“How’s work going?” Marcy asked.
She was hesitant to chatter about her day like she usually did, for fear of blurting out her recent spy activities or demanding he tell her what the fuck he was up to. Her nerves were on the edge of something. A dangerous something that could easily blow her cover. So she tried to make small talk and found herself unable to ask her husband a single leading question about his recent work. Like, How’s the X account? Or, Did you complete the Y software design? Over the last year or so, she hadn’t taken much interest in the details of Jess’s work life. And it showed.
“Slow,” he replied. “Maybe I’m over the crest.”
He stabbed an innocent chunk of potato and brought it to his mouth before setting it back on the plate where he seemed to think it belonged.
“What crest? What’re you talking about?”
He looked at her, or maybe through her.
“What I mean, Marce,” he said slowly, as if talking to a dimwitted child, “is when you hit a certain age, you no longer come up with worthwhile innovations. Your brain is incapable of making the connections required for new leaps in design. In the field of mathematics, this brick wall to creativity can appear by the time you turn thirty. I’m afraid software engineering’s a young man’s game.”
She laughed but stopped abruptly when she realized he was serious. Cresting at thirty? It seemed a ridiculous concern for a brilliant man like Jess.
“I’m not kidding, Marce. And there’s plenty of scientific research on brain development to back up what I’m saying. I’ve got maybe ten years left, then I’ll be fully over the hill. While the youngsters fresh off their post-docs take over the world.”
He popped a potato chunk into his mouth, then thought better of it and spit into his linen napkin. Geeks had the worst table manners. She’d had to learn to live with it.
Marcy reached for his hand and covered it with her own.
“I’m sure you have plenty of genius left in you, darling,” she said.
In fact, she had no doubt. The idea he was washed up at thirty-one was nonsense. Was it this sort of crazy thinking that had propelled him into the arms of another woman? Was he suffering from decaying self-esteem, bizarre geek phobias, some sort of engineer’s block?
An idea formed in her mind. Wouldn’t hot sex with his devoted wife help boost his deflation? Couldn’t the old in-and-out be a kind of cure for his work-related depression?
She stood up and posed, pushing her breasts and ass into pre-coital position, moving her hips back and forth, swaying gently just beyond his nose. Jess continued to stare blankly at his bloody beef.
Marcy sucked in her breath. She hated being turned down. It was totally humiliating. But Jess seemed to be in need of a good fucking. Maybe she could win back his attention using the old tricks. She swallowed her pride and prepared for action.
Slowly, loudly, dramatically, she unzipped her tennis skirt, daring him to glance over. His eyes drifted to her hips, then up to her face. Marcy smiled, licking her lips and pouting as she dropped the little, white skirt to the floor. She thrust out her chest and, quickly now, lifted her tight, white T-shirt over her head. No bra, no panties, recently waxed, glistening with coconut oil, and doused liberally with Truth or Dare. She walked to him, watching as he stared glumly at her approach.
“Maybe this will make you feel young again,” she said, taking his index finger and sliding it inside her. “After all, you’re only as young as I feel.”
He snatched his hand away like her vagina was on fire. Pushing his chair back, he retreated rapidly. His face reddened from anger or arousal. Or something else, something more threatening to their future.
“You never take me seriously, Marcy. You’re like a blowup Barbie doll. My brain is turning to mush after so many years of this, this . . . this total lack of stimulation.”
Marcy laughed. Since when was slipping it to your wife over a homemade roast beef dinner lacking in stimulation?
When she kept on snickering, Jess blurted, “I mean mental stimulation, Marcy. Intellectual stimulation.”
Her mood darkened. Oh, that. She’d never been good at providing cerebral challenges. Her forte was erotic activation.
Jess stood up and threw down his napkin, letting it land on the bloody roast. Now Marcy would have to use stain remover. This pissed her off. He was so selfish. How dare he turn up his nose at her carefully prepared dinner? And did he think he was just going to walk away from her now? Insult her by refusing to partake of her primped and powdered, perfectly tanned and toned, totally naked flesh?
