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I was 15 when my father caught me early one evening smoking a cigarette out behind our barn.

For a long second, he just stared at me with those steel-blue eyes of his.

“Smoking, huh?” he spat finally. “Come with me, boy.”

I knew I was in for it, because the only time he’d ever addressed me as “boy” was right before I got a whipping, which hadn’t happened in almost two years.

As I pulled myself up from where I’d been sitting, I made up my mind that it wasn’t going to happen this time. When you’re 15, you’re no longer a boy, but you’re not quite a man, yet you think you are. And in the time since I’d last gotten a spanking, I’d matured, growing almost to my current height of six feet tall, and I was muscular from working on the farm and from the weight program our high school football coach had started.

No indeed. I bowed myself up and decided that I wasn’t going to take a whipping, that if Daddy tried, I’d fight him. I was pretty sure I could take him, since I had a good three inches and about 25 pounds on him.

But he didn’t go into the barn, but stalked toward the house. He looked back over his shoulder once to see if I was following, and when I kind of hesitated in uncertainty, he hollered again.

“C’MON BOY!” he yelled in that tone that told me I’d best do as he said. I trotted up behind him until he walked in the back door, where he told me to wait outside. A few seconds later, he came out with his keys and his wallet and told me that we were going to town. I was a little puzzled, but did what I was told. We got in his pickup truck and headed off to town.

We drove until we came to the nearest store, where he went in, then returned carrying a pack of cigarettes, Camel non-filters, and a box of matches. I started to get a little uneasy at that, because I had an inkling of what he was up to. I was right, and after it was over, I wished he had just whipped me.

He took the pack, opened it, fished a cigarette out, handed it and the matches to me, and ordered me to light up, as he turned the truck toward the highway. I fired it up, and when I went to puff on it, he growled at me to, “inhale the damned thing.”

Now I’d been experimenting with Marlboro Lights, so you can imagine the effect the harsh smoke of the Camels had on me. That first wave of smoke attacked my lungs like a knife in the belly, and I coughed and hacked my way through that first one. When I was finished, he pulled out another one and told me to smoke it. I struggled through that one, with difficulty, and he handed me a third one and a fourth one. By that time, my head was spinning, I was dizzy and light-headed.

I made it through a fifth one, but I had only gotten a couple of puffs into the sixth one, when I croaked for Daddy to, “pull over.” He’d just gotten the truck stopped on the side of the road when I threw the door open and puked all over the place.

I thought he’d take pity on me, but he made me struggle through six more of those Camels, during which time I got sick twice more. By the time he finally let up, I was dry-heaving and crying like a 6-year-old. Only then did he soften up.

“Now, son, if you want to smoke, I can’t stop you,” he said. “But I wanted you to learn that tobacco is poison and it’ll kill you.”

The lesson worked, because I never touched another cigarette. In fact, to this day, I get a little nauseous in the presence of any kind of smoke and any kind of tobacco.

That incident kept running like a bad memory through my mind as I sat at my kitchen table that Friday night trying to come to grips with my suddenly-tattered marriage.

A few hours earlier, I’d walked in on my wife in bed – our bed – with a young pissant loan officer from the bank where she worked. My emotions were in utter turmoil as I tried to figure out how it had happened, why it had happened and what I was going to do about it.

I was hurt beyond belief, angry and desponent. The thing was, I still loved her, and I think she still loved me. If I didn’t love her, I wouldn’t have cared, and if she didn’t love me, she wouldn’t have dissolved into whimpering guilt when we sat down afterward to try to start piecing our lives back together.

Let me explain. Claire was – is – the love of my life. We met the first week of school at the community college where we’d both gone. I was captivated by her looks and apparently she felt the same way about me. She’s pretty, maybe not cheerleader-model pretty, but plenty good-looking, a brunette who has always worn her thick hair fairly long, usually just past her shoulders. She’s a little taller than average, maybe 5-7, and nicely built, with a butt that’s got just the right amount of meat and a healthy pair of tits in the 36C range.

We were compatible with each other from the first time we went out together, and fell in love in no time. Even then, however, Claire showed a couple of character traits that would get her in trouble. One was that she was very naive, and the other was that she was pretty easily led. She came from a very small town and had lived a very sheltered life. And she’s always been quite shy, although she’s gotten a little less so over the years.

