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Regina was my first, and yes, the most memorable; but she was by no means my last reward for being an athlete. It is one of nature’s mysteries how high school and college girls would cream their pants over a jock and dismiss a straight A student as a nerd. I believe the poor dears are hard-wired somewhere in their gonads for this and cannot help themselves. Good eye-hand coordination combined with a bit of speed, and I was swimming in pussy.

My lackadaisical attitude, however, was driving the poor coach to conniptions. He could see I was capable of more and wanted me to work harder and train harder. He was convinced that I was a candidate for the majors.

“Damn it, Jimmy, all I am asking you is to show up for practice. A player like you comes around only once in a long while; you are a natural, you are a major league material Jimmy. A little hard work and you are in like Flint.”

You already know my attitude about hard work. Hardly, not hard is my motto. Otherwise, what is the use of being lucky? I was finally able to convince the coach that I had no intentions to play sports as a profession. I could practically smell his disappointment when he realized that his dream of sending one his student to the pros wasn’t going to pan out.

Pros or not, baseball was good to me. Because of baseball and my grades, I got a generous scholarship to college. Unfortunately, I had a similar problem with my baseball coach in college that I did with my coach in high school. He threatened to throw me off the team if I didn’t show up for each and every practice session. I didn’t and he didn’t. All huffs and puffs aside, no coach is ever going to break up a winning team.

Then, there was the question of grades. State regulations require college athletes to maintain a minimum C average. Most of the players were barley making it and I was on the dean’s list. The fact that my studies did not demand any more sweat from me than my hitting the ball clear into the bleachers, remained a secret between my luck and me. Whenever I missed a practice session, the coach automatically assumed I was somewhere in the library, cramming. Most likely, I was cramming, or if you prefer, creaming a co-ed, instead. I was the living proof of the anecdote that “You needs three things to succeed in life: talent, perseverance and luck; but if you have luck, you don’t need the other two.”

It was during my last semester that I ran into Margaret, literally. It was late winter afternoon and it being Friday, the campus was mostly empty of its normal throng of students. I was walking on one of the cement pathways meandering through the grassy area surrounding the library. I was in my normal slouch with my shoulders hunched and eyes to the ground. If I was not such a stranger to the emotion, you could call it my brooding posture because it was not, by any means, an athletic posture. Whatever it was, I was jerked out of it when I hit a wall of flesh and someone said,

“Damn it, watch where you are going!”

I looked up to see a co-ed standing in front of me no more than a foot away. Her thick blond hair were piled in braids on top of her head. It was her eyes, however, that absorbed my attention. I had never seen such blue eyes. They seemed brittle with color and looked as if any moment they will shatter into million blue shards.

“Look, what you have done.” She pointed to the ground. There were books and notebooks scattered on the grass.

“Extremely sorry, I am extremely sorry!” I murmured and grabbed the loose-leaf notebook in most danger of blowing away by the brisk breeze. I gathered some of her books as she picked up the rest. As I was stacking the books in her arms, a five-year-old memory of Regina transferring her books onto mine, flashed through my mind, flooding me with memories. This one was about the same size as Regina with a similar built; even the eyes were alike in size and shape. Regina was a contrast in color to the woman standing in front of me.

“I am very sorry.” I said, as I put the last book on top of all those she held in her arms.

“You should watch where you are going.” She said severely and walked off.

It was only later the question came to mind to ask where was she looking when we collided. She was long gone by then. A memory of brittle blue eyes superimposed -like a negative of a photograph- on a memory of brown eyes lingered in my mind, a mix of nostalgia and longing.

Couple of weeks went by when I saw her again and my heart skipped a beat. She was sitting alone on a large table with library books spread around her.

“Hello, we meet again.” I said.

She looked up at me but her brittle blue eyes held no recognition or expression in them.

“I am sorry; I have a lot of work to do. I have a paper due tomorrow.” She turned her eyes back to her notebook. I was dismissed.

It is hard to describe my feelings as I left the library. I was stunned, not so much by her inaccessibility, but by my own feelings. I felt as insubstantial and see-through as a ghost. ‘This is one rude bitch, best to stay away’, was the only defense I could pendik escort muster. However, for the first time, my outward brooding posture had an inner companion.

