I thoroughly enjoyed the movie The Other Woman with Cameron Diaz and Leslie Mann a couple of years ago. I snickered when Kate put hair remover in her husband's shampoo and concocted breakfast smoothies with birth control pills. So when my husband's affair was exposed to me, punishment was in order while I worked behind his back to assemble the requested information for my attorney to draw up divorce papers.
Sure I retained a divorce attorney the
next day, but I needed more. I craved something more personal, something so
repulsive, so disgusting it would bring him to his knees in disgust if he knew.
What better way to deal with a germaphobe than sinking low and getting down and
dirty.
My husband called to say he was coming home for dinner on the day I learned about his
affair. Was he serious? He’s going to
fuck her later after I feed him a home cooked meal? Livid, I set the table. As I retrieved a fork from the silverware drawer, I pictured swirling it around the dirty toilet bowl after I peed, taking care to touch
every dirty surface. I fantasized texting a video to the network of friends I turned
to for support. Geez, someone would have appreciated this! Stifling my laughter, I prepared his dinner.
A 3 inch screw on a 90
degree angle leaning against a front tire at night is pretty inconspicuous. I did do that. It
was my pleasure to go to that skank’s house and leave that screw for him. He
could have picked that up anywhere in his travels. By the time he got home at
3am, the tire was flat. Tracking his
phone that day provided only minimal entertainment as he drove from service
station after service station getting air before finally getting it fixed in
the afternoon. And of course, with all the time wasted with the tire, he chose
to eat at home again.
I thoughtfully considered peeing in his pasta bowl. That might improve the already scrumptious taste of pasta with a rainbow assortment
of fresh vegetables. He greedily devoured his
meal, expressing his delight before departing to visit his whore. His germaphobic brain would have been positively mortified had I actually followed through with my thoughts.
I wanted to give her a
gift as well. The screw was for him, I couldn't really fuck with his food, but I had the brainstorm to rub poison ivy in his underwear. After all, she had pursued him for years and was by no means an
innocent party. But alas, the poison didn't work. Perhaps its effectiveness weakened after
drying overnight, but it oh what joy if it spread to his dick and they
‘shared’. I wonder, would she have
gotten it in her mouth or down under?
The next morning when he asked,
“Can you make me an egg on a bagel?” Are you fucking serious?
“Sure, honey, happy to do
it,” as I viewed the spatula and almost rubbed it in my crotch, with a quick glance at the kitchen floor I had not yet mopped while he meticulously scrubbed his hands in
the bathroom.
“Did you wash your hands?”
he asked.
“Of course, I washed my
hands.” But I wish I had contaminated the spatula. It gave me a perverse pleasure to picture this in my mind and think of how disgusted he would be. With his thinking, he could possibly find it as disgusting as I found his affair.
Carrying a drinking glass
by the top causes him to lose his fucking mind, so anytime I had the
opportunity to handle his drinking glasses, my dirty hands rubbed along the
top. Licking it worked too. I absolutely did that.
In retrospect I probably
would have done him a favor by exposing his immune system to germs considering how sterile
he keeps his dining experiences.
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