Текст книги "Troubles and Treats"

Автор книги: Tara Sivec

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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

      Also by Tara Sivec

~ Seduction and Snacks (Chocolate Lovers #1) Futures and Frosting (Chocolate Lovers #2)

 

  Troubles and Treats A Silly Journey through a Sticky Situation

Book #3 in the Chocolate Lovers Series

  by Tara Sivec

Copyright © November 2012 Tara Sivec

 

ISBN-13:  978-1480186125

ISBN – 10:  1480186120

 

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

License Notice

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This book may not be resold or given away to other people.  If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer

This is a work of adult fiction.  The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within.  The subject matter is not appropriate for minors.  Please note this novel contains profanity, explicit sexual situations, and alcohol consumption.

Acknowledgements

To my editor Maxann Dobson – I love you like a sister and I’m so glad you are taking this crazy journey with me.  Thank you for not stabbing me for my Back to the Future tenses.

Thank you to Madison Seidler for being the best beta reader ever and for “rape me”.  You are a wonderful friend and I’m so glad I know you.

Thank you to Catherine for the salmon J.

Thank you to Stephanie for teaching me all the things I never wanted to know about waxing.

Big, huge thank you to my wonderful Street Team.  Thank you for loving these books and not being afraid to tell the homeless man and the hooker on the corner about them.

Last but not least, thank you so much to all of the blogs who have reviewed, recommended, and supported these books.  Your Facebook posts, blog posts, Tweets and everything else you do is amazing and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you’ve done for me.

 

This one is for the fans.  You picked up a book from a no-name author and you loved it and shared it with the world.  For that, I will be forever grateful.

      Contents

1.      You Ruined My Pens!

2.      Negative, Ghost Rider

3.      Baste in the Glory

4.      Downwind Lapping Dog

5.      Could it be…SATAN?!

6.      Liquid Courage

7.      Fake it Till You Make it

8.      The Great Swami

9.      Great Head

10.  Mace, Tasers and Giant Testicles

11.  Womb Hugging and Penis Loving

12.  Baby Bullets

13.  Hiney Duck Hiss

14.  Racers, Take Your Mark

15.  Dr. Duke of Earl

16.  VAGINA!

17.  Jackson

18.  Vanilla Sex

19.  Brazilians and FUPAs

20.  Who’s on Goal, What’s on Basket?

21.  Spoop

22.  I Wanna Strawberry Laid!

23.  Zombie Apocalypse

24.  I Love Your Mom’s Clam

25.  Drop and Give me Fifty

26.  The Newlywed Game

27.  Irish Car Bombs

28.  Peeping Ghost

29.  Vagina Skittles

Epilogue

Chapter 1 – You Ruined My Pens!

Candles – check.

Flowers – check.

Deodorant – shit.  Did I remember deodorant?

Raising my arm above my head and taking a whiff, I find I am all good.  Nothing left to do but wait for Jenny to get home from her night out with the girls.  Ever since our son Billy was born three months ago, Claire and Liz have to force Jenny to leave the house every few weeks so she can go out and have a few drinks with them.  I love my wife to death, but getting her to leave our kids for a few hours every once in a while is like pulling my dick.

Okay, not the best analogy since I’ve made dick-pulling into an art form.  Think of something really hard (HA!  That’s what she said!) to pull and there you have it.

Taffy?  Is taffy hard to pull? Dat laffy taffy, shake dat laffy taffy…What a good song!

Jenny had almost canceled tonight’s outing too—which I absolutely could not let happen.  I have a surprise planned and for it to work, she needs to be far away from the house for a few hours.

It had taken me an hour of me begging and pleading for her to agree to go and enjoy herself, followed by thirty minutes of her locking herself in our room, crying because she thought I was sick of her and just wanted to get rid of her, which made me wonder for the hundredth time: where the fuck did my fun, outrageous, sexaholic wife go?

Gone are the days of pulling over on the way home from dinner to bang in the back seat of the car. Vanished into thin air are the nights of putting anal ease on my junk to see if I could still feel my orgasm. I couldn’t, by the way.  Jenny also couldn’t feel her tongue or her lips for eight hours.  Don’t try this at home, kids.

In fact, gone are the days of having sex at all.  I have resorted to jerking off alone in the bathroom after my wife’s asleep.  It’s a sad, lonely existence when you have to take your cell phone into the shitter so you don’t wake your wife when you pull up the YouPorn app and crank one out.  The worst part is the SpongeBob SquarePants shower curtain in the bathroom.  Do you know how difficult it is to keep an erection while SpongeBob is staring at you with his big, googly eyes and you keep hearing the song “Jellyfishin’, Jellyfishin’, Jellyfishin’” in your head?

