaurants for it. But somehow is has some Southern stigma to it, and many Northerners won't eat grits, or fried okra, both of which happen to be outstanding, for fear of becoming Southern or something like that, I'm guessing.

  As you can see, I'm conflicted in my relationship to the South, loving most parts and hating a few parts, mostly past parts regarding racial relations, but also the god awful humidity and heat in the summer, but since we have a summer home in the Northeast, that hate of the heat and humidity is pretty much a thing of the past. So to sum up this lengthy and maybe superfluous diatribe, the South is a good place to live, since it is shedding the part of its past that was horrendous, while retaining those parts that are historic and good.

  Chapter 60: Giving it a Rest

  I'm pretty sure Abby has never used the word 'pontificating'; not because she is not well read, but simply because she doesn't use esoteric words like pontificating in her normal conversations. With me at least. However, I'm almost certain that she thinks that I pontificate a lot, and I do, and she hates it when I do, so I try and not do it around her, which is probably why I'm doing it a lot here, because she is not listening to me n
ow.

  I just looked up the definition of the word, as I sometimes do, to make sure I am using the right word, since I usually don't use esoteric words either, and I was right because it fits exactly what Abby, no doubt, thinks I am doing when I am talking about something like grits, or BBQ, or racial slurs, and probably open marriage.

  Here is what I found, 'pontificating: to speak in a pompous or dogmatic manner', and I have to admit, that pretty much fits what I am doing, as bad as it sounds to me, here, right now.

  When I break things down, and do analyses of them, like my pontification about grits, I'm continually coming to the conclusion that Abby is more right than wrong, which leads me to believe that maybe I'm more wrong than right about a variety of things. It's dangerous when you tread in these waters of self analysis. Egos are a fragile thing. Ripping them apart and throwing them away with the morning trash is ill advised, take it from me. So I think I'll give it a rest for while, i.e. the analyses. Not the pontifications. I like those too much.

  Chapter 61: The Tri, the Internet, and the Ever so Cool Dewayne

  Yesterday was the tri. Triathlon for those of you not in the know. Dewayne was in it. His first. Abby was watching it. On the net. The internet. Not actually watching it, but watching the progress. One thing I learned, by the way, was his age, since they list the athlete's ages. He is thirty fucking five. Thirteen years younger than Abby. Of course that makes her two things, both of which send certain sensations to the part of my body just below the waist.

  First, she is a cougar, which must make Dewayne her cub. Next she is a MILF, and once again, for those of you uninitiated in the current world of dating, that translates into mother I'd like to fuck. Both terms seem to indicate that there are more than a few men who prefer their women with some miles on them, which makes a lot of sense when you do the appropriate analysis, which of course I have, many, many times. Those men who prefer older women, I know because I've read this on the net, which we all know means that it is absolutely true, prefer them mostly because these older women want to get right to the point, i.e. fucking or sucking or licking, without all of the bullshit courtship that most younger women expect and seem to need.

  On the other hand, younger women who prefer older men prefer them mainly for their knowledge and general lack of needing to get right to the point. These older men have probably figured out, by the time they are older, that the best way to get inside a woman's panties, if indeed she is wearing any, is to appear not to want to get into her panties, as paradoxical as that may sound.

  They, the young women, are pretty much used to men groping and grabbing and feeling, and they, the young women, have learned to defend the territory, as it were, and then when the older men are more restrained or polite, or just plain smart, and they, the older men, are not groping and grabbing and feeling, then they, the younger women, start feeling either special or somewhat frustrated, or both, and then they want the older men more, because it probably seems to them, i.e. the younger women, that they are not as attractive as they had been to the younger men, so they open up, literally, quickly and easily.

  It's good that there probably is a balance between all of this so that older men and older women can still get laid, by younger women and younger men but for very different reasons. Which brings us back to Abby and her cub Dewayne and what they see and need in each other.

  Dewayne is a pretty simple read, I think, in that he's a man's man and men's men not only need to get laid, they fucking deserve to get laid. So they survey the landscape, look for someone they see as attractive, which in this case was Abby in spades for Dewayne, and then they do a quick analysis. Probably a very quick one in Dewayne's case, not that he is stupid by any means and therefore incapable of doing a more thorough analysis, but rather that since he deserves it, there isn't much of an analysis to do in the first place.

  In most cases, the pursuer does an analysis of the pursued and measures the likelihood of success and the possible complications, and then decides to pursue or not. In this case, Dewayne must have determined the likelihood of success as being high, and he was right, as we have learned, and the complications not all that significant, which he has gotten wrong, not because I was likely to bother him, that part he got right, but the thing with Kim was probably not expected by him, most likely because he thought he wouldn't get caught.