When he headed out of the dining room, obviously intending to hide himself in his office, she made an offensive move. She attacked, lunging at him, tackling from behind. They fell together onto the cold hard floor with a grunt (his) and a scream (hers).
“You motherfucker! How dare you insult my food, my body, my brain! I ought to kill you. I think I’ll fuck you to death,” Marcy yelled.
She was out of her mind, flailing her arms, kicking, writhing on top of her husband, who was attempting to buck her off his back without hurting her.
“Calm down,” he said in a muffled voice, his face mashed against the Italian marble.
“No! I’m tired of calm. I want wild.”
Then she screamed again, thrusting her pelvis against the wrinkled back of his yellow polo shirt until he bellowed like a rodeo steer. She eased up on him, but only enough so he could roll over onto his back. He stared up at her. His face was unreadable, but his dick was unquestionably hard.
When she felt his fingers on her spine, she stopped rutting on his chest and dove for his mouth. Eventually, he kissed her back. Reluctantly, then forcefully. And soon enough, he had her buttocks tight in his hands, and he was driving himself into her with a deep, thrusting rhythm she hadn’t enjoyed for some time.
She enjoyed it for less time than usual however.
Maybe it was the weeks of celibacy, maybe it was the anger at being ignored and possibly betrayed, but something snapped inside her head, and Marcy lost it. Geek sex with Jess had always been a quiet, sweet affair, a tender conjoining of her juicy twat with his ropy penis, bolstered by a lot of adolescent kissing and cuddling. Some women go for that kind of comfy sex, but Marcy wasn’t one of them. She’d gone along with Jess’s romantic approach to their coupling because she loved him. She’d wanted to please him, keep him. Now, however, she wondered if she should have shown him what she was really like much earlier in their relationship. She’d been afraid she would scare him off. Now she didn’t give a shit what his reaction might be.
She pulled away, pressing against his chest with her palms until he stopped thrusting.
He lay flat on the floor. “What the hell, Marce?”
She shook her head, then rocked herself against his solid cock until she came with a shudder and a groan. Then she licked her index finger and stroked herself, still rubbing against his thick cock, until she came a second time. God, that felt good. She was ready for another one, la pièce de résistance, but as soon as he began to pump again inside her, Marcy pulled away. She laughed when she saw the look on his face as she stood up.
His forehead was covered in sweat. Splayed out on the dining room floor, his plaid boxers down around his knees, her husband displayed the biggest boner she’d seen in years. He looked like a confused teenager caught in the act of Playboy ing.
“Where’re you going?” he whispered.
“I want you to lick me until I tell you to stop,” she said, dropping down into a squat so she was positioned right over his head. “Do it.”
His soft tongue entered her soaked vagina like a butterfly seeking pollen. It flitted here and there while her orgasm built itself into a delicious climax. When she grabbed his head and yanked up, he lapped her juices and sucked them hard. She came with a bloodcurdling yell. God, she’d needed that.
She stood up and walked away.
“What’re you doing, Marce?” His voice sounded weak, vulnerable.
“I’m teaching you a motherfucking lesson, that’s what,” she answered with her back to him.
Then she sat down at the table and began to eat his untouched dinner.
“I’ll do you, but only if you tell me what a great cook I am,” she said between forkfuls of broccoli casserole. “I will come back and finish you off, I’ll blow your geek head off, but only if you tell me how smart and sexy you think I am.”
“You’re nuts,” Jess said, his erection wilting. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Marce.”
“I’m tired of being your geek whore,” she said.
He was pulling up his underpants, shaking his head. She’d said whore, but it wasn’t what she’d meant. What she’d meant was she was tired of being his geek love.
She slept on the living room couch. The velveteen itched, but she needed to be downstairs, ready to act. She had to be sure she was up and around before Jess came down in the morning.