Okay, it’s not that hard (yeah it is!), but still.  It’s the principal of the thing.  Every night for the past year I've hunched over the toilet bowl with my cell phone in my hand, furiously yanking my wank and hoping I don’t drop my phone into the water.  Which only happened once, thank God.  And you’ll be happy to know porn still keeps playing under the water.  It’s a bit fuzzy and the sounds of “Ooooooh, fuck me harder!” sound more like, “Mwaaaa, mwaaa, mwaaaaagurgle!”

When our daughter Veronica was born three years ago, Jenny’s already remarkable libido shot through the roof.  It was like a dream come true.  We had sex in the morning, for brunch at lunch, at night for a midnight snack, on the baby’s changing table, in a Walmart bathroom, in three neighbors' pools and one neighbor’s hot tub, and one really strange night that involved the jungle gym at the park, a free range chicken, and sparklers.

Jenny had been insatiable, and I actually wondered if my dick would fall off from overuse.

I'll tell ya, though, what a way to go.  “Oh man, did you hear about Drew?  His dick fell off.  Yeah, just separated from his body and plopped to the floor.  He just got done having monkey sex with his wife on the roof of their house though, so it’s all good.”

I honestly don’t know what happened to make everything change.  Billy had been a planned pregnancy so it’s not like the shock of her getting pregnant again put a bucket of cold water on her vagina.  It's like the day the stick turned pink, her lady bits put up a giant “Out of Business” sign.

Do not enter, closed for repairs, zombies will eat your face if you try to touch this vagina.

I've tried everything.  I've whispered sweet nothings in her ear like, “My penis misses your vagina,” and “I heard a rumor that your love canal misses my jizz.”  Nothing.  I know, I can’t believe it either.

I know Billy’s pregnancy was a lot harder on her than Veronica’s.  She'd been sick a lot, and Veronica was in the middle of the Rotten-Horrific-Appalling-Terrifying-Twos.  No, I’m not joking.  Fuck the Terrible Twos.  I half expected our sweet little daughter to cut off our heads while we slept at night and feed our bodies to rabid dogs while overdosing on ring pops and Lucky Charms.  One minute she was hugging us and telling us she loved us and the next she was running around in circles screaming about sugar and throwing toys at our heads.  Jenny was freaked out by Veronica’s behavior and sick all the time from the pregnancy so sex had gone on the back burner.  Like, the back burner twenty miles down the road at someone else’s house back burner.

But tonight, I am going to fix it all.  I am bringing sexy back, bitches!

I can’t take one more night of playing pull and tug with SpongeBob.  Aside from the fact that I’ve watched every single YouPorn video ever made—twice—I’ve also read every story on Erotica dot com, and when I started reading the stories just to see how they ended instead of for the sex scenes, I knew I was in deep shit.

I've spent the last few weeks trying to come up with the perfect plan.  Carter had suggested I sit down and talk to Jenny about what’s bothering me but that just seems like something a chick would do.  I don’t need to cry and talk about my feelings.  I just need to have sex with my wife.

I’m too nervous to do anything but sit on the couch and stare at the door. At nine o’clock, Jenny’s car pulls in and she's unlocking the front door.

“Where are the kids?” she asks as she closes the door behind her and glances around the living room.

“I put them to bed already,” I tell her proudly.

Jenny is always nervous about leaving me home alone with the kids at bedtime.  I seriously think she expects to come home to our daughter’s hair dyed green from lime Kool-Aid and our son sucking on a black Sharpie after painting his face with it.  That's only happened once but you’d think I burned the house down or sold them on the black market.  And really, the fact that a three month old can draw a perfect Hitler 'stache on his upper lip and a Harry Potter lightning bolt on his forehead without a mirror is just fucking awesome.

I don’t miss the smile falter from her face when she realizes the kids are already asleep and she won’t get to do it herself.  She rarely, if ever, misses a chance to bathe the kids and read a bedtime story to them.

I remember a time when she never missed a blow job.  Ahhhhh, memories.

“Did you have a good time with the girls?”

She shrugs as she puts her purse and coat on the table in the foyer.

“It was okay.  I wasn’t up for drinking so Claire and Liz probably thought I was a board.”

“You mean, they thought you were a bore?” I ask.