The third time I saw her, she was sitting under a tree. This time there were no open books in front of her. She sat leaning against the tree trunk, just staring into space. I tried to keep my promise to stay away but it was no use. I walked up and sat down beside her.

“Were you able to finish your paper on time the other day?”

She turned toward me. Her eyes were two feet away from mine and large as lakes. She looked at me with the same lack of expression she had in the library. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and even.

“Look, you already have a full calendar, more than full I should think. You don’t need to waste any time on me, Jim.”

My mouth fell open. “You know my name?”

“Yes, I know your name and whatever else I need to know about you. Now, would you go away and let me be?”

Her rudeness flooded me with anger.

“I know I ran into you because I was not paying attention. I have apologized for that. You too have eyes in your head. Where were you looking when you ran into ME? Tell me that?”

“I was reading. I was walking and reading. I didn’t think there was any one around.” I heard no remorse in her voice.

“Then why all this hostility? I haven’t done anything to you.”

“No, you haven’t, and so it will remain.” She said in almost in a whisper.

“Whatever your name is, let me tell you something, lady. You need a fucking psychiatrist.” I stood up.

“Alright, I will be blunt. You have fucked half of my sorority sisters already. I am not going to be another notch on your gun, so quit bothering me.”

I opened my mouth to say something but nothing came out. I tuned around and walked away, seething. Lot of the groupies hanging around athletes after games came from the sorority houses. The bitch was probably right in her accusation. I had never given much thought to my casual promiscuity. First time, I felt a sort of trepidation about it.

Every year, the college President invites top two dozen students from the graduating class for a commemorative dinner. The same number of students slated to graduate the following year are also invited. As one of the top achievers, I made the list. Goldman Hall, a cavernous space with high ceilings and chandeliers decked out with dinner settings was the site for the ceremonies. I was wandering around with a cup of punch in my hand when the bitch with brittle-blue eyes accosted me.

“What are you doing here?” She hissed.

“I would guess the same thing that you are doing.” I said.

“This is the Presidential dinner for academic achievement; it is not a place for dumb jocks. I am going to report you.” She was beside herself with anger at my temerity.

I turned around and walked away. I was sick of her attitude. For a minute, I thought she was going to follow me but the announcement to take our seats came over the P.A. system. My seat was on the President’s table. Ceremonies lasted nearly two hours. As I was leaving, she appeared in front of me.

“I am sorry. I was out of line. I want to apologize.” She sounded as if she was blaming me.

“OK.” I said.

“Is that it? OK?”

“What else would you like me say?”

“I told you, I was out of line; and I am very sorry.”

“OK, you were out of line and you are sorry.”

“Look, Jim, I am trying to apologize. It was inexcusable behavior on my part. Can’t you just accept my apology?”

“OK, whatever your name is, I accept your apology.”

“Oh, my name is…I am Margaret, Margaret Prescott.” She extended her hand and I took it. As soon as her skin touched mine, I knew I was a goner.

“OK, Margaret Prescott, I accept your apology.” I felt as if I was trying to swim out of a whirlpool when I tried to pull my hand away.

“I don’t believe you! Look at you… You are still angry. What can I do to make you understand that I am really sorry?” My hand was still in her hand.

“You could have dinner with me this weekend.” It was the last thing on my mind to ask. It just popped out of my mouth.

“Oh no, you are not going to get me to…” She stopped in mid-sentence. “Alright, Jim, I will have dinner with you. Is Friday good?”

“Friday would be fine, Margaret.” I was lightheaded. I felt as if I was simultaneously getting high and coming down from the same drug.

“Listen, Jim, can I meet you some where else? I don’t want you to come to the sorority house to get me.”

“Why not? I know where it is.”

“I know quite well you know where it is; and that is exactly why. I don’t want those girls to think I am the next.”

“Margaret, you will never be the next, you are absolutely my last.”

More prophetic words were never spoken.

I married Margaret a year after our first date. Someone had finally chosen me for my academic achievements rather than how I swung the bat. Easy promiscuousness of my high school and college days seemed shallow compared to the maltepe escort depths of married monogamy. Kama-Sutra is right when it says,

“To do it in many positions with one is better than to do it in one position with many.”