CHAPTER FOUR
Geek Love
First thing Monday morning, Marcy clipped the camera onto Jess’s briefcase, crossing her fingers he wouldn’t notice it there. The device was really small, but, if you looked carefully, you couldn’t help but see it. She’d felt good, sticking it to him like that on the dining room floor. Now she’d catch him in the act with the other woman. Then he’d know why she’d turned against him. And he’d have to admit he deserved it.
She was in the driveway retrieving the newspaper when Jess walked out the front door.
He gave a wolf whistle and called out, “There she is, my sweet-ass geek whore.”
He grinned and waved as he jumped in the Jag. Weird. The guy seemed awfully bouncy for somebody whose wife had slapped him down, then ditched him for a night on the couch.
He had the briefcase next to him on the passenger seat. As he drove past, he blew her a kiss. Marcy snorted and shook her head. She would never understand this man. Never.
~~~
Jess was whistling when he walked in the house after work, briefcase in his hand and a gleam in his eye. He kissed her full on the mouth while scooting his free hand between her thighs.
“Umm, I do like your new style, my little geek whore,” he said. “Maybe we can finish where we left off last night.”
The day had been unbearably hot, so Marcy was wearing a short rayon shift with nothing underneath. She laughed, but her heart wasn’t in it. Why wasn’t he pissed off at her? Then she caught a whiff. His sweat smelled vulgar, like an Italian restaurant relying on garlic rather than finesse. He reeked of someone else, someone exotic. Had he spent time today with the other woman?
Marcy’s stomach double-dipped, taking a rollercoaster ride toward nausea. She swallowed hard, consoling herself with the knowledge she could now check to see if her suspicions were correct.
Relieving her husband of his leather case, Marcy said, “I’ll put this away while you go freshen up. We have some things to attend to before dinner.”
She handed him a tumbler of scotch and motioned to the stairs. He grinned and bounded up to the master suite, whistling tunelessly.
The dirty motherfucker! How could he get it on with her on the floor, riding her like a fucking rodeo bronco, then canter off, straight between the legs of somebody else? How could he cheat on her, then come home expecting a saucy round of make-up sex with his devoted wife? Marcy’s head felt so hot she was sure she was emitting steam. Thank God for the Spyware Shop.
When she heard Jess turn on the shower, she slipped out the front door. The dusk was gradually darkening, and a crescent moon hung low in the sky. A bird circled the telephone wires at the end of the driveway, settling at last on the flat top of a creosote-soaked pole. It was too dark to tell if it was her friend the horny cardinal.
Inducing a loud bleep, she unlocked Jess’s car with the remote. Squatting gingerly, she groped around under the driver’s seat. The recorder was gone! Marcy peered into the gloom of the back seat and stifled a scream.
The digital recorder lay on the floor behind the driver’s seat. Fully exposed! Had Jess noticed? Did it activate like that while he was driving? Or had he discovered the gadget and tossed it there himself?
Marcy snatched it up and dashed up the front walk.
Back inside, she headed for Jess’s briefcase. Miraculously, the little box was still clipped in place. Hopefully, the camera had worked its spy magic and now held some information she could use to get a better position in this game they appeared to be playing.
At her laptop in the kitchen alcove, Marcy popped in the memory card for the audio. While she listened to the whirr of blank tape, the whoosh of the upstairs shower reassured her she was alone. For the moment. But she knew her time was limited to the fifteen minutes her husband would need to wash off the smell of his pizza parlor girlfriend. Her hands were shaking so much she had to clasp them together.
When Jess’s deep baritone filled the room, Marcy lurched in her seat. She was at the built-in desk she used to do the household bills. If he walked into the kitchen, that would be it. He’d know what she was up to. They’d have to have it out right there, right then.
Listening to her husband’s prerecorded voice, Marcy realized she was shaking all over. What she was about to hear would change the course of her life. This was a turning point in her marriage to Jess, and she felt scared. Scared to death. She did not want to lose Jess. He was her life, her future. She loved him. He was a geek, but he was her geek. She wanted him to always be her geek.
