WHY I CHEAT
Men, Marriage, and Cheating
The Official Hook-up
Guide for Men
By
Tim Patten
WARNING BIASED M ATERIAL WILL OFFEND SOM E READERS
iUniverse LLC
WHY I CHEAT
Men, Marriage, and Cheating Copyright © 2014 Tim Patten.
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Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock. ISBN: 978-1-4917-2449-1 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-4917-2451-4 (hc) ISBN: 978-1-4917-2450-7 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014903020
Contents
Introduction Disclaimer 1: Why I Cheat
2: Shelly’s Love Dream 3: Painful Love
4: I Am Committed
5; Brotherhood Code Destroyed 6: A Man in Love
7: Facebook Secrets 8: Shame on You 9: I Want a Family 10: Monogamy Sucks 11: Lady Derringer’s Sex Epilogue
The Full Manifesto of the Dominant Male Footnote References
Introduction
Why invite tidal waves of pernicious misandry by writing a book portraying women as jealous, bitchy, and abusive while glorifying cheating? There are reasons beyond the fact that most women will nag her man an estimated 1,298 continuous hours each year! i So, I’ve written this book first, because I want to help my fellow men and women, and second, to demonstrate how marriage and monogamy won’t kill you—but will force you to stop living and will murder man’s libido ii
Fourteen years ago, my best friend John went on a date, resulting in an accidental pregnancy; similar to Lisa and Craig Johnson’s story in Chapter 9. John’s shotgun marriage forced him into excommunication from life, friends, hobbies, and from his own happiness. I watched John transform from a fun-loving man with dreams to a shell of a man as he withstood the hen-pecking of his wife. Her complaints left him defeated and unhappy. His life is now a friendless dungeon of solitude; he works endlessly for her and is never allowed out on his own.
Today, John is miserable, he hates his life, and he hates his wife. Unlike Russell Carlson in
Chapter 1 who chases endless adventures of adultery, John is faithful, yet his wife commits verbal
and psychological abuses at every turn. She has strangled his spirit, crushed his mind, and assassinated his soul. His “loving wife” has killed his passion and rendered him broken.
I’ve written this book as a way to help John, in hopes that his life might improve, and so nobody else is doomed to this mistreatment and suffering.
These pages will aim to show the damage that many women inflict with their manipulative jealousy and verbal abuse, placing men in untenable positions, especially when faced with unpleasant
prospects of alimony and child support payments. For example, in Chapter 4, Gary Perkin’s response to marriage commitment is inspiring for all of us.
In Chapter 5, Frank and Bill’s experience shows us about brotherly bonds. They discover that the number ‘two’ reason men leave their women is their never-ending complaining and bitching, all ending with Frank’s encounter with the legal system. Please God, deliver men from this torture.
Whether you’re a great guy, like John, or an average Joe, this feline-terror happens to millions. Many women strip men of the will to live. However, you will note in Chapter 6, that Dennis
Wakeland’s beautiful girlfriend, Joan gave his heart wings and we thrill as we watch his flight of
love.
Perhaps man is not meant to focus his attention on one woman for his entire life. After you read this, you decide. Enjoy delving into monogamy with Tom Peterson and Shirley in Chapter 10, and you will meet Cecilia Barns in Chapter 11 and see how her demonic personality delivers a disastrous outcome for poor Roy.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I realize women are people, too, and likewise, many of them are abused by men. But, for the sake of this book, remember it is a biased view: not all women are like this. Though I am hardly a misogynist, I know most women’s jealousy and her emotional abuse will create potent munitions, and this is the book that brings these problems out into the light.
There once was a book about a couple of planets—Mars and Venus, I think, and in a way, this is my version. Some call it infidelity, cheating, or creeping. Call it what you will. When it is
misunderstood, it is toxic and emasculating. It becomes a poison that imprisons and kills men who convert into victims’ that self-hate, they self-harm, and they self-destruct.
No matter the cheater’s reason, infidelity is nothing new, and it is not stopping any time soon, even as men pay the high price of jealous female rages like those in Chapter 2 when Shelly Payne’s
husband suffers a fury of religious proportions!
Throughout time, marriage has been romanticized into fabled proportions. You’ll find Chapter 7
interesting when you read how Allen Dobson discovers an alternative marriage.
From most female’s perspective, marriage might be a good play. Wives usually keep up the false pretenses that all is excellent at home, and if not, she’ll make it perfect. How? She will put two faces on. She will shame, lie, trick or blackmail. You’ll see all of this in Chapter 8 in Bob Kelly’s inside Story.
Relationships, as most women see it, are unions where the women obtains’ what they want. Men agonize over the costs and burdens required to make their women happy, but the women thrive while the men’s raison d’être is relegated to gratifying themself pushing men’s needs to secondary position and male enslavement prevails. That is, unless the woman is the sole provider.
Today in the U.S., one man is killed each day, murdered by his “loving” girlfriend. You will explore this further in Chapter 3, Jeff Anderson’s Story.
My intention is to shine a beacon of light into the relationship blackness for men who have been badgered and destroyed. I want to remove the mystery-of-women for men. Men and women can be liberated from abusive behaviors, yet are presently unable to separate from this obsession with monogamy due to jealousy.
Auto-determination is the light at the end of the tunnel, each of us should never strive to own another person’s body. Rather, we should strive for self-ownership. Inside are solutions.
Disclaimer
This book doesn’t claim to understand all people. Men and women can be totally rational, and in real life, there exists many sides of a person’s character. These stories focus on a bias.
The official hook-up guide for men is full of footnote referenced facts making it an easy to use self-help guide.
The eleven stories are grounded in real events, living people and situations inspired them. The characters motivated from actual people have been fictionalized in order to protect their true identities. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents have been changed in order to guard people’s private lives. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Why I Cheat
Russell Carson enjoyed being a very small man with big thoughts. Great thoughts, even. He understood that women preferred men with big dicks. He functioned with a powerful mental-will bundled into his diminutive, fair-skinned body, and, despite his size, he tackled one of the most fundamental and complex behavioral paradigms of the human experience. His endeavor consisted of understanding, and in turn explaining, to others—starting with his wife—the nature of man’s sexuality and lust.
His eyes were weakened from years of poring over texts in the library, yet Russell’s goal was to unravel the epistemology of desire. He hoped and prayed that he would logically and scientifically be able to explain his sex urges to his wife, Beth, if he could just summon the bravery to approach the topic.
For three years, he plotted his weekly biorhythms against the phases of the moon and his inner urges; making notes, he calendared, charted, documented, and deduced his findings.
Every day, he feverishly dwelt upon this matter, even while working at his job at the US Census Bureau, San Antonio branch, analyzing data on his computer. Einstein once said if you can’t explain something simply and clearly, it means you don’t understand it well enough. Before presenting his findings to his wife, and afterwards to the world, Russell made sure he identified the root of the problem and analyzed it thoroughly.
As a qualified mechanical engineer with a firm grasp on statistics, he foresaw his wife’s reaction to his truthful announcement. “Russell, you’re a no good, mother-fucking bastard. You’ll never amount to anything.”
“Gee, Beth, it’s just a theory,” he would sheepishly go back to his research.
Russell’s limbs tingled knowing the day would come when he’d explain his actions. His heart pounded at the thought of dragging the full realness out and exposing it. Perhaps a man who didn’t love his wife felt no qualms about lying to her, but such an act taxed Russell deeply. He over-thought about his secrets and hunted to release these dark and hidden ghosts out into the open air. Until he seized the courage to confront this problem, he’d camouflage and disguise his true nature from Beth.