On the other hand, I’d been around a little, which sounds odd for a guy who grew up on a farm. But I’d played all the sports at my high school, which kind of exposes you to a few different aspects of life. And while I may have grown up on a farm, I went to a high school that had been consolidated from the smaller schools in the county. So this was a pretty big high school, around 1,100 in grades 9-12.

I graduated from junior college with an AA degree in business, and went on to a larger college, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was tired of school and I wanted to get married, to Claire. So not long after we turned 21, we did. She continued on to get a teaching degree, while I went out looking for a job.

Turned out, businesses weren’t beating down the door for a guy with an AA degree whose grades were only so-so. When nothing good materialized, I swallowed my pride and took what I could find. Growing up on a farm, I’d learned all about machines, and I could tear down and rebuild a car engine in under an hour. So I went to work as an auto mechanic. Not very glamourous, but I quickly learned that a good, honest mechanic can make a very nice living.

Claire went to work as an elementary school math teacher, while I worked for a succession of auto repair shops, until after about 10 years, I was managing one. After 12 years of teaching, Claire got restless, and she had a standing offer from one of the banks to work as an assistant VP, so she quit teaching and went to work for the bank.

Along the way, we had three children, a daughter, Cindy, who’s now 17, and two sons, Matthew, 14, and Alex, who’s 12. They’re good kids, well-behaved, and I give a lot of credit for that to Claire.

About the same time, I began to look at myself, and realized that while I was doing well, I wanted more. I wanted to branch into other areas besides auto mechanics, and I was tired of working for the other guy. I wanted to own my own business, and six years ago, the opportunity presented itself.

A rental business went up for sale, and I jumped on it. With Claire’s help, I worked up a sound business plan and took it to her bank. We ended up getting a loan at a favorable rate to buy the company’s stock, and rent on a location in a fast-growing area of our city. The business proved to be a big success. I may not have been an A student at junior college, but I absorbed a lot of knowledge on how to run a business, and I applied it to mine. We rent just about everything: wet-dry vacs, water pumps, electric generators, lawn mowers, weed-eaters, karaoke machines; you name it, and we can get it.

I didn’t think that way at the time, but looking back on it, I have to accept my share of the blame for what went wrong. I was preoccupied with work, and I’ve never been a particularly demonstrative person. I figured since I told Claire I loved her, helped provide for her and was a good husband and father, that that was enough. For her part, she always had a hard time articulating what she wanted out of life, and kept a lot of things inside. She’d never complained, so I figured everything was fine.

Our sex life was OK. We made love about once a week, usually on Sunday afternoons, which was the only day I took off from work. I’d been with a few girls before I’d met Claire, but I was the only man she’d ever had. We weren’t terribly adventurous, but I thought we kept each other satisfied. Turns out I was mistaken.

Things started going wrong about six months before the Friday night I caught my wife cheating on me, which was the first week in September. Claire turned 40 in March, about six weeks after I did. Turning 40 was no big deal to me, but it seemed to devastate Claire. She insisted that we not have any kind of party, and only the minimum of acknowledgement of the date, no gifts, just a card.

For the next two months, she was miserable, depressed and irritable. She thought she was getting old and in the way. I kept telling her that she was just the same, and to snap out of it, but she just stayed in a funk.

Then, one night early in May, her bad mood abruptly evaporated. I mean, she did a complete 180, and was bubbly and cheerful like I hadn’t seen her in a long time. That should have been my first clue. About once a month for several years, Claire and a group of girls from her office would meet for a Girls Night Out, and have a few drinks. Nothing major, just a social deal designed to improve morale.

Well, Claire came home from this particular night out looking like a schoolgirl who’d just been asked out by the star quarterback on the football team, which wasn’t too far from what had actually happened.

From that point on, Claire’s whole demeanor changed. She was upbeat and started getting fussier with her appearance, and, since it was summer, her attire began to get a little more showy. It was nothing too obvious or flashy, but it was noticeable. And she started going out, “with the girls,” more often. At first, it was once a week, then once a week plus Friday or Saturday night, then it was twice a week, plus a weekend night. And she started coming home later and later. Before, she’d be home by 10, 10:30 at the latest. Suddenly, it was midnight, 12:30, sometimes as late as 1 a.m.