“I’m too tired to care,” she says, flopping down onto the couch next to me and resting her head on the back cushions.

Shit!  Claire and Liz had one job and one job only – get my wife drunk.  I needed her drunk for this to work!  They are so fired the next time I see them.  Oh well, looks like we’re doing this sober.

“I’ve got a surprise for you.  Go on upstairs to our room and get comfortable,” I tell her with a wink.

She looks at me funny for a minute and then pulls herself slowly off of the couch and makes her way up the stairs.

I sit on the couch practically bouncing up and down with excitement.  I am like a kid on Christmas.  I absolutely cannot wait for her to get upstairs and see what I did.  Even sober I know she will appreciate this awesome gift.  This is going to fix everything. I can feel it.  With one awesome purchase from Liz’s sex toy shop, I am going to cure the dry spell in our marriage.  I am so fucking awesome I can’t even stand it.  She’s going to take one look into the bedroom and announce that I should be nominated for Husband of the Year.  I’ll graciously accept the nomination and act like I have no idea just how amazeballs I am.

I’ll probably need a speech and a tux, because you know, I’m kind of a big deal.  “I’d like to thank the little people.  And by little people, I mean the people out there still not having sex, who aren’t the shiznit like I am.”

I hear Billy let out a cry from his nursery, and I’m not gonna lie, I almost run up the stairs to ask him what the fuck he thinks he's doing.  I've given him strict orders that he's not to make a sound after he went to sleep.  It's like this kid didn’t understand a word I said.

Billy’s cries stop after a few seconds, and I say a silent prayer of thanks and give myself a reminder to buy him a new toy tomorrow to apologize for almost going into his room and calling him a cock blocking asshole.

I’m a little concerned that I haven’t heard Jenny let out a happy scream yet, but I figure she just doesn’t want to scare the kids or anything.  Perfectly understandable.  She’s containing her excitement and waiting for me to come upstairs so she can thank me properly with her mouth on my schwantz.  I approve of this message.

After I give Jenny a few more minutes to enjoy the surprise and get situated, I jump up from the couch, and take the stairs two at a time in haste to get to our room.

I run down the hallway with a grin on my face and push open the door to our bedroom with a raging hard-on just thinking about the night to come.  I stop dead in my tracks at what I see and am unable to form any words that can describe the horror show happening right this very second.

“Drew, this is the best present ever!  I love it!” Jenny whispers.  “And the candles?!  Oh my gosh, it’s the perfect lighting to do this!”

I stand in the doorway of our room staring at the sight before me, and I want to fall down on my knees and weep.  Not in the “Oh my God I’m so happy!” way either.  In the “Oh my fuck, what is going on???” way.

After three hours of hard labor while Jenny was out, I had managed to install a sex swing in the corner of our bedroom.  A sex swing to end all sex swings.  This thing is the shit, and I almost had to crank one out in the middle of installing it.  I couldn’t stop picturing Jenny hanging in it, naked and waiting for me to rail her.  I had to go to the hardware store three different times for materials and ended up removing part of the ceiling to reinforce the beams up there.  I had to attach two-by-fours and consult five different guys who worked at the hardware store, all who were anxiously awaiting my return so I could give them a play-by-play of the evening.

Now, instead of waltzing back in there like a God to tell them about the hot sex we had suspended from our ceiling, I’m going to have to walk in there with my head down in shame.  I’m not going to have an awesome story to tell about the cops being called because of strange jungle noises coming from our room or windows being broken because of swinging too hard.  The only story I’m going to have is the one about me falling to my knees and sobbing like a girl.

When I close my eyes to sleep at night, I’m going to have to picture Jenny, fully clothed, holding our three-month-old son in her arms, rocking him back to sleep in our SEX SWING.

“But…that’s my swing,” I whine loudly and try not to stomp my foot.

“Shhhhhhh, I just got him back to sleep,” Jenny whispers while giving me a stern look as she gently sways from side to side and stares lovingly down at Billy – IN MY MOTHER FUCKING SEX SWING!

“Sex…me…the swing…bad….sex…barf.”

Nonsense. That’s what is coming out of my mouth.  Pure nonsense.

The gift that's supposed to rejuvenate our sex life has now become a new baby rocker.

Barf.

“Come over here and sit with me on the swing, Drew.  There’s plenty of room,” Jenny says softly as she stares down at Billy.

Sit next to my wife on a sex swing and NOT have sex?  I do not understand what is happening right now.  Is she speaking English?

“No hablo SEX!  Billy bad!  Me want!” I complain, stomping my foot for real this time.