“How on earth are you ever going to explain, in terms of chemistry and physics, such an important biological phenomenon as lust?” The all-knowing Albert Einstein asked. And here Russell wrestled, trying to find an explanation.
Russell contemplated: True, Einstein pondered more about love than lust, but where is the line
between those two? If this confused Einstein, no wonder it confused women. Did Einstein, like me, keep these truths for himself? Did his great mind withhold the truth?
Love is difficult to define. How do you avoid confusing it with infatuation or lust? Philosophers and poets have attempted to discover what love is for years. From Corinthians to the Beatles, everyone has had a theory.
Is love really all you need? Wondered Russell, What verb is used more often and less accurately? Is the love of “I love sushi” the same as “I love God?”
What part of one’s body is involved during lovemaking—heart or dick? When we refer to the prowess of the Latin Lover, do we praise his ability to serenade and recite poetry, or do we admire the passion and stamina he brings to a sweaty fuck-fest?
Love is giving someone the power to break your heart, but trusting them not to break it. Love is never having to say you’re sorry. Oh, really? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Really? In short, the word “love” is the number one condiment of the English vocabulary; it’s the sauce you can splash on any dish.
Russell, while sleeping, had a recurring dream with his current lover. “I love you, Russell.” His girl’s body went limp, her mind wandering. “I love you, too.” Russell’s eyes surveyed the ceiling.
“And I love that you tell me about all the other women you fuck.” She touched his leg, her fingers walking up his thigh and spurring his member to prick up.
“Want to hear more?” He placed both hands on his chest.
“Tell me about fucking in the back of that abandoned car. That turns me on.” She leaned into him, her hand cupping his manhood, her lips pressing against his hands. As soon as the sex grew to an almost explosive size, the dream stopped. Russell often woke with warm fuzzy sex-memories of the dream. He enjoyed these visits immensely.
It had been three years since Russell and Beth Carlson had tied the “proverbial knot” and begun their marriage.
Beth’s olive skin and willowy body, combined with her high-octane personality, so full of spunk and energy when she scurried around as a youngster that her mother nick-named her “Spitfire,”
encapsulating everything Russell adored. The last thing he wanted to do was to make her unhappy: he couldn’t stand causing pain, and yet, could he stay mentally healthy by keeping his secret about his real self, thrashing inside his brain?
Russell hated his short and scruffy appearance, which always made a bad first impression on
women. His physical looks ill-suited to play the Knight in White Armor; he resorted to the Joker role, and did everything in his power to make women laugh. Russell developed a thick skin to shield him from the pain of the many rejections he encountered, but his small, gaunt frame always bothered him. He looked more like a fourteen-year-old immature or ill boy than a fully-developed adult.
At his office in the Transit Tower Building, Russell settled himself in front of a computer all day with legs crossed, twisted like a pretzel, and over years, he developed a small humpback. To add insult to injury, Mother Nature, that heartless bitch, saw fit to afflict him with a skin condition of blotched white pasty patches. He covered his skin with a high turtleneck and long sleeves. And it is Russell, the blotchy-skinned Hunchback of Notre Dame de San Antonio, who bravely decided to take a stand for all men by saying the untold truth.
Perhaps because Russell felt like a real loner, an outsider, that his loneliness necessitated a calling out, to be understood, to have his inner struggle acknowledged. His loss, when it came to genetics and social skills, would be all of man’s gain.
One thing Russell did have, which so many of his male counterparts lacked, was spirit. And with this spirit, he had enough hope to take action; an action some might call gallantry.
Russell thought back to before his marriage; despite his skin condition and scrawny body, he had joined a gym in his adopted hometown of San Antonio. It wasn’t easy because conservative Texan men looked down on him with suspicion. Was he really one of them? They decided not.
At the gym, they mocked and bullied him mercilessly; in the shower and the weight room, they teased him and called him an oddball. There was only so much taunting a man could take, and so, in desperation, Russell enrolled in a private yoga class. He knew the rednecks would never be caught dead there. It didn’t hurt that the Art of Yoga was taught by a slender, svelte beauty named Beth Waymen.
For months, he talked with Beth and made jokes about the evocative yoga positions. He spoke in subtle ways; he didn’t want to offend anyone. He caused enough mischief to get smiles from Beth, and with time, he turned her smiles to giggles and her giggles to laughter, and, after months of relentless but casual flirting, he mustered up enough courage to ask her out for coffee, and she said yes.
That sunny day, they sat outside on a terrace and ordered frozen lattes. “I love the yoga classes.” He placed a hand to his forehead like a salute. “It’s good for the body.” Beth looked him up and down.
“Maybe it would be safer for me if we sit inside.” Russell motioned his hand toward the door. “How so?” she asked. Beth wore her sundress like only a yoga instructor could; her olive body appeared tanned and flawless. Russell concluded that the sundress was a very lucky dress indeed.
“Well, Beth… er… a, can I call you Beth?”
She nodded, shooting Russell a look. “You’ve called me Beth since we met.”
“Oh, yeah… right. Well, Beth, if your boyfriend sees us together, he might get the wrong idea.” He scrunched his face into a squirrely, scared look.
She smiled. “Maybe it wouldn’t be the wrong idea.” She winked at Russell—a wink with such subtlety he felt he may have imagined it. “You’re assuming I have a boyfriend.”
“Well, do you?” Russell’s cheeks got hot, and he couldn’t tell whether it came from embarrassment or pleasure.
“Men around here are not… what’s the word I’m looking for… mmm… well, they strut around like John Wayne, and I’m more of a Woody Allen kind of gal.”
Russell restrained himself, and did not jump up and down clapping his hands; for once, looking like a nerdy Hobbit played in his favor.
Beth explained that she was originally from San Francisco, which was much more sophisticated. “Men and women there understand each other. Men in San Antonio still think it’s the Wild Southwest and women should be treated like cattle and ridden like horses.”
“How did you wind up here?” He pulled his shirt sleeves nervously down to his wrists, first one, then the other, tugging as far as the sleeve would pull to cover his embarrassing skin splotches. It was a nervous habit of his.
“Air Force.” She took a long, slow sip of her drink, and crossed her legs. “I served three years as Uncle Sam’s physical trainer; I was good at it, too, and moved up to Staff Sergeant. Then,” she
faltered, and glanced around the cityscape surrounding them, as if awaiting interruption. “Then, well, my fiancé was killed in Iraq. He was a grunt, an Army foot soldier.” A shadow passed over her eyes.
Russell sighed and nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, it’s all right. So, I was discharged here and landed this job right off.” She waved her petite hands in front of her. “I’m not ready for San Francisco again yet—too many early screwed up
romance memories.”
Russell had been single for years, and had avoided getting close to anyone, although he had had plenty of sex. He could tell that Beth liked him. She enjoyed his conversation, and he made her laugh, which she had not done in a long time.
She paused to look him in the eye. Russell was always unsure about girls’ signals, and worried he might misinterpret them. He always stood careful not to cross a line, and, without a word, he laid his
hand on the table, midway between them. She smiled understandingly and covered his hand with hers. Her yoga studio was attached to a gym in the basement of the Transit Tower on the southern edge of downtown, not too far from the historic King William District with its huge, lovely trees and fabulous old homes. His Census Bureau offices were on the 25th floor of the same building.
Geographic proximity helped them become closer. Midday coffees became date nights, which became overnight excursions. Their friendship blossomed in a short time, and both of them were caught unawares by how strongly they felt for one another. It wasn’t long before Russell popped the question.
“What did you say?”