But why be so conservative and limit the number of positions to merely one hundred and one?

I graduated from college with an electrical engineering degree. The High-Tech industry was just beginning to bloom and I found a job right away, with a salary much larger than I had expected or hoped far and a stock options package that, at the time, I neither valued nor understood. In less than ten years, those stocks were to make me a millionaire many times over. For the next decade, I worked and randomly invested in various dotcom companies. Then, one day on a whim, I quit my job, sold all my stocks and took my wife on a yearlong jaunt around the world. When we returned to the States, the dotcom businesses were burning and crashing, making millionaires into paupers in matter of minutes. I had enough money stashed in secured government bonds to last my wife and me for a couple of lifetimes even if we were to live in extravagant luxury. Our needs, however, were simple. Sex was the alpha and omega of our lives and I thought we would never tire of it, or each other.

Then a simple phrase turned my world up side down. To remind me of its power, an old truth smacked me in the face. “There is no free lunch”. Under this unbreakable rule, everything has a cost, including luck. The cost of my luck was built-in in her gifts. The payment due was my ignorance of adversity. Life without strife or struggle charged me dear by simply leaving me clueless about misery. Now, here I was, face to face with the other side of that famous coin. Yin and Yang; Yony and Lingam; equal reaction against every action; that is the inescapable symmetry woven in the fabric of our lives. There is no getting away from this impeccable fairness.

It was Sunday morning. Earlier I had crawled between my wife’s legs as she lay sleeping in a deep slumber. I started to lick her pussy slowly and gently, ever so gently because I did not want her to come awake too soon. We have done this to each other many times, invading the sleeping body and possessing it. It was possible only when one of us was in deep sleep and the other equally awake. I am sure that you will not be surprised to know that your sleeping body is just as open to sexual stimulation and its pleasures as when you are awake. Wet dreams of adolescent boys are the most commonly known experience of this spontaneous pleasure but there are many variations on the same theme. As my tongue frolicked in her and she started to get wet with her own secret secretions, I can tell you that this involuntary filling-up of her sleeping pussy with its own juices is not so unlike a wet dream. It is but another improvisation of the same tune, played, in this case, by my tongue plucking the feminine strings of my wife’s body. A young boy’s wet dream is a thundering flood, a flood of semen that his seminal vesicles could no longer hold back due to the hyper-overproduction of his vigorous body. The tune is the same, in the male it is a percussive beat of a drum, in the female it is a drawn out melody of a violin.

I took my sweet time and reveled in my success to reach in and push her buttons without her consent or knowledge. It was the thrill of a thief, kinky kicks of stolen kisses. Finally, she was full, she was a bowl full of her own nectar and I thirstily drank from it. My tongue felt her pussy engorge and thicken. I probed with my tongue to find her clit and found it. It too was swollen, swollen with desire, desire aching for satiation. Satiation when it came came in waves; my wife, the receptacle of thousands of my ejaculations, came too. She came at the same time as she came awake. I raised myself on my elbows and looked at her. Her eyes were open but still groggy with sleep as she looked at the ceiling. I crawled up to lie beside her but otherwise left her alone. She was still looking at the ceiling when she said, “James, I want a divorce.”

I am not the first husband whose wife asked for a divorce. Courts and marriage counselor’s offices are full of men and women in the process of dissolving their relationships. Some take it hard and others are as casual as if they were canceling their rental lease. I am sure there are husbands who are as heart broken as I due to their divorce but I doubt if any shared my desolation. I felt that all the oxygen along with all meaning was sucked clean out of my life. I am not saying that my experience was different from other men in similar situation; I am saying that I was a different man from other men. I had no experience with disappointment and now I was drowning in it. That was the price of unearned content and my luck was giving me her bill. Now, I understood why luck is called the Bitch Goddess.

I wish I could say that I behaved like a Gentleman during the ordeal but the truth is that I behaved like anything but. For two weeks, I ran the whole gambit of being a flaming asshole. I kartal escort wept and sniveled, I threw screaming tantrums; I threatened to commit suicide and threatened to murder her. I threatened to commit suicide and murder her, demonstrating the degree of my irrationality. Margaret remained silent as a stone. She did not scream back at me during my tantrums nor handed me a hanky when I was weeping and blithering like an idiot. She did not run with terror when I threatened to kill her and nor did she tried to stop me when I threatened to kill myself. For two weeks, I created hell in our home. Then I raped her.