“Drew!  What the hell is wrong with you tonight?” Jenny whispers loudly.

MY PENIS IS DYING AND MY EYES ARE BLEEDING!  That’s what’s wrong with me, woman!

“You are ruining my present,” she complains.

“You ruined my penis!” I complain back.

“I ruined your pens?  What does that even mean?  I never touched your pens.”

Oh believe me, I’m well aware of how much you HAVEN’T touched my PENS.  This whispering thing obviously isn’t working.

With resignation, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and head into the bathroom while I scroll through the newest Erotica dot com updates.

“Where are you going?” Jenny asks softly as she watches me take my walk of shame across the floor of our bedroom.

“To a backyard barbeque where Misty and her friend Buffy cornered their high school Science teacher in a bathroom and asked him to explain the theory of threesome-tivity,” I mumble sadly.

Chapter 2 – Negative, Ghost Rider

Jenny and I have been married going on…uh, something like four years.  Or is it three?  Our daughter Veronica is three and Jenny definitely wasn’t knocked up at our wedding.  So, three, take away the one, carry the two…eh, three years and some change sounds about right.

Our wedding was the shit!  It was the most romantic, perfect day ever.  Our friends and a few family members went with us to Vegas, baby!  And the best part?  You guessed it, we were married by Elvis.  Not the real Elvis.  Last I heard he was spotted somewhere in Piedmont, North Dakota.  This guy was totally a fake, but he was still shitballs good.  Jenny surprised me with a shirt to wear during the ceremony.  In big, block letters it had the word “Groom” with a giant “X” through it.  Underneath it was written: The Bride’s Bitch.

I had known the first moment that I met Jenny I would be her bitch, and I am perfectly okay with that.  If I wasn’t with her, I’m pretty sure I would be in prison and belong to the dude with the most packs of smokes.  This is way better.  The day we met she had just finished throwing a sex toy party and sampled the merchandise a few minutes beforehand.  I didn’t know if it was the glow from her recent orgasm or not, but she was the hottest chick I had ever laid eyes on.  I had immediately thrown away my man-whore card and stuck to her like glue.

Every day since that moment, I have never regretted one second I’ve spent with her.  That makes it imperative I fix whatever problems we have as soon as possible.

“So how long HAS it been since you and Jenny had sex?” Jim asks.

The guys know all about the sex swing incident.  As much as it had pained me to have to relive the horror of that night last weekend, they knew what I was planning and were expecting a full run-down of the events.  The guys at the hardware store had a candlelight vigil for me earlier this evening.  It really was a touching moment but it just made me all emotional and shit.  When I had walked into work tonight and started sobbing uncontrollably, mumbling words like “rocking” and “sleepy penis” and saying, “My kid is the spawn of Satan,” they knew the night didn’t go as planned.

After telling them about my cock-blocking kid and showing them the Ziploc baggie filled with rice that had my cell phone nestled in it, they know it was a banner evening at the Parritt house.

“And more importantly, why is your phone in a bag of cooked rice?” Carter questions as he reaches across the table and fingers the contents of the bag.  I smack his hand away and pull the bag closer to me.

We are on our lunch break at the automotive plant and seated at a corner table in the lunch room.  The three of us still work the night shift, and there is nothing unusual about the fact that our “lunch break” occurs at 11:30 at night.

“I dropped my phone in the toilet,” I mutter.

“Again?” Jim asks with a laugh.

“Shut up asshole.  I was trying to scroll to the next page of the story.  Fucking touch screen phones.  And I wasn’t even jerking off this time.  I was sitting on the edge of the tub.  It was a really good part of the story too.  Buffy just recited the theory of threesome-tivity, and Misty was going to reward her for being so smart.  I wanted to see if Misty was wearing the pink jean skirt and white tank top like in the story about their senior prom.  It was a really cute outfit.”

Both men stare at me for so long I’m pretty sure their faces might be frozen.

“You seriously need to get laid.  Right the fuck now,” Carter tells me.  “And you’re not supposed to use cooked rice, genius.  Why the hell is it brown?”

I roll my eyes at him.  The rice is obviously not the important part of this story.

“It’s Uncle Ben’s beef flavored rice.  We were out of white,” I explain.  “Can we please focus here?  What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Stop diddling your twigs and berries over a body of water,” Jim deadpans.

“I don’t diddle anything.  I stroke lovingly.  I like my penis.  He’s a good guy.  And the berries are never involved in the stroking.  Wait, do you guys play with yours?” I ask.