“Will you marry me?” He nervously tugged his sleeves down, first one, then the other. “Sure, I love you, Russ. Do you love me?”
“No, I’m planning on murdering you, but I can’t collect the insurance unless we’re hitched.” He giggled nervously.
Beth laughed and punched Russell lightly in the chest.
“No, but really, Beth, I’ve fallen in love with you. You’re more important to me than anything else in the world.”
On their honeymoon in nearby Kerrville, they visited the Hill Country Museum downtown, and paddled a canoe down the Guadalupe River. It was here that Russell first attempted to breach his secret belief about lust, to which he thought she might slap him and yell, “We are done!” He locked the hush-hush conversation inside his head again.
The honeymoon wasn’t an appropriate time to disclose to the woman he loved about his
philandering wanderings. He wondered if Einstein kept impetuous desires to himself. He felt it was safer to hold onto his secret for the time being.
He started to write out these secrets:
For years, masculinity has been under attack. The attack is by women against men. It is cloaked in subterfuge—man’s masculinity is attacked by way of women refusing to acknowledge it.
If you tell her, or if she finds out about this male truth, she will bitch. She will yell, scream, slap,
push, and hit you! She will meet you at the door every night sniffing for the scent of a woman.
She will call you one hundred times a day. She will nag at you daily and make your life a living hell! It is a fact your girl will hound you so much you’ll want to make her a domestic abuse
statistic! The good news is fighting back would be easy, and today a simple tactic can reverse the tides of masculinity-shaming. Women must stop and understand. The bad news is men’s instincts have become so vilified that the simplest measures to preserve them will come under unfettered,
unkind scrutiny. All men fear the violent and bombastic rages from their girls. Think of that—if a man wants to be a man, simply by having the one desire, he will encounter fierce opposition and make quick enemies. Women are not as angry with their man as they are jealous of other women. Women hate other women in their men’s lives in any way. Women’s jealousy is the killer.
∞∞∞∞
Russell printed his musings and truths about men, read it over and over, and grew angry and frustrated with each read. No, this isn’t it! God, it sounds like I hate women! I don’t hate women. I
love them, and I love my wife.
He crumpled the paper up and slammed it in the waste basket; he then deleted the document from his computer.
I’ve got to go deeper! It’s not an intellectual explanation. I need to use the results from my three-year experiment, charting and measuring, and go further than ever before. This is more than
mental games on this subject—there is something raw and real that I have to get out!
∞∞∞∞
On the night of their third anniversary, Russell treated Beth to her favorite Italian restaurant, where they drank two bottles of Chianti, and then enjoyed a boat ride on the San Antonio River. Romantic gestures were not his forte, but that night, he pulled it off. Awkward and self-conscious about his appearance, he tried to fake his confidence.
As a youngster, Russell remembered people thinking his skin condition might be contagious, and they recoiled away from him to avoid contact, making him wary of social situations. As a defense mechanism, he developed a sort of humorous bravado that women found intriguing. Here, with Beth, he didn’t need any defense mechanisms—she loved him and his patchy skin. She would kiss them in the dark after nights of passion, her fingers trailing invisible lines down his back as they lay in bed.
At night, as they lay side by side on the rose petals he had strewn on the carpet in the warm glow of many scented candles, Beth took him by surprise. From out of nowhere, with the suddenness of a Texas “Blue Norther,” she blurted out something that Russell thought was a silly question for an anniversary evening.
“Are you happy these days?” Her lips pursed in apprehension.
Russell thought for a moment. Maybe it wasn’t so silly. He hugged her tight. “I’m happy with you and my job, hon. I don’t want to change a thing.” He gave a half laugh. “I wish my skin wasn’t so pasty though, so splotchy. I don’t know how you can stand me sometimes.” He pulled on his sleeves as he always did when he thought of his condition.
Beth playfully slapped his chest. “Oh, stop it. I do love you. I’m downright captivated by you, partner,” she moved to get closer to him.
Tonight, Russell knew she drank a little too much wine at dinner, and whenever she did, she typically became more outspoken; her mother’s little “Spitfire.” He would keep his secret to himself… for now.
“You know, Russ,” Beth said, “I love you more than anyone else on this planet.” Russell sensed what was coming next:
“Where’s the but?” He fumbled with her hair. “The but?”
He laughed. “The but, Beth, the but. I love you buuuut . . .” he repeated.
“But your dandruff, honey, it’s all over the place. When you shake your head, it looks like a snow globe. You know the ones you shake and there’s snow floating everywhere.” She waved a hand in the air like fanning dandruff.
“I’ll take care of it tonight when I shower.” He raked his hair with flighty hand movements, scratching the top of his head, generating even more dandruff. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“There’s something else bothering me,” she segued. “I have an odd feeling inside I don’t like very much. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Actually, there is. It’s something I’ve been working on for a long time,” he gazed into the distance. “You can tell me, dear. You can tell me anything. Please, no secrets.”
“I’m—I’m—” Russell faltered.
“Yes? You’re what?” Her mouth opened waiting for a morsel of a secret.
“I’m Jack the Ripper.” Russell moved on top of Beth, the two laughing like idiots. Russell grabbed her wrist and peppered her neck with kisses as she playfully resisted. “Or Batman—yes, I’m
Batman!”
“Batman is sexier—yes, you’re Batman.”
They embraced for a while, but once the mood passed, there fell another silence. He hoped to disarm her by derailing her question. It didn’t work—not when she was inebriated. Again, they lay side by side, while she looked up at him from her spot on his shoulder.
“Sometimes you disappear and I don’t know where you go. Where do you go?”
voice soft. His thoughts froze for a moment. “You know… I love you… . I just go out. I’m a wandering man, doll. You married a wanderer.”
“Oh.” Her arms went limp as sleep began to take over.
“Honest, to make us happier, I’ll tell you all about it, someday.” “Okay.”
She seemed to accept this answer, and soon after fell asleep. He carried her into the bedroom and tucked her into bed. She snored gently.
Russell slipped out of the front door, closed it stealthily, and walked off into the night with thoughts he struggled to explain to himself, let alone to others. Next time she asks, he thought, I must tell her the truth. I must share my secret. Then, Russell headed over to St. Mary’s Street to get laid.
∞∞∞∞
When Beth awoke the next morning, she missed her early Saturday yoga class at the studio. She phoned and spoke with her boss about a throbbing headache in a fake throat-cough voice. She didn’t say the words “monster hangover,” but he understood.
She wandered into their 100-year-old living room and found Russell curled up like a little boy on the couch with his knees under his chin. God, she thought, he’s such an innocent-looking guy, but he’s
hiding something.
She covered him with a blanket from the bedroom and went into the kitchen to make coffee. She knew she had had much too much to drink the night before, and when she remembered vaguely that she had told Russell he looked like a snow globe because of his dandruff, and now, she was embarrassed. But then she thought about what else she might have said, but couldn’t remember. She was mortified.
By early afternoon, Russell woke to find a fresh bouquet of white roses in a vase on the coffee table by the couch, along with a thermos of coffee and a plate with two glazed donuts. Beth’s neatly-penned note read,
Please forgive me for drinking too much wine on our anniversary. Let’s drive up to Kerrville for dinner.
Love, Beth
He drank the coffee, ate the donuts, and, while showering, thought of a way to present his secret to her. At work the day before, he’d completed his analysis of an interim census survey, and this had pleased his boss so much, he was told to take the afternoon off as a reward. But instead, Russell locked the door to his small office. He thought of a new approach and composed “Plan B,” his
Manifesto of the Dominant Male. In this, he explained his secret in heartfelt and simple terms Albert
But would Beth love it, or even understand it? His knees quivered as he weighed the pros and
cons, as he had a million times before. He would feel guilty if her reaction were negative, but if she willingly wanted to break out of her old ideas and embrace the truth, then that would be something else.
