Free Husband Dot Com by Ann Dunn Page B

him again? I was vulnerable and afraid. I was not able to love Trent with all of myself. I could not shake the fact that someone I committed my life to was as void of human emotion as he was. Trent never really loved me. He was only caught up in an illusion of having a wife and a daughter. He wanted to for ce us to fit inside of his make-believe life.

11). Wench
    In a last minute attempt to save our drowning marriage, Trent and I went to church instead of taking a mini vacation. I felt myself being pulled under water as we walked into the church. The last bubbles of oxygen I had left escaped my nostrils and floated upward, tickling my eyelashes.  I was submerged in a roaring religious river—right in the middle of broad daylight. The outing was a transparent plea to appease me, rather than a life changing excursion for Trent. The church field trip was a full on holy disappointment. Trent felt that he needed to confess his sins of the flesh.
    Trent followed Father Murphy into his sanctuary like a five-year-old boy. I felt like a basket of wilted Gerber daisies as I sat on the bench waiting for him. Mere moments later, Trent walked out of the priest's office with the weight of his dark clouds lifted off his shoulders. Trent headed my way at a fast clip, sporting a smile across his face. He was smiling at me as if he had huge flipping white plastic angel wings stapled to his back. Going across my mind was, Oh no, what just happened in there? That monstrosity had years of screwed-up shit that he needed to purge. Trent told me that he just "confessed" to the man of the cloth, telling him that he did a lot of questionable things in his torrid past. The priest said he was forgiven! I said, "Did you tell him about all of the sick shit you did?" Trent informed me that he was not asked to give any details about his actions. I could feel my stomach melting like wax in a microwave as he explained what had transpired. I wanted him to boil in a giant, murky lobster pot of confessions! Where the heck was the gloomy, black confession box? I think the priest should have sold us a used confession box that he may have had hidden somewhere in the back. Shoot, we could have kept it at our house, right next to his cum-encrusted webcam. Lord knows, we could have used one of those black boxes at our house!

Not to be an evil wench, but I did want him to feel some sort of pain or remorse. Why would he ever change if it was that easy to obtain a “get out of jail free” card? I thought my butt would at least have gone numb waiting hours as he spilled his sour jelly beans all over the sacred floor. Trent could have been in there for weeks with stories of all the sickening penis poking he committed. However, he totally got off the hook like a sneaky water moccasin and slithered away beneath the holy water. I wanted him to be punished by his very own dirty tongue. Wishing something and reality are two different animals. Those two polar-opposite species would never meet—especially between a priest and a swinger.
     
     
     
     
     
    12). Apples
    I had not one ounce of respect left for Trent—not even in the trunk of my car. I could not stand to look at his face any longer. When I glared at him, I could not help but to fixate on his flaws. So, loathing him was as easy as slicing wa rm butter. I was afraid of him. Trying to build trust again with Trent was an ice-covered glacier that was unfathomable to climb with a pair of rubber flip-flops on.

My subconscious was in overdrive with Trent and my dreams and actions were simply warnings in order to protect myself. Sometimes, I have wanted something or someone so bad, that I have had a one-track mind and would not heed warnings until it found its way into my clutches. I will admit that, when it came to protecting myself, I got in my own way where Trent was concerned. The danger signs in our relationship kept popping up everywhere. It was kind of like bobbing for apples with him. There would always be