  Abby on the other hand, being the pursued probably gave it little or no thought until that exact moment when he slid his hand under her racing outfit and felt her tits, or perhaps instead when he just moved his face close to hers and kissed her and slid his tongue into her waiting, and willing I might add, mouth.

  At that exact moment she had to make a monumental decision, unless of course, she had already made the decision and was just waiting for the hand or tongue.

  Another possibility is that she has had a lot of practice with this sort of thing over the past quarter century, and there was no decision to make in the first place.

  I just had to look back to see where I came from, because I think I got way off track because this was interesting and getting me hot thinking about Dewayne and Abby in that first microsecond of passion, and now I remember that this started when I was thinking about Abby being a cougar or a MILF, both of which sound fantastic in my book, even though I'm not the cub, but in actuality I prefer the role of the husband being married to the cougar or MILF anyway.

  We have established that Abby is much older than Dewayne, but it works for both of them and that's all that is important.

  Abby kept hitting the refresh button on her computer, probably a few hundred times during the day, and ooo'd and aaa'd every time she saw a new posting of his times, and at the end of the day, when one of his friends, or maybe Kim, ironically, posted his picture at the finish line, she, I swear to you, probably had a mini orgasm, as she said, very loudly and very lustfully, I was certain "he looks GREAT, just GREAT."

  I went to look at the picture and he looked pretty shitty to me, but what do I know about men and their attractiveness to women or other men, and of course, the after the tri, worn out, sweaty, beleaguered look was probably a part of the turn on for a fellow tri-athlete too, in a weird way I thought.

  However, I was in my playing it cool mode, which really was more accurately a get Abby hot and since Dewayne wasn't in our condo right then maybe Abby will fuck me by default mode. It did work by the way, I am pleased to report, and I was honored to be able to lick the kitty for two, yes two, big O's, which Dewayne, I'm talking to you now, were much larger than the mini one she had looking at your picture. So there, Mr. fucking tri-athlete.

  To be fair, which you know by now that I am, if he had been there, in our condo, and Abby could have had him, right after the race, even though she prefers a freshly showered body, in this case the sweat would have been an aphrodisiac, her orgasms would have been heard on the street, five floors down. And I know it would have been many more than two O's, and I know penetration and injection of his bodily fluids would have been accomplished, in some or multiple orifices.

  But I was still proud that my tongue was allowed in the secret, and I might add, tasty place and that it served her purpose, better than Dewayne's picture. So there, again, asshole.

  Dewayne finished about half way through the field, and didn't place in his age group, and didn't win any trophies or any money or any recognition, so I can't for the life of me see why it was such a big fucking deal in Abby's eyes. But it was. And that's pretty hot, because she is my fucking wife, even if she is also fucking you Dewayne, and I get to sleep with her every night, even if, alas, she only touches me when it's cold out and we leave the door open, which I make sure we always do.

  Chapter 62: The Hero Returns

  You've got to love any tight knit group that basically likes to get together and accomplish something and then spend the next five years relishing in that accomplishment, no matter how trivial it might be in the great scheme of things.

  This chapter is going to sound
convoluted and may be confusing at times, but the gestalt will be there, at the end, so please be patient.

  When I married Abby, I was even more of a tree hugger, save the world maniac than I am now. I still am one, for sure, wanting to compost the kitchen scraps, for example, which is hard since we don't have a yard or a garden any more, but I still try. And I wash out plastic bags, which drives Abby insane, "It's just a fucking plastic bag and only costs a fraction of a cent," she rails, which is not true, as I've done the math and they are several cents each, and besides, they are made from petroleum which must be extracted at an environmental cost, and if everyone washed them out and used them multiple times, it would help, somewhat.

  If I had married an earth mother, which is a sixties term for a tree hugger, she probably would have respected me a lot more than Abby does, but we probably would have lived a pretty dull life, constantly respecting each other, patting each other on the back for saving the world, and would in reality have not saved the world, at all, unfortunately.

  I'm not sure about the fucking and sucking, and even if it was more frequent, it probably would have been nowhere near as lustful. Respectful does not equate to lustful. Respectful fucking almost sounds like an oxymoron, now that I think about it.

  So I'm glad I married Abby, and her disrespectful lustiness, even if shared with Dewayne, and maybe others or even many others, is a far better thing, I think, than plentiful respectful fucking, which we would have, no doubt, in my imaginary marriage to earth mom, have called 'love making'.

  The hero returned from the tri and the hero worship was abundant, day after day after day with numerous emails circulated among the tight knit group, and our cocktail hour conversations had one and only one theme which you have already guessed, so after the pleasantries of how was your day and how is your mother and did you hear from any of the kids, the inevitable "I can't believe how good Dewayne did," with all the attendant smiles and looks of lust, surfaced and dominated the cocktail hour conversation.