No, he decided. She would probably hate it. He thought he should tear the paper up and toss it into
the trash.
“Fuck it.” He stretched his arms over his head, working out the kinks. “The truth will have to do, honesty, and the honest to God truth is women do not really want to understand us men; they just have their idea of what we are, and they want us to conform to it.” His eyes were dry from looking at his monitor for so long. He flexed his fingers, cracked his knuckles, pulled his shoulders back, and planned for the worst while hoping for the best, before marching out of the office. On the way home, he tried to speculate the outcome of his upcoming conference with his better half.
When Beth returned from grocery shopping, they hugged, and he dutifully helped put away the food. They drove north to the Hill Country for dinner at Der Lindenbaum Restaurant and Biergarten in a beautiful historic limestone edifice built by the German pioneers who founded Fredericksburg over a century ago. The atmosphere was cozy, comfortable, and friendly. The chef-owner, Ingrid Hohmann, served up German specialties, such as schnitzel, steaks, great sandwiches, and homemade bread. They were both in the mood for something sweet, so they skipped dinner and ordered desserts instead. They shared their two favorite puddings, apple strudel and Black Forest cake. It commemorated their honeymoon.
A million stars looked down on them as they drove home, while the radio featured a San Antonio western band strumming and singing Your Cheating Heart, a Hank Williams classic. Beth rested her head on Russell’s shoulder and placed her hand on his thigh. He stared straight ahead down the
highway, and when he slowed a bit to let an armadillo scurry across the road, the movement of his leg suddenly made him aware of a substantial erection.
At home, after a quiet game of chess ending in stalemate, they went to the bedroom. His hands moved along her calves which were so perfectly sculpted by the yoga exercises.
He lay close to her with his head facing down while hers faced up, and he buried his face between her thighs. With purpose and delicateness, he explored her pink folds with his tongue, and she
wrapped her lips around him and took him in her mouth.
They merged into a single being, a living yin-yang symbol-with no beginning and no end, only the two of them extended into one another, without any thought beyond the need to feel and taste, drinking in one another over the hours, sweats mingling, and every touch intoxicating them more. That was love. His manifesto didn’t explain love—it was about the other thing, the thing that wasn’t love.
Tomorrow came, and Russell became sidetracked by Beth. He walked across the room thinking of T. S. Eliot’s question, “Shall I eat a peach?”
His answer came slowly from tasting the bottoms of her feet, where the skin glistened like light brown than olive and tasted of the leathery salt of her sandals. These were the feet that trod upon the grapes upon the sides of the Rif Mountains at Ksar el Kebir in Morocco where she once vacationed with her now-dead soldier. He could still taste the wine. These were the feet that paced the flat, hard-packed sand of the beach at Asilah when there was no hope left for her first love blown to bits by an IED. These were the feet that bathed in the essence of peach amid bubbles an hour or so ago when they returned from Fredericksburg. Her heels bore just enough roughness to taste of pumice stone. He suckled her ankles like they were four tits of a delicately masterful sculpture in polished marble, though no marble had ever given such delicate nectar as the traces of perspiration held in tiny crinkles so near the bones beneath her skin. He felt he had indeed tasted the essence of her marrow. They fell asleep, and Russell dreamed.
“I love you, Russell.” Beth’s body went limp, her mind wandering. “I love you, too.” His eyes danced about the ceiling.
“And I love that you tell me about all the other women you fuck.” She touched his leg, her fingers walking up his thigh and spurring his member to prick up.
“Want to hear more?” He placed both hands on his chest.
“Tell me about fucking in the back of the old abandoned car. That turns me on.” Beth leaned into him, her hand cupping his manhood, her lips pressing against his hands.
Russell awoke exploding with urges. It turned midnight. His dream died; he would have to tell Beth next weekend, and he bet the conversation would go nothing like his dream. Right now, the planets’ orbital mysteries pulled him out of bed and into the night. He was called to find a woman—any
woman—to pound like hell.
∞∞∞∞
The following Sunday, after a champagne brunch on the river at La Mansion, Russell sat Beth down on the couch in the living room and stood with one elbow on the fireplace mantle. He wore his dark grey suit, blue shirt, and red power tie; she relaxed in a summery chiffon dress of a light opal. She kicked off her sandals and curled her feet under her bottom, so only her knees showed. He handed her a copy of his Manifesto of the Dominant Male.
“I’m going to read this to you because I intend to publish it in a full-page advertisement in the newspaper. This is real honesty.” He pulled his shirtsleeves down and buttoned them to give himself countenance.
extended along the back of the couch, fully attentive, but without looking at her copy of the manifesto. He cleared his throat.
“Don’t interrupt, now. Even if you get mad, okay?” he told her, holding a palm out towards her for a second.
Her brow ruffled slightly, but she nodded. “Sure, hon.”
“I made you a drink, just relax for ten minutes.” Then he read in a clear and articulate voice:
Manifesto of the Dominant Male
There is a war, a battle against half of the world’s population. The age-old battle of the sexes and man’s struggle for freedom can be solved. Disturbingly, women in general, and wives in
particular, do not recognize man’s masculinity, and always tell us to be a man. Therefore, I declare, in my name and for every man on the planet, this one quintessential certainty: Sex and love are not one and the same. Men must ensure the survival of the human race through sex. We are consumed by sex, and have no choice. A man’s need to pass on his genetic material is a
natural compulsion that is deep-seated. Sex is the sine-qua-non condition of all living things. It is as natural as eating and relieving oneself. Sometimes, men just have sex, and that’s it. No love, no feelings, nothing but the act, like the bonobo ape.
“Russ.” Beth held up a hand, chuckling. “Which newspaper are you going to use? How about the
San Antonio Light? It has a full comic section.” She spread her arms wide.
“You think I’m joking, do you?” Russell looked at her pointedly. There was no stopping now. “I thought you said you wouldn’t interrupt.”
“I didn’t know it would be something like this. Did you join a Men’s Club or something?” She clasped one hand around her svelte waist, cuddling into the couch. “If you’re not joking, this is seriously weird.”
“Beth, you’re one in a million. Most women live with men who are too weak and too fearful to tell the truth about who they really are. Try to listen, try to understand… Isn’t a harsh, but wholesome honesty better than the illusion of sickly-sweet fiction?” His fingers trembled as his head angled toward the paper.
She sighed. “Go on. You have five minutes, and then I have to go out.” Russell continued:
Sex and love are like oil and water: often found floating on top or under the other, but not mixing. I, and my male brethren, do not equate love with sex. In fact, we are comfortable loving one woman and having sex with others. Sex with multiple women is cheating, but only so because women unfairly penned the rulebook. Men are, in the deepest recesses of our mind,
accomplishing the innate task imposed upon us by nature. This primal impulse is not originating in the conscious mind or heart, but from a place embedded in each man; it is the universe acting through us.
“Okay, I think I’ll have that drink now.” Beth laughed nervously. “I’m not sure I can take this seriously or not.”
“Good, this will be good for our marriage. You’ll learn more about me.” Russell continued:
My girl’s suspicion and distrust can be conquered, but not by forcing men to act against their nature. Not by crippling the fabric of manly instincts. Human design pushes me towards sexual freedom. It’s the universal obligation keeping hominids from extinction, and it is time the world caught up with this fact. My primal impulse is not premeditated, it doesn’t originate in my brain or in my heart, it’s the universe acting through me; it stirs inside me a couple times a cycle. I work all day and stay busy, yet a severe craving overpowers me. I feel it gnawing inside; it won’t lessen until there is the finishing point. Late at night, I consent to these persuasions; they take over.