I didn’t quite put it together at the time, but the first time she cheated on me was on the Monday of the Fourth of July weekend. Claire was invited to a pool party at the home of a co-worker, since they had the day off. I always open the store on those long weekend holidays, because I’ve learned from experience that guys with a day off like to get honey-do projects done, and since it is a holiday, I like to give my people the day off.

So Claire went to the party without me. She came home about 8 o’clock that night, looking exhausted and fairly drunk. She said very little to anyone, but went upstairs, showered and crawled in bed. The next day, she was fine, though, and I just figured she’d been bedraggled by a full day in the hot sun and lots of wine.

Things started going downhill quickly after that. Two or three nights a week, including every Friday or Saturday night, Claire went, “out with the girls,” staying out way past midnight. The bars close in our city at 2 a.m., but there were nights when she wouldn’t come home until nearly 4 a.m. The first few times, I didn’t wait up for her. I figured she was a big girl and could take care of herself. Plus, I usually had to get up early the next morning and open the store, so I’d go on to bed.

But about the fourth time it happened, around the second week of August, I waited for her. Even a blind man could see that something was going on, and I decided it was time for a confrontation. She stumbled in around 3:30 that Saturday morning, and I wasn’t very nice. She was drunk and looked disheveled.

“Where in the hell have you been?” I asked sternly.

“I dinnit feel like I could drive, so we wen’ out for breffast,” she slurred. I knew it was a lie, so I called her on it.

“Where’d you go? Who went?” I demanded.

“Wen’ to IHOP, and it was all of us,” she answered defensively. “Look, I’m tarred, an’ I jus’ wanna get a shower n’ go’d bed.”

She turned and trudged upstairs without another word. I didn’t want to cause a scene and wake up the whole house, so I just turned and followed. She was in the shower when I got upstairs, with the bathroom door locked, which I thought was odd. When she came out, she was already dressed for bed. She just looked at me, and I think she was actually considering spilling the beans, but then she pushed past me, flopped into the bed and was snoring within just a few minutes.

Well, there was no way I was going to sleep after that, so I made a pot of coffee, then came back and inspected the laundry hamper. She thought she’d been clever, because she’d washed her panties, I suppose, in an attempt to remove semen stains. But the fact that she’d done it at all spoke for itself, and when I put the crotch to my nose, I thought I could still detect the faint odor of cum.

I wasn’t sure, though, so I kept quiet, and Claire was a little more her old self the next week. Funny thing, we kept up our weekly Sunday ritual sex, and it actually got a little better. She was far more active than she had been, which I now saw as another red flag. Still, she stayed home every night that next week, because that was the first week of school.

But on Tuesday the following week, she went out, and while she was home by midnight, she had that exhausted, just-fucked look. Then she went out again that Saturday, and when she finally straggled in about 4:30 in the morning, I was waiting up for her, and we had a terrible row. I caught her before she got into the bathroom, and tried to get my hands in her pants, but she fought me off and slammed the bathroom door. As she ran the shower, I could hear her sobbing over the running water, that’s how distraught she was. She was between a rock and a hard place, and it was eating her up, only I was too centered on my own pain to realize it at the time.

Nevertheless, when she came out I was the picture of calm. The only thing I said was a question.

“Claire, are you having an affair?” I asked, knowing the answer. She looked away and shook her head no.

“Please don’t lie to me,” I said. She turned and looked at me with pleading eyes.

“Mike, I’m tired,” she said. “Let me go to bed. We can talk in the morning.”

But we didn’t. I slept until noon, and she slept until almost 2:30. Several times that day, I wanted to bring up the subject, but it seemed like the kids were always around, and I just wasn’t in the mood to fight. And I also wasn’t in the mood to fuck. Besides, I’d decided that I was going to catch them in the act, and deal with it head-on. I was pissed that somebody was horning in on my wife, and I was pissed at Claire for falling for it.

So I set them up, and they rose to the bait.

