Infidelity Read Online Free Page B
Author: Stacey May Fowles
sex-and-smoke-stinking faux poet children.
The next day my wife asked me why there was a shot glass in the pocket of the pants Iâd left on the floor when I had gone to bed the night before. The only thing I could think to tell her was that I stole it. She just stared at me and shook her head.
I write because I donât have to be cautious when I do it. With my wife l have to be cautious. With my son I have to be cautious. When I write I can simply destroy everything I touch. While strangers think my life is incredibly thrilling, itâs actually so completely fucking boring that Iâm forced to write books about the things I really want to do. About the drama I want to create. About the girls I want to fuck. About this girl I want to fuck.
I knew I wouldnât have to be cautious with Ronnie. A girl like that doesnât want caution. She wants to be ripped from what is normal and predictable. A girl like that is reckless, and wanting, and so much more. A girl like that slips a shot glass in my pants pocket because it seems like the obvious thing to do. She doesnât care that Iâm married, or famous or boring or anything at all.
Itâs not even that she wants to break things, itâs that breaking things comes naturally to her.
My $175-an-hour therapist says I have dissatisfaction syndrome, although I am quite sure she made that up to continue her billing cycle. âYou always want something different, Charlie, and you need to work on being satisfied with the things youâve been given.â
But why? But why? But why?
Apparently it means that I am destined to be unfulfilled, that I will always be searching for something more. A search that fills me with anxiety and a constant feeling of failure. A search that leads me to beautiful women at dinner parties.
I think I just found something more.
RONNIE
Charlie was the sweetest kind of sickness from the moment I met him. He was the secret thrill of possible infidelity embodied in a package of ridiculous awkwardness. Lately there hadnât been the secret thrill of infidelityâonly Aaron and the predictable comfort of a love that refused to go wrong. Of course I had wanted, and of course there were moments after pints where a touch or a light kiss from a stranger or misguided friend promised something, but I didnât trust those promises the same way I trusted Charlie. Immediately. Without reason.
The nice thing about Charlie was that Aaron, who could have easily found his way into modelling underwear if he hadnât been so interested in gastronomy, would be incapable of becoming jealous of someone like Charlie. Not that Aaron was vain, just that Charlie was an unlikely suspect. Aaron knew he was beautiful and knew I was lucky to have him. In fact it often felt like everyone around us knew I was lucky to have Aaron, a subtle comment about my luck inserted here and there at dinner parties to ensure I felt sufficiently inferior to a wonderful man like Aaron.
I had never really disputed the fact that Aaron was better than me . . . it was one of those universal truths that everyone simply accepted. He had also been generous enough to take the time to fix me, because before him I was on good days careless and on bad days reckless. Aaron had made it a personal project to make me âbetterâ and he was confident he was close to completing his task.
The fact that he trusted me to have his baby and not break it was proof of that.
I was lucky to have someone like Aaron take care of me, and because of that no one could be jealous or wary of someone like Charlieâat least no one would ever be suspicious of someone like me spending time with someone like Charlie.
And despite my luck in Aaron being self-sacrificing enough to take someone like me on, I shoved that entire cookie in my mouth.
( CHAPTER SIX )
âEverything okay, honey?â Aaron called from the other side of the bathroom door.
Ronnie stood at the sink,
The next day my wife asked me why there was a shot glass in the pocket of the pants Iâd left on the floor when I had gone to bed the night before. The only thing I could think to tell her was that I stole it. She just stared at me and shook her head.
I write because I donât have to be cautious when I do it. With my wife l have to be cautious. With my son I have to be cautious. When I write I can simply destroy everything I touch. While strangers think my life is incredibly thrilling, itâs actually so completely fucking boring that Iâm forced to write books about the things I really want to do. About the drama I want to create. About the girls I want to fuck. About this girl I want to fuck.
I knew I wouldnât have to be cautious with Ronnie. A girl like that doesnât want caution. She wants to be ripped from what is normal and predictable. A girl like that is reckless, and wanting, and so much more. A girl like that slips a shot glass in my pants pocket because it seems like the obvious thing to do. She doesnât care that Iâm married, or famous or boring or anything at all.
Itâs not even that she wants to break things, itâs that breaking things comes naturally to her.
My $175-an-hour therapist says I have dissatisfaction syndrome, although I am quite sure she made that up to continue her billing cycle. âYou always want something different, Charlie, and you need to work on being satisfied with the things youâve been given.â
But why? But why? But why?
Apparently it means that I am destined to be unfulfilled, that I will always be searching for something more. A search that fills me with anxiety and a constant feeling of failure. A search that leads me to beautiful women at dinner parties.
I think I just found something more.
RONNIE
Charlie was the sweetest kind of sickness from the moment I met him. He was the secret thrill of possible infidelity embodied in a package of ridiculous awkwardness. Lately there hadnât been the secret thrill of infidelityâonly Aaron and the predictable comfort of a love that refused to go wrong. Of course I had wanted, and of course there were moments after pints where a touch or a light kiss from a stranger or misguided friend promised something, but I didnât trust those promises the same way I trusted Charlie. Immediately. Without reason.
The nice thing about Charlie was that Aaron, who could have easily found his way into modelling underwear if he hadnât been so interested in gastronomy, would be incapable of becoming jealous of someone like Charlie. Not that Aaron was vain, just that Charlie was an unlikely suspect. Aaron knew he was beautiful and knew I was lucky to have him. In fact it often felt like everyone around us knew I was lucky to have Aaron, a subtle comment about my luck inserted here and there at dinner parties to ensure I felt sufficiently inferior to a wonderful man like Aaron.
I had never really disputed the fact that Aaron was better than me . . . it was one of those universal truths that everyone simply accepted. He had also been generous enough to take the time to fix me, because before him I was on good days careless and on bad days reckless. Aaron had made it a personal project to make me âbetterâ and he was confident he was close to completing his task.
The fact that he trusted me to have his baby and not break it was proof of that.
I was lucky to have someone like Aaron take care of me, and because of that no one could be jealous or wary of someone like Charlieâat least no one would ever be suspicious of someone like me spending time with someone like Charlie.
And despite my luck in Aaron being self-sacrificing enough to take someone like me on, I shoved that entire cookie in my mouth.
( CHAPTER SIX )
âEverything okay, honey?â Aaron called from the other side of the bathroom door.
Ronnie stood at the sink,
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