“I don’t get this,” Beth rubbed her forehead. “If you’re serious, your logic is out the window. You were absolutely the most generous lover last night. Don’t tell me there’s no feeling in our sex. You can’t possibly be like this with anyone else.” Her lips pressed into a smirk.
“You’re not listening. Please, listen to me. Sex and love might not always go hand in hand—yes… but, listen…”
“Go on,” she sighed deeply. “I don’t like where this is going one bit, though, just for the record.” “Mmm.” He shuffled his papers and continued:
During the hunt, my senses peak on extreme vigilance and I chase with no specific direction in mind. A dangerous itch consumes me while I search along a pathway etched with invisible foot prints. A yearning in my loins directs me, involuntarily led by the night’s secrets. Waves of lust gush over my essence, aiming me toward an unknown engorged clitoris. I sniff out a conduit, pursuing prey in heat. I’m seduced headlong; bounding me to the hunt.
“Russell, where is the part that I’m going to like?” She took a big gulp of her cocktail.
“Don’t piss me off,” Beth pointed a straightened finger toward his head. Russell read more:
I see a dark alley, a shady wooded area, or a dilapidated dive of a club, and sense the loot is in there. In my attempt to sleep, the energy devours my mind, stuffing it with visceral masculinity. I awake from a lusty dream. Night has fallen. It is dark in my room, pitch black, but I know the woman sleeping softly next to me has not roused. I do not take notice of her. There is a yearning, a deep-seated, diffused quiver rolling inside of me. I scavenge out on the sex-skulk. It overtakes me in waves as I move, pursuing prey in heat, my mind static, but for that one urge. The trajectory I follow is different every time. I’m like a homing pigeon discovering the way home. I’m a
penguin trooping toward a desolate mating place. I follow fragrances that have no scent. I seek to find someone with no distinct image. I crave ripe eggs begging for sperm. I spirit along roads without a map and travel unknown pathways in the darkness. I navigate unmarked thoroughfares, sail across uncharted oceans. I always find the target. It’s always there. It’s pleading to be hit; a celestial bull’s-eye beseeches me.
“Christ, Russell, you sound like a total idiot. Do I have to listen to this crap?” She slapped one palm on her thigh and straightened her spine.
“You must, I’ve been telling you this forever. You always say, ‘Start by telling me the truth.’ Now I tell you the truth, and you call me an idiot. You think I’m the only one who feels this way? You’re wrong. Your father, your brothers, heck! Even the pastor of your parish feels like this! All men are subject to the same desires, the same compulsions. No one else is talking, but I am. They’re all cowards, but believe me, like it or not, this is the absolute truth.”
“But you sound like an uncivilized animal.” “Maybe I am?”
“Okay, if you say so.” She tugged at her blouse. Russell read:
I take the target long, hard, and deep. It’s deliberate and complete. Once done, I’m driven toward a second, a third, and more encounters, sometimes in the same night. Afterwards, when I awake beside the woman I love, I am truly happy. Then once again, like a fish finding spawning grounds; an Aboriginal mystery, I caress my atavistic endeavors. My attraction is beyond aroused; it’s a captivating body rush hurtles me onwards, endlessly. I watch in horror at what this drive is doing to my life and relationships. There is no possibility to fight its hold.
“So you’ve become goddamn Sigmund Freud now? Do you dream of railroad trains ramming into a tunnel? What a kook you are!” Her eyes flared.
“Like hell you did! You did it for you! Russell S. Carlson, you’re a no-good, mother-fucking bastard!”
“Gee, Beth, it’s just a theory.” He sheepishly ruffled his papers.
“I’ve heard enough of this shit,” her eyes blasted into his. “I thought you were kidding, but now I see in your face, your eyes… you’re obsessed, Russell. You need help. But I can’t imagine any woman therapist putting up with such horseshit.” She folded her arms tight.
“Just hush and listen, Beth. This is important to our marriage.”
“Are you telling me that you actually go out and cheat on me at night when I’m sleeping?” Her face crunched up.
“I’m trying to explain it as best as I can. It’s not my fault. It’s the way men are designed.”
“You asshole. You’re telling me you go out fucking while I’m asleep? Christ, what have I done to deserve this? You expect me to go along with your stupid manifesto?” She sputtered and spat.
“Just listen, that’s all I ask. And try to understand… please.”
“Fuck you!” she shouted, tears welling. She stomped both feet on the floor, sat straight up on the couch; hands doubled into fists, and pounded the couch.
Russell kept going:
Tonight the moon is in orbital alignment and a perfect circle shape. It is time to stand up and be a man. The bright heavenly orb adds millions to the world’s emergency rooms. When the time is ripe, I am a werewolf ready for hard sex acts. It’s a pitch-black night set alight by a full moon. I am the moon, and I am the beast called forward. My howls are the howls of a highland wolf. High tides create and churn sensations; secrets buried inside me detonate. A flood of hormones washes through my every organ. I’m in the grip of an unquenchable sex-thirst. I’m lurched on a darkened hill howling with hunger at the full moon. A tidal force rules and I taste raw sex between each lust-starved yowl. The moon beams a smile back at me, fuelling my aching inner beast. I’m influenced by a gravitational interaction. My open-mouthed wolf howls ricochet across fogged highlands. I’m dominant, manly, and chock-full. Breaking into a run, I am duty-bound, leaping majestically over obstacles and knolls. I journey down beaten paths; my senses are honed on finding my quarry, hastened by a full-on gust from a powerful drug gripping my loins.
“You insane out-of-your-mind jerk!” She shouted, ripping her copy of the manifesto in half. “You’re capturing thoughts and feeling of fucking?” She reached down, stuffed half the manifesto in one sandal and half in the second sandal. “Capture this, you cheating, sick asshole!” She tossed one sandal and then the other.
Russell ducked. The shoes bounced off the wall and came to rest on the mantelpiece.
“Why don’t you want to understand men? If you can, life will be good for us.” He held a hand out like a beggar.
“Russell, if you really believe this horseshit and you are really out there every night cheating on me, then there is no ‘us.’ This bullshit is destroying everything.”
“Hear me out, Beth. The truth should be constructive, darling.”
“Don’t you ‘darling’ me, you pervert.” She stood up and grabbed the vodka bottle and poured it into her glass, then gulped it down.
“Let me read.”
Animal reflexes waterfall inside my body where cavities are welling up with supreme power. I attack with unpolluted energy and she attacks back. Sex ensues, rough and hard. She’s absconded and left quivering in a post-coital ecstasy, dazed and undulating. She has been taken like she was never taken before. In her whimpers and writhing’s it is clear this pleasure I have endowed in her is unlike anything she’s experienced. I don’t know her. I forget her. I leave right away so no
emotions stir between us. I look back, knowing she categorically sought it too. The kill is left gasping and I go on to another magnetic connection. It’s mutual. When this planet-sized sex organ, this irredeemable lust arrests me, I am merely its vessel. I’m in its tractor beam; I can’t escape. I don’t struggle; the whirling vortex destroys all other thoughts and white noises. A cosmic gravity guides me near unfertilized eggs and the private universal dance of biological conception moves me grandly without thought. While on pursuit, if I knew how to howl, beckoning it, I would. If there were sounds to call partners toward me, I’d produce them. If I knew an odor to appeal to others, I’d emit it. There’s no calling. There are no emissions. I primordially sense her ripe ovulation cycle. Then when I’m doing it, muffled moans and nails on skin and the measured motions of it produce no lyrics. There’s no talking. Time holds no relevance. Only after I am sated do I notice the time, notice where I am, release recognition to my growling stomach. My gut squirms, asking for nourishment. I’m hungry. I must eat. Today’s chase is over. The quest is
ended. My mind thinks of food. Thirty minutes go by and I imagine my warm bed, the covers and pillow. Only then do I think of my family; only after such intercourse, do I think of my wife. “Shit!” Beth slurred. “I’m last on your fuck list?”