Jim shrugs as he takes a bite out of his bologna sandwich. “Sometimes I do.  It’s nice to incorporate the boys every once in a while so they don’t feel left out.”

“I agree.  A little ball fondling goes a long way.  It just depends where you are and if you can get the right angle to get down there and bring them up to the party.  I like to give them a good cupping when I’m alone.  Claire does this thing with her fingers where she pushes them up so that her mouth—”

Carter stops mid sentence when he hears me whimper.

“Sorry, man,” he tells me sheepishly.

This happens a lot lately.  Carter and Jim will start to tell some awesome story about the sex they have with their wives and then they stop when they realize I am sitting there staring at them, hanging on every word and dry humping the table leg.

“I don’t fucking get it.  You and Claire have two kids, you’ve been married for almost seven years, and you still have amazing sex.  What the hell am I doing wrong?” I ask, pushing my lunch aside.

“I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong. I just think you guys are going through a dry spell.  Everyone goes through it at some point,” Jim reassures me.

“So you and Liz went through this?” I ask, feeling a little better about my situation.

“Oh, fuck no.  We still bang like rabbits.  By ‘everyone’ I meant other people,” Jim states around a mouthful of chips.  “But seriously, when was the last time you had sex?”

I sit there for a minute pretending like I am doing calculations in my head.  There is no need for that shit.  I know exactly how long it’s been.

“Good sex, or sex-sex?” I ask.

“That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard.  We’re men.  All sex is good,” Jim states.

“Negative, ghost rider.  The pattern is full.  If Claire doesn’t get off, it’s not good for me,” Carter says.

“Did you just quote Top Gun?” Jim asks him.

“Um, yes.  Best mother fucking movie ever.  I feel the need, the need, for speed!” Carter shouts with a fist pump.

“Okay, Homo McFaggy.  If you think a bunch of shirtless, sweaty men playing beach volleyball is awesome, I’m going to need you to turn in your wings, Cougar.  Your straight-man wings,” Jim states.

“Fuck you.”

“Obviously.  I thought I caught you sneaking a peak at my F-14 the other night when we were pissing.  Do you and Claire role play in the bedroom?  Does she call you Iceman and you call her Maverick?” Jim asks with a laugh.

“HELLO!” I shout.  “Man with a problem here.  Can we get back to something important please?”

“Sorry, but I do believe discussing Carter’s sexual orientation is important,” Jim says as Carter reaches over and punches him in the arm.

“Okay, back to the original question.  How long has it been?” Carter asks.  “And I’m not talking about the ‘just the tip’ night after Billy was born.  I’m talking full contact, all the way home, screaming for your mommy sex.”

“If I recall correctly, the screaming for your mommy sex is only had by you, Carter,” Jim says with a laugh.

“Fuck off!  I did NOT scream for my mommy.  I was trying to propose to Claire,” he argues.

“Twelve months, thirteen days, nine hours, and thirty-seven minutes,” I tell them, glancing across the room at the clock hanging on the wall.  “Sorry, thirty-five minutes.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jim mutters with a look of horror on his face.

“You know that off the top of your head?” Carter asks.

“You two assholes try NOT having sex with your wives and get back to me on whether or not you keep track,” I complain.

“Have you tried talking to her about it, like I suggested?” Carter questions with a smug look on his face.

“Yes, I have, so shut the fuck up.”

The loud speaker breaks into our conversation and informs us we have five minutes left before the production line will start back up.  We all stand and gather up the remnants of our lunches from the table and head across the cafeteria to the doors that lead out to the plant.

“Did you talk to her like you normally talk to her or did you try doing it without being a douche?” Jim asks as he tosses his garbage into the can.

“Shut up. I’m not a douche when it comes to my wife,” I argue.

“Really?  Because I recall you asking the Elvis impersonator at your Vegas wedding if he could add a line to Jenny’s vows that said, ‘I promise to always give blow jobs with a smile on my face and love in my heart,’” Jim reminds me.

“What?  That’s a legitimate wedding vow that should be a part of everyone’s wedding ceremony,” I argue.  “Do you want a wife who gives blow jobs with a frowny face?”

We make our way across the plant to our spot on the production line, and Jim follows us even though he is supposed to be on the other side of the plant at a foreman meeting.

“Okay, you have a few options.  One, you can actually sit down with Jenny and straight up ask her why she never wants to have sex with you anymore.  And by talk, I mean ask her in a loving, nice way if something is bothering her.  Always ask about her well-being first.  If you make this all about you and your neglected Johnson, you’ll get nowhere.  You have to make her feel like you care,” Jim explains.