I dragged her to the bedroom, took off my clothes and brutally tore hers off her body and threw her on the bed. I stunk of days of accumulated sweat and my face was grizzled with unshaven stubble. All my fury seemed to have transferred itself to my lions and my cock was hard, twitching with some kind of grudge of its own. I pinned her down and pried open her legs. “Please don’t, Jim! Please don’t!” She said. I rammed my cock in her as if it was a weapon, a blunt spear. If she cried out or winced with pain, I did not notice. She was closed, tight and dry and I felt the searing pain as my foreskin was cruelly forced back on the blood-bloated shaft of my cock. I was as indifferent to my own pain as I was to hers. I was crazy with anger, passion and god knows what else. After her first plea, she said nothing more. She lay pinned and immobile under me; her brittle-blue eyes were open but vacant. Only sound in the room was my own harsh rasping animal panting and a body striking a body. Brutality powered my thrusts as I repeatedly rammed my hard angry cock into her dry cunt. Then something strange happened. She became wet and my cock went in with ease, each time with more ease. Her dry cunt was now a wet pussy; receptive, welcoming. Her eyes filled with tears, perhaps from the knowledge that even her own body has betrayed her. My anger slipped away along with her resistance. “Oh fuck it.” I said and started to raise myself off her.

“Finish what you started, Jim.” She said. “Don’t commit two crimes with the same act.” She pulled me back onto herself.

When I was done, all my anger was spent and the fury that had been scorching my soul, was gone. Only shame remained. What have I done? Rape, exactly the same act as that of lovemaking but in essences corrupted to its opposite, it has to be the most perverse of perversities. Rape degrades the most intimate coming together of a man and a woman; it desecrates the sacred moment when sometime new life begins, to an ugly act of violence. How could I have done this?

I picked up my clothes from the floor, walked to my den and locked myself in. The turmoil that had been bubbling and festering in me for the past two week was gone. Nothing but shame was left. I sat for hours with my elbows on the desk and my head in my hands. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the idea that I must let Margaret go, began to grow. The feelings that I still loved her bubbled up from the sea of shame. A conviction that I loved her enough to let her go, took hold. First time in two weeks, there was clarity and a sense of retuning sanity.

I went to the bathroom, showered, shaved and changed my clothes and walked out. Margaret was curled up on the couch wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe. I stood over her but she did not move.

“Margaret, call our lawyer when you can and have Robert draw up the divorce papers. Tell him to divide every thing in half except the house. The house is yours.”

She raised her eyes to look at me. Her eyes were red and her face streaked with dry tears.

“I don’t want your money.” She said and turned her face away.

“Half the money is yours by any one’s reckoning, Margaret. You want a divorce; I am giving it you. The money comes with it.”

Slowly she raised herself to a sitting position and scooted over as if making a place for me, at least, that is how I chose to read the gesture. I sat down but made sure to keep my distance. As she moved, I could see a black and blue bruise on her left breast and there were marks around her shoulders. I wanted to say something but knew better. Anything I might say will be grossly inadequate.

“Whatever!” She said.

We were quiet for a few minutes. I was thinking to get up and leave. I had decided to check into a hotel until I found an apartment. Margaret looked at me and started to talk. For two weeks, I had tried to coax the reason behind her decision to divorce me. The only answer she had given me was a quiet and softly spoken, “I don’t want to be married anymore.” or “I just want to be alone.”

“I didn’t decide on the spur of the moment that I wanted to leave you, Jim. The thought has been gnawing at me for more than two years. I feel empty and I don’t know why. Sometimes I think I am going crazy. Other times, I think the whole world is insane. I think there is too much of everything. There is too much money, too much fucking, too much fucking content. Sometime I feel I will drown in a surfeit of self-satisfaction, or drown in my own screaming orgasms. It sounds insane even to me as I say this. I just know I cannot go on any more. I must break away from everything, every one, I must run but I don’t know where to. There is no purpose in living, no rhyme or reason to life; just slow death by aging.”

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