“No, I love you, this is just sex.”
“What if you fall in love with one of your conquests?”
“No, it’s impossible. See, love and sex are two different things!”
Russell went back to reading:
When this primitive desire is in control, my mind isn’t thinking of her, my home, or my love. My mind is focused on one thing: I’m exposing and attacking new meat. I’m single-mindedly targeting an erotic outlet; oblivious to other feelings, I’m focused on the sexual act. It’s not about a
relationship, it’s about unadulterated fucking. There’s no love, just sex and more sex. I don’t think of how I look nor does it matter to me how she looks. I feel nothing towards her. She might be pretty, she might be ugly. I don’t take note. I’m caught inside a gravitational force and am being hauled into the heaving center of a dynamic black hole in space. Seeking the black hole’s a passion shared by every man. Men are unwavering in this common motivation. I’m not sure if anyone fully fathoms how deeply hard-wired it is, or knows how to explain it. I doubt others talk truthfully about it. I’m not certain in what manner the oomph is triggered. My entire biorhythms peak at their maximum levels, simultaneously igniting the sex-hunger, revving my engine into a searing, greased, pounding machine, hitting on all cylinders.
“Black holes?! Black holes are what I have instead of eyes? How could I be so blind?” Beth emptied the last of her drink and hurled the glass at Russell, but it missed him and shattered on the floor.
“A nice analogy?” He avoided the missile, but expected it. “Revving your engine!”
“It’s just like that,” he whispered.
“I’m fucking sick! If all men are like you, then men are sick! Sick, sick, sick!” Russell could not stop now.
It starts with a touch or a look, and then the mystery desire asserts its predominance. I’m deep into it; the orbital alignments; movement of the moon and tides; the universal need to impregnate conquers me. I know all men have these desires. You hear men say “I don’t know why I cheated; I made a mistake.” These answers are the result of man trying to explain the necessity of fulfilling an urge to a public who denies the validity of the urge. Isn’t it possible men have compulsions they can’t restrain? Men don’t understand these energies. They are moved by them independently of their will, like the puppet dangling at the end of a string, and nature, the invisible puppeteer, makes them dance. Women always tell us to be a man. “Grow up and be a man,” they say, and thump their feet. If a man talks about cheating, women are angered; oftentimes they become cruel. It’s a predictable response, so most men keep silent, not wanting to cause pain on their love. Silence is man’s need to protect his love—overrides all else, so he lies. When or if finally
discovered, he is a liar. So men are liars and cheaters. It’s a no-win situation for men. Guys who speak up will deal with a woman who never stops arguing. Who wants to argue every day? Who can stand her yelling? Men don’t want to tackle that type of life.
“I think I’m going to leave!”
“Stay, please.” Russell continued:
Ladies, this is what being a man is all about. No manlier can a man be. I don’t think men are capable of telling their women this truth. It’s something men should control, but no man can fully do that. Not Man, but Mother Nature is in charge.
Beth’s face looked beat down with dark circles under her eyes. She rose from the couch, ignored Russell, retrieved her sandals, and said, “Is that all, Mister Man? Because if it is, I’m packing a bag and you can drop me at the train station.” Her face raged with ugly crevasses of skin.
“No, wait.” He motioned for her to stay.
“If you loved me, you wouldn’t cheat on me,” Beth whispered; her words wobbled awkwardly out of her mouth.
“That’s a myth, an old and untrue wives’ tale. I’m able to love and cheat all at the same time,” Russell said.
“Fuck you.”
“I’m almost finished.” He made a stop gesture. “You can say that again!”
If only women could understand this uncomplicated truth, the world would be a more congenial place. The truth is simply men can’t stop. This is being a man. That’s what women always argue about. Be a man. We seek freedom to practice our natural predispositions. We must
independently roam, explore, and hunt. That’s what this manifesto is all about—letting women know the truth about men; we don’t cheat—we act like “a man!”
Man’s Manifesto of Action:
1) Listen closely to your inner angel. Let it guide and fulfill your biological destiny. 2) Tell your girl of these urges and your plan to embrace them. Live in reality. 3) Spread the word. Be unashamed and proud.
“Is this”—she searched for the word to properly invoke her feelings—“this bullshit, is it true?” Her voice was ice. Beth’s brain was gone, the loving, kind, and understanding Beth he knew transformed. She spoke to him like he was a rock.
With a sigh, Russell shut his eyes. Beth now acted like his enemy. “Yes. It… I… this is what I wanted to tell you for a long time. I wrote it at work, brought it home, hoping it would bring us closer together if you knew my truth.”
husband has lost his mind.” She hardened her gaze and rose.
He went over to her, but she threw up her hands. “No, no. You’re crazy. You hear me? That should be called the Manifesto of the Insane.” She threw the manifesto at him, the loose pages falling to the hardwood.
She shrieked. The sound was so abrupt that it shocked Russell. “You hear me? You are fucking crazy! We are done!”
“Beth, wait—”
“No. Don’t talk to me.” She left the room.
In the next room, he heard her scream, “I can’t believe you! I hate you!”
Presented with the truth, she shook to the core, and brewed hatred. He sat on the couch and awaited her return.
Soon, a yellow taxi pulled up in front of their Crofton Street home, and Beth moved through the living room to the door, lugging one suitcase.
Russell asked, “Where are you going?” He held out both arms. “Beth!”
She shook her head. There was nothing but silence once more. Well, yes, there was one thing more thought now—the sense of freedom Russell felt. He told the truth. Beth knew the truth now, and that
was a fact, and she decided. It was her choice now. He wondered what he should do with this new knowledge.
The divorce papers read, “Irreconcilable Differences.”
That, too, was true, he thought.
Today
One surprising consequence after Russell told his truth to Beth became enlightenment and
awareness concerning his sexual needs, and learning never to hide them again. This is who he is as a man. After the divorce, the anxiety of keeping secrets and living a lie stopped, with the huge weight lifted off his shoulders. Today, Russell brings his refreshingly honest perspective about sex into the beginning of all potential relationships. He easily builds a platform of freedom and honesty that he never experienced in his relationship with Beth.
At this time, he dates a woman who steps out of the relationship once in a while to experience her own freedom and sexual joy. And Russell loves the infrequent sex-hunts of his own. Every time he goes out to “hunt,” he is empowered and reassured of his place as a complete man in the world. He and his love share their adventures, which brings them closer together.
Russell did publish his Manifesto of the Dominant Male, but not in the Light Newspaper with its colorful comics, as Beth sarcastically suggested, but in the competing San Antonio Express-News in a full-page advertisement. This resulted in the National Organization for Women (NOW) picketing his home with defamatory signs until the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) got a court order prohibiting such tactics of repression and intimidation.
Russell felt secure in heading for Iceland after watching an enticing documentary on harnessing earth’s natural heat had stimulated a profound interest in volcanic heating systems. His fascination with using molten magma to heat our water supply struck a deep passion inside him; imagining cost savings while reducing pollution. The idea that nature’s hot core could change how we source our homes’ uses of warm water inspired him with hope that geothermal fields and hot springs would enable uses for countless municipal advances.