The first thing I did was talk to a guy I bought electronics from. Being in the rental business, you run across people who sell all kinds of gadgets, and this fellow dabbled with surveillance equipment on the side. He had just what I needed, a telephone tap. I also bought a pair of binoculars and a digital camera with a big zoom lens. I installed the wiretap, with a tape recorder, the next day while the house was empty.

Claire went out that Wednesday night, and after she left, I decided to follow her. She’d said they were going to Chili’s for dinner and drinks, and I wanted to see if she was telling the truth. She was, but it was still an interesting evening. I saw her car parked there, so I decided it was time to be aggressive. I walked in and they were there, six of them. There was Claire, with four of her female friends and a young guy about 30.

I knew the moment I laid eyes on him that he was the one. He was sitting quite close to Claire, and she was laughing at something clever he’d said. Just then she saw me walk in, and the whole table went silent. Claire’s face turned white, and the guy looked worried. But I was acting gregarious. I pulled up a chair, wedged it in between lover boy and my wife, and plopped down.

“Hi, y’all,” I said with a big grin on my face. “I’ve been hearing about all the fun you’ve been having, so I thought I’d join you. Hope I’m not interrupting anything. Hey babe.” I wrapped my arm around Claire and gave her a big kiss, then bought a round of drinks. Claire was clearly uncomfortable, but she managed to recompose herself.

“Mike, I think you know everybody here, except Billy,” she said, pointing to the guy. “This is Billy Stewart. He’s a loan officer for the bank.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said as I shook his hand. I was smiling big, but it was a mirthless smile, and he knew it. And I kept my eyes right on his, until he looked away.

After our drinks came, I looked around at the slightly-pained looks of the others at the table, and I piped up again. I was giving an Oscar-winning performance.

“Now, don’t let me ruin y’all’s fun,” I said. “Drink up.”

A desultory conversation ensued as the group picked at their drinks. After finishing his, Billy stood up and said he thought he’d better go, and one of the other girls decided to bug out as well. As they were leaving, Claire pulled me aside and whispered harshly in my ear.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed. She was angry now, and that pissed me off as well. “Are you checking up on me?”

“I sure am,” I said, still smiling the same fake smile I’d had plastered on my face the whole time. “What? Are you ashamed to be seen out in public with me?”

“No, but, well, this is supposed to be a night just for the girls,” she said.

“And, apparently, a guy,” I said pointedly. Claire just looked away, so I turned back to the table, and engaged the remaining women in some conversation. I bought another round, during which time Claire and I spoke not a word, then everyone decided that the heat in the room was too high and they called it a night.

When Claire got home, just after I did, and we were upstairs getting ready for bed, I hit her with the question.

“So, is that the guy?” I asked.

“What guy?” she answered, with a catch in her voice.

“Never mind,” I said.

I crawled into bed, rolled over facing the wall and tried to sleep. After awhile, Claire moved close to me and put her arm around me, trying to pull me close to her.

“Mike?” she asked in a small voice. “Do you love me?”

“Of course I do,” I answered, still facing the wall. “The question is, do you love me?”

“You’re my husband,” she said. “Yes, I love you.” As I finally drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard Claire crying softly into her pillow. There would be a lot of that in the coming days.

The next day, I broke the news that I was going to Dallas the next weekend for a major electronics show. I’d been before, so it wasn’t a total fabrication. I said I’d be leaving the next Thursday and be back on Sunday.

Nothing much happened, until Saturday, when my tape recorder picked up a call. Afterwards, I waited until Claire had gone to the store, giving me a chance to check the tape. It was quite revealing.

“Hello,” Claire said.

“Hey,” a man’s voice said.

“Billy, I’ve told you not to call me at home,” she said.

“Come on, honey,” he said. “Your redneck husband’s not home. I checked. He’s at his little store.”

“That store is his life,” she said. “Just because he’s not a college graduate, don’t put him down. He’s a smart man.”

“Yeah right,” he said. “Anyway, I want to see you. Tonight. I missed your hot little pussy the other night, because of your dumbass husband.”

“Billy!” she said. “Stop talking like that! Look, I can’t see you tonight, or any other night. This has to end. I can’t keep doing this behind Mike’s back.”

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