Shaking her head to clear it, Marcy reminded herself to suck up, be brave, face the facts: he was a liar, a cheat, a home wrecker. Time to accept the truth and get on with her life. She lowered the volume and leaned in to listen.
Apparently, Jess was on his cell phone, talking with someone. She could hear what he was saying but the conversation wasn’t making any sense. It was all geek to her. Plus, she couldn’t hear a word from whomever he was speaking to because of traffic noise.
An ambulance screeched past, someone honked, and Jess yelled, “Fuck you too, grandma.” And then, “Stupid women drivers.”
Except for the all too common driving commentary, Jess’s voice was muted. His phone conversation was garbled, most of it impossible for her to decipher.
“You see how Nakamura played the (something)? Like a seventeen hundred. But then he pulled it off. With that (something or other), no less.”
Beep beep. Whoosh. Screech. Honk. More swearing.
“I know. Tonight should be interesting. I love when Gata (something something something).”
Marcy relaxed. Were they discussing business associates, financial investors, jai alai? No matter, the conversation sounded blessedly nonsexual.
“The usual time? We going naked?”
Shit. Her stomach rolled, and her heart dropped in with a hollow thud.
“I’m ready for you too, baby. Today’s the day we (something something something, and something else, probably something very vital). Yeah, you too.”
Her pulse was pounding in her ears when she heard her husband say goodbye. Then the recorder stopped. The first file had ended.
There was more, but that’s when the distant sound of their all-surround multi-head shower stopped. Marcy knew she had no time to download the micro memory card from the camera and watch whatever had been recorded. She was keenly aware her husband would, at any moment, lope into the kitchen, smelling of oatmeal soap. With a towel around his waist and her missing panties on his mind. But she couldn’t stop now. She absolutely had to see whom his baby was and what they were going to do when they got naked together.
She traded out the SD card and double-clicked on the icon. The file from the camera took a minute to download. Marcy could hardly stand the wait. Had the gadget worked? She fast-forwarded until the digital readout hit six p.m. Where was her husband every night from six to eight? Working late like he claimed? Or in a love shack he’d secretly rented in the city? Maybe in some luxury suite at the Marriott or the Ritz? Or on his ba
ck in some young chick’s penthouse apartment, ganja-fueled dorm room, or second-floor walkup?
She could hear him padding around on the oak flooring upstairs, still whistling some pointless tune. Her bones felt hollow, light, as if she might fly off the chair and float away into the summer night.
When she opened the file, the screen filled with a hazy image. What a shitty camera, she could barely make out anything in the picture! This pissed her off so much she wanted a refund. Then something adjusted, either her eyes or the camera, and she could make out the lines of a large desk. Jess’s desk. In the background were the diploma-filled walls of his office in the city. The silver-edged back of a framed photo, probably the one of the two of them in Rome on holiday two years earlier. Back when she loved him and thought he loved her.
Their trip to Italy had been so incredible. They’d had such a wonderful time, wandering the narrow winding streets, stopping at friendly little bistros for tiny cups of espresso and warm pastries, crystal goblets of robust Barolo, an endless supply of house Chianti served in funky juice glasses. Their lovemaking had been continuous, the windows open to the busy markets below, the sky a buffed blue. She’d gotten pregnant on that trip. They’d both been so excited about their future.
None of it had worked out as she’d hoped.
The video was black and white and about fifty shades of gray. Marcy braced herself, expecting the worst. Porno starring geek guy? And prom queen, sugar baby escort girl, Miss Denmark, a sassy coed with a passion for other women’s husbands? Her stomach twisted itself into a double knot.
On the screen, the door opened and someone fuzzy entered the office. Marcy’s heart raced, and her belly flipped. She would have barfed right then, but her insides were so empty she felt like she’d been vacuumed out. Evacuated of all substances other than pain.
Geekus Interruptus Page 3