It was not by chance that the idea of energy being generated by underground, unseen, but formidable power seduced him. The whole idea of his manifesto came from beneath the surface of the male
psyche, where the Herculean power was ready to be harnessed if accepted and recognized. By embracing his true nature, any man would be able to tap into this endless source of energy, and make for himself a better life in a better world.
Russell never regretted leaving the security of his Census job to travel to Iceland, where he
capitalized on his engineering background to research thermal earth technologies in use. He embraces the decision to switch careers from bureaucracy back to an engineering focus. Not being tied down by matrimony, he owns the freedom to pursue this dream—a dream where creativity encourages him to do things beyond society’s norm.
With his newfound life came an intuitive sense of altruism and the return of a genuine love for things bigger than self.
Today, he’s helping to create an improved world for all. ∞∞∞∞
Official Hook-up Guide for Men
Men: Enjoy sexual opportunities—these are natural.iiiivvBeing monogamous is not natural for humans.vivii
Men can love a woman and cheat at the same time.viii
70% Married men admit to cheating of their wives.ix
Men are compelled by nature to spread their seed far and wide.x
Marriage-monogamy is a great objective, but is hardly attainable.xixii
Women are compelled by nature to birth and nurture children.xiii
There is more to being a man than providing for a family.xiv
Men: Tell your girl when you cheat even if she becomes violent.xv
Men are required to build our societies’ future infrastructures.xvi
Men naturally react to sex once offered by having sex in return.xvii
Men fear women’s abuse when women think men cheat.xviiixix
Women may never understand the nature of men.xxxxi
Chapter 2
Shelly’s Love Dream
Self-sufficient Shelly Payne, a 12-year-old, brown-haired, and determined mountain girl, easily recognized by the damaged brown boots she wore for years, grew up a mama’s girl in Beckley, West Virginia, the largest city in Raleigh County. The city, locally known as the Smokeless Coal Capital, is located in the heart of the coal-mining epicenter of the Appalachian Mountains, where rugged
Cumberland and Allegheny mountain plateaus surround the 17,600 residents who call Beckley home. In Beckley, the springtime profusion of flowering wild azalea, rhododendron, and laurel is a well-known tourist attraction in the area. The main street sits nuzzled between majestic, sweeping mountain views, sloping rustic gorges, and pristine rivers, in isolation where mountain folk have lived off the land since settlements in the early nineteenth century. Many of the town’s men work hard labor at the nearby mines and sawmill, then go to get drunk in order to forget the utter pointlessness of their lives.
Women wear hats inversely proportional to the size of their pet dog, which often indicate how successful their search for a hardworking husband has been. God forbid any of the men do something adulterous or hellish—this is God’s Country where hell’s fire can strike an outlaw dead.
Kissed by angels and reared by her mother, Shelly’s future shone bright, despite Beckley’s struggle with the EPA’s improvement demands on the coal businesses. Today, mines operate, the mills and trains roll, tourism and hydraulic fracturing companies boom—prime factors in Shelly’s continuing optimism and hope of increasing the town’s population. Guiding her along life’s path is the family tradition of church, and, fortunately, not the ungodly escapades of a drunken bum needing his cock sucked by a whore.
At the age of nine, Shelly, like all her girlfriends, searched, yearning to find her place. For some time, she knocked around from one hobby to the next, flitting between sewing and square dancing with her cousins, and riding horses.
“Mom, riding horses is so boring,” her gaze bounced from place to place while she rearranged her dirty brown hair. She felt uncomfortable around horses.
“Don’t get put out, hon, ’cause I reckon you’ll find somethin’ you really got a hankerin’ for soon enuf,” grey-haired, robust Mama Martha held her thick shoulders back, and chin high.
“I doubt it!” Shelly saw her thoughts stewing, in search of that one passion.
“Before your daddy died in that terrible explosion that brung down the underground workings at the Pocahontas Mines,” Mama Martha sorrowfully recounted, “he loved to ride horses along the Smokey
Mountain ridges hisself.”
“You’ve told me that story a hundred times and I still don’t like riding,” Shelly’ eyebrows pulled together and a familiar sinking feeling radiated from her gut to her chest.
“Don’t go poutin’ now,” Mama wagged her finger.
“I won’t, Mama, I’ll keep looking for a hobby” She turned away to seek the quiet in the corner of her room.
One afternoon, while lying on the couch ruffling through magazines, Shelly noticed an alluring
wedding photo. She remembered Mama telling her one day she’d be married and happy, and the photo roused something in Shelly, kindling a curiosity to know more.
“That’s it,” she whispered to herself. Her shining eyes looked heavenward as if answering a call from God.
She turned toward her mom and asked with a newfound sense of clarity, “Can you buy me the
Bride’s Magazine each month?” She crossed her legs, placed the magazine in her lap, and rocked
slightly.
“Why’s that?” her mama asked, leaning forward to hear better.
“I like how pretty the bride looks,” Shelly beamed and tapped her chin with two fingers. “I’m gonna start a scrapbook of my favorite wedding photos. It’ll be my new hobby,” she proudly proclaimed, pointing to the photos as her heart beat faster, imagining herself as the bride in the magazine. “I even dream about it.”
“Sure, hon, I pert-near got enough money for a spell. We can both enjoy. You’ll be a pretty bride, too,” Mama Martha confirmed, tapping Shelly’s knee. “Your wedding day will be the most important day of yer life.” She beamed at Shelly.
“The best?” her heart pounded.
“We’ve had tough times since Papa passed,” Martha rocked.
“My man will be a good provider,” Shelly promised herself, and pulled the magazine to her chest and held it in her arms as she stared off into space.
“That’s important; there be good jobs around these days.”
“And we’ll have three cars and a patio next to a big swimming pool,” Shelly swore, clasping her hands under her chin as if praying.
“I think I want one of those mink coats for the cold season,” Shelly floated on air, dreaming about her wedding and married life.
Martha smiled, and left Shelly lying on the couch with her cat, Sammy.
“Most magical,” Shelly gently pet Sammy. She buried her face in the wedding magazine and stared deep into a handsome groom’s face looking joyful and rich with his beautiful bride smiling next to him.
Sammy turned onto her stomach.
“I’ll find a real man, one that treats me right because I can keep a house, and Mama taught me how to butcher fresh meat and home cook,” Shelly said. “I’ll be like one of those happy women in the movies, like Audrey Hepburn.”
She returned to this daydream daily, never imagining these words would ever cross her lips, “You’re disgusting! You’re an abomination in the eyes of God.”
At just twelve years old, Shelly visualized her dream wedding featuring a groom who would be strong, loving, hardworking, handsome, rich, and loyal. He’d hold her so tightly they would be inseparable. His sweetness would always lift her spirits, and his handsomeness would tingle the special place between her legs.
“It’ll be perfect,” she told her mama one afternoon. “I want the perfect wedding, blessed by God. “You’ll see, Mama. It’ll be perfect and we’ll have beautiful children.” She rubbed her hands together and bounced lightly on her toes.
Mama Martha smiled. “I’m hope’n so, Shelly. You’ll be a beautiful bride.”
Shelly didn’t want to marry the first boy she met. She would be patient and wait before marrying him; she would ensure he was indeed the ideal young man. She fantasized that, at the wedding, he would charm everyone gathered by pronouncing his love and promising to cherish her and make her happy forever.