“But I do care.  I care about how she’s doing and how she’s feeling.”

“Yeah, okay.  But I’m pretty sure at this point, you care more about how she’s feeling about your penis,” Jim says.

“True story,” I agree sadly.

“So, do not use the words: bang, anal, blow job, just the tip, or it makes him smile when you kiss it,” Jim tells me.

“What the fuck am I supposed to say then?  Those are all the good ones,” I complain.

“Yes, all the good ones you used when you conned her into having sex with you six weeks after Billy was born.  I do believe she took 'just the tip' literally and you told her, 'If your vagina is sore after having Billy chew his way out, I’d be fine with anal,'” Carter adds.

“I still don’t see what was wrong with that.  I was trying to be nice and make her feel better.”

After not having sex her entire pregnancy and then having to wait another six weeks for her floppy bits to fuse back together, I had been desperate.  Telling her about all the nightmares I was having of seeing Billy crowning during the delivery probably wasn’t my finest hour.  But she cornered me in the middle of the night when I woke up screaming from another bad dream.  I had been half asleep and could not be held responsible for the things I said. I knew comparing the birth of our son to the movie Alien when that little monster tears his way out of that dude’s stomach was a bad idea, but I wasn’t fully awake yet!  Picture the blood, the gore, the slime, and the goo as this little freaky thing rips someone’s stomach open to get out.  Now picture that happening with your wife’s vagina.  The vagina you’ve touched, sucked, licked, and worshiped for years.  It took a little time to separate the two.

Jenny had a c-section with Veronica, and I didn’t see anything that happened below her neck.  I remembered crying tears of joy when they handed Veronica to us and the nurse helped me put on her first onesie that read: Watch your fucking language, There’s a goddamn baby in the room.  I stared back and forth between Jenny and our little girl and I knew I had never been happier.

With Billy, the doctor gave her the go-ahead to try and have him naturally since her c-section with Veronica was due to a drop in Veronica’s heart rate and not because Jenny had any life-threatening complications.  And so Jenny decided she wanted to experience real child birth.  And it was horrific.  It should have been beautiful and amazing, watching the woman I love give birth to our son, but it wasn’t.  There was screaming and crying and profanities and that was just from me.  You didn’t even want to know what Jenny screamed when she saw I had wandered down to the foot of the birthing table and put my face right in front of the action.  And once I got there, I couldn’t move.  I was like a deer caught in the headlights.  Or a man caught in the slaughter of his wife’s vagina.  I expected to turn and see her OB with a butcher knife in his hand because of the mess down there.  There had been so many things leaking out between her legs I didn’t know what the fuck was going on or how one vagina could pour that much gunk out of it and still be alive.  Her vagina should have drowned.

Telling all of this to Jenny at three in the morning a few weeks after Billy was born might be one of the reasons why we’re having problems.  Talking to her again about something so monumental right now doesn’t seem like the best idea.

“What else you got,” I ask Jim as the line powers up and I pull my hydraulic drill down from its perch on the shelf above my head.

“Well, you could always ask your dad to tail her.  Maybe she’s hiding something from you,” Jim says nonchalantly before he walks off to his meeting.

My dad is a private investigator who specializes in cheating spouses and workman’s comp fraud.  Since I am fairly certain there is no way Jenny was guilty of one of those, it leaves the other a distinct possibility.

Oh my gosh, could this really be the problem?  Why didn’t I ever think about this before?

I am immediately appalled that my sweet, loving Jenny could do something like this and that she's been lying to me this whole time.

Why hasn’t she told me?  Why, God, WHY?

The reason my wife doesn’t want to have sex with me anymore is because she has a fake injury she never told me about and now she is trying to milk her boss, Claire, out of money to pay for her fake recuperation.

Chapter 3 – Baste in the Glory

“Wait, Drew installed a baby rocker to the ceiling?  That doesn’t sound right,” Claire says as she signs the stack of invoices I've printed out for her.

When I had lost my job seven years ago at the computer design company I worked at since college, my best friend Claire asked me to help out at her chocolate shop that she shared with my other best friend Liz.  After a few months of handling all of the marketing and computer design for her, I had found another job but still helped Claire out when I could.  After Veronica was born, I knew I didn’t want to do the whole nine to five thing anymore.  Claire had asked me to work full time and Liz had begged me to help her as well.