At the altar, in front of the world, God, and Jesus Christ, he would proclaim his devotion. They would honeymoon in Paris and ride around in a limo visiting all the famous places. At night, they would kiss under the Eiffel Tower. Shelly dreamed that, upon their return, they would move into the cutest gray house in Raleigh County, with a white fence and soft green grass, and immediately start a family.
Time passed, and when Shelly turned nineteen, the seeds of her dreams began to flourish, noticing the new man at Sunday’s service at the Memorial Baptist Church on Kanawha Street. At first glance, he seemed so different from the others who attended the welcoming, but very cramped church. Her heart beat and blood pounded through her veins taking in his admirable looks and very large, black-rimmed glasses looked bold, enhancing his narrow face. He caught her eye, and when he smiled,
Shelly felt her knees tremble, her face blushed.
The pastor, Mr. Thomas, preached a sermon from Deuteronomy. Pastor Thomas was a middle-aged man with all the characteristics one would want in a genuine, Godlike country parson.
“It is said in Deuteronomy 22:22 ‘That if a man is found ‘a-sleepin’ with another man’s wife, both the man who slept with her and the woman must die. You must purge the evil from Israel,’” the pastor sermonized. He continued from Leviticus 20:10. “It read, ‘If a man commits adultery with another man’s wife—with the wife of his neighbor—both the adulterer and the adulteress are to be put to death.’”
Shelly raised her hands heavenward praising, “Hallelujah! Yes, God!” Little did she know that one day she would need help so bad that she would plead for God’s mercy and shout, “We need God in our lives? God, please come down and help us!”
At the moment, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the new man.
“Shelly,” her mama whispered, wagging a finger, “stop staring over thar like a love-struck puppy. You’ll crick your neck. We’re gonna sing.”
Everyone rose to sing, so Shelly grabbed the music sheet and softly joined in.
“A wonderful mountain voice shoulda always go up thar by the pastor and let her voice be heard,” her mama always said. But Shelly, who had a beautiful singing voice, would rather throw herself from a tall mountaintop than sing in public.
In her heart, Shelly knew this new man was the one—he was the one and only. She noticed him immediately: the glint in his eyes, his stature, his confident presence… she knew he wanted all the same dreams she did. Although she had never talked to him, she knew they were soul mates, destined to become more.
Now, if only she could build up the courage to speak to him.
At last, the sermon ended, and Shelly walked toward her dream man. Suddenly, doubts flooded her, and she felt a twisted knot in her stomach.
“Oh, Shelly,” her mother sighed, pushing her toward him, “you’re totally helpless, ain’t ya, girl?” Shelly took a deep breath and stumbled toward him again, nearly tripping over a child and knocking her elbow painfully against the worn pew in the process. His powerful glasses gave him an
appearance of purpose, and when he smiled, Shelly felt her knees buckle and her solar plexus turn into a swarm of butterflies.
She finally ended up directly in front of him, slightly disheveled.
face, the man’s hands felt rough with callouses. He must be a hard worker, Shelly thought. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he stated politely. “I’m Dan… Dan Jackson. Do you live around here?” he moved slightly closer. At this moment Dan felt as vulnerable as a boy in love for the first time.
“Yes. I’m Shelly. People call me Shell, but I don’t like that. I don’t look like a seashell, do I?” She pointed to her chest. Mortified that those words actually left her mouth, she gasped, “Wait! You don’t have to answer that.”
Oh, God, she prayed silently, just smite me now. I’m making a fool of myself right in your own house.
Dan laughed, entertained by the girl, who was quite a bit shorter than he, and her awkwardness only added to her attractiveness.
“I don’t think you look like a seashell,” he pushed his forefinger against his glasses, scooting them toward his brow. “Seashells are beautiful, but you’re positively radiant.” He playfully nudged her shoulder.
Shelly’s face flushed beet red. She felt a zing of electricity from the nudge.
“If I may be so bold,” Dan continued, “Wanna share a coffee with me?” He put his hand in the air and crossed his fingers with a goofy smile.
“Yes, I’m nineteen now. I’m free! I’d be happy to Mr. Dan Jackson.” Shelly nodded.
When they walked over to the Diner for coffee and first sat down in a booth, she couldn’t help but feel giddy. But, after sipping half a cup of the strong brew, Shelly soon found that Mr. Dream Man’s life experiences were not at all exciting. However, she pretended to be interested—after all, he was handsome and seemed rich.
While talking, Shelly discovered that Dan enjoyed hunting, fishing, and spending time outdoors. He also managed the Elite Coal Company ten miles up Pine Run Road. That was impressive. He didn’t work underground, but rather up top in the offices, and often did double duty as a carpenter to
maintain the buildings. Shelly also found out that her Mr. Dream man had learned to hunt at the age of six, and it was his favorite thing to do on his off days. “So you see my heart lies in hunting, but it can be changed.”
“I’ve never been out of this town much. I love it here! I go to Charleston, West Virginia about every month. Charleston is a much bigger place,” Shelly said with a shrug.
“That’s okay, Shell. There’s no need to be worldly,” Dan told her in a slightly patronizing tone. “People come from all around to see our little town and the Exhibition Coal Mine Museum.”
Shelly realized he was bragging as if it were worth mentioning. “I suppose. I do like our Appalachian ways and all,” Shelly beamed.
“I love how we have that law about having sex with an animal weighing less than 40 pounds will send you to prison.” Dan laughed.
“Oh, I know.” Shelly wanted to wrinkle her nose in distaste at the thought of a man having sex with an animal, but instead, laughed along with Dan.
Dan drove Shelly home in his old, black pickup truck. When he stopped outside of her
downtrodden home, it took Shelly a moment to realize the truck had stopped. The air outside smelled hickory-sweet and pine tree smoked all at once delicious, woody, and alluring. It automatically made Shelly lick her lips. Dan pulled her close and kissed her. His man-odor made her insides quiver. She had never kissed anyone before, but it felt natural and right to Shelly. Her heart raced and curiosity spiked at the sight of Dan’s bulging area between his legs.
This was the beginning of Dan and Shelly’s romance. They spent many nights together, and Shelly was sure they would spend the rest of their lives together as husband and wife.
They dated and saw each other at church weekly, and months later, he wanted to share his favorite passion, so he invited her on a hunting trip. They drove seven miles away to New River Gorge. The area’s beauty bounded beyond anything she had imagined. The scenery left her speechless, with green foliage everywhere, fresh air, and miles of mountains, waterfalls, ghost towns, and spectacular cliffs accentuating peaceful setting.
They walked hand in hand in the forest, picking a place for a picnic near the river, so they could watch an amazing sunset from the top of a hill. Dan showed her the plants he knew, those edible and those poisonous. Dan’s loins burned to take her as he pointed out birds and told her their names, and let her shoot his rifle at a row of cans he arranged as targets. Dan shared with her that he wanted to hunt forever. That this was his true passion, and Shelly shared with him that she wanted to get married, own a beautiful home, and have children.
Deep within the forest, Shelly felt that God answered her prayer by sending her Dan.
Dan hunted for deer in the fall, and fished for trout in the summer at Lake Stephens, a pristine mountain lake. Shelly liked for him to fish there, because the odds were good he might catch some trout for supper. She appreciated the fact that every man needed a little time by himself and with his buddies. Whenever Dan went hunting, Shelly went shopping with Mama Martha in the nearest city, Charleston West Virginia, 20 miles from Beckley.
Dan was a hunter through and through. He knew that not only did he love hunting animals, but he might also love hunting women. It was in his nature to hunt. But he wasn’t fully aware of his need to hunt women just yet.
