This is chapter 14, part 1 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here. This is a rough second draft.
Chapter 14 – Part 1, Hell hath No Fury
And now I had yet another problem – our son thought María was a whore and I was a blind fool. He was having problems with his classmates and house mates, so I asked him to move back home until things settled-out some.
María was crushed by the loss of U&P. She moped around the house, skipped her Spanish classes, neglected her tour business, and snapped crazily in anger at Brett. They fought several times, Brett with the anger of a son that knows his mother is a whore; María with the anger of a jilted whore. Hell hath no fury like a jilted whore.
María refused to talk about U&P, barely talked to me at all, and we had no peace in the house. I tried to work on my my contracts which was nearly impossible with María storming through the house. A few days after U&P abandoned her, I heard a crash and thud from the kitchen. María had thrown over the refrigerator, scattering food and liquids everywhere. She seemed unhurt, laying on the floor crying and kicking the refrigerator door.
I told Brett I knew about her affairs, María had my blessing, and she was a very special woman. The conventional rules about women did not apply to her. I warned him not to ever again call her a whore – I would disown him. I asked him to be patient, I’d be explaining everything over time.
When their fights got ugly, I pulled him aside and warned him to watch carefully what he said to her. I told him he’d regret being ugly to her in later life, exactly as I regretted things I’d said to my mother and María. Some things you say can never be retracted, forgotten or forgiven. I told him I’d explain about María when the tempest had blown over. In the meantime, please trust me, shut-up, and give her the respect a mother deserved. He could have no better mother.
We stayed out of her path for the next couple of weeks. We slept in the same bed, and I soothed her at night stroking her hair, whispering what I hoped were the right words of consolation. I tried to convince her U&P wasn’t the perfect man for her because he’d never let her have other sexual partners. However much she loved him, eventually, she would be unable to be sexually faithful to him. She had been like that her entire life, and wouldn’t be able to change. This was a false argument but it sounded good. Their marriage would fail, it would destroy the girls’ life and break María’s heart over the girls. This was exactly what María needed to hear – that he wasn’t ‘the one’. She softened, settled down, returned to her Spanish classes and tour marketing, and our life resumed superficial normalcy. If she was still seeing other men, she successfully hid that from me, and I didn’t ask.
What most stuck with me from U&P’s note was that we needed professional help. But this was my problem, not María’s. I decided to get counseling for my humiliation perversion and secretly went to see Sandi. I figured María had already told her all our intimate details, and it was good she heard them from María’s viewpoint. I thought María was more likely to be correct than I. But Sandi was more interested in our last encounter with U&P. She had heard nothing back from María, and she asked me point-blank if I was castrated. She seemed disappointed I still had my testicles, and proceeded to ask me about my conduct: did I take the pills? How did I feel? Did I watch María and U&P make love? Did I watch him stroke her hair? Was I submissive? Did I feel crippled? Did I suck his penis? Did I let him crush my testicles? And on-and-on, every detail of that encounter. She seemed satisfied the pills and advice she gave María were the right treatment for the situation. She told me I was lucky to still have my testicles, and if I wanted to change that, she would help. My hour was up. As a last thought, I asked her for another set of the pills. She was pleased, and gave me the pills free. I paid her for the hour. I never went back.
About a month after the rejection, María came crying into the kitchen. She dropped on her knees, buried her face in my lap, and begged forgiveness. She said she had betrayed me, the finest man she had ever met.
She had done nothing wrong, there was nothing to forgive. Yet she needed to hear those words, and I said them. I also told her how much I loved her, wanted her, how she was always forgiven forever, how she could always return back to me. She just cried harder. I felt awful. I walked her back to the bed, we hugged, spooned, caressed; I stroked and caressed her hair, kissed her face and ears. I tickled her and she giggled. We poked and tickled and played like children. I was in heaven, I couldn’t stop caressing her hair, the luckiest guy alive, ordinary or not.
Two days later at the dinner table, she told me she was leaving, going back to San Francisco to stay with Terri and Drew. She was a whore, and she couldn’t face the people in Guanajuato. At least in San Francisco, she’d be an appreciated, very expensive whore. She said she’d have several good years left as a prostitute, and could put back a lot of money. She’d join the political circuit again, and would marry the first decent politician that wanted her. She’d fuck for money, for votes, and for power for her husband. She seemed serious.
I commented there was already a decent man that wanted her, me, and I wanted to marry her as soon as possible – will you marry me? She squealed ‘yes’, she would marry me – why hadn’t I asked before? We begin planning our wedding again. Of course, a church wedding was even more difficult now, but we believed.
I took her out two or three times each day. We walked embraced, or with María on my arm proudly. I walked straight and tall to say this is my woman, my wife, my love, the finest woman in existence, eat your hearts out! It worked. The snickers and snubs vanished from public display. Friends stopped to talk with us; acquaintances waved in passing; café and dinner invitations resumed. We could live in this town again.
We made new rules, stricter than ever before. She could have sex partners, but if any relationship developed where she thought of the man as a lover, she had to immediately break it off. There would be no more humiliation or castration games. And we’d resolutely work towards our new marriage.
* * *
The serious problems with Brett continued. He was in the throes of adolescent hormone capture. He was dating around a lot, and was squarely in the camp of conventional penis morality with its Mexican macho double standard. He was handsome, personable, seduced a lot of Mexican girls, and the occasional foreign tourist. We had allowed Brett to bring girls into his bedroom since high school, and provided condoms. In spite of his mother’s reputation, he provoked a lot of envy among his classmates. Envy is a mean bitch.
I was proud of his prowess with the girls, he reminded me of my days as a hippie tripster. Observing Brett’s sexual confidence made me realize my sexual perversions started with María. Before I married María, I thought I was a righteous penis. My humiliation complex had developed from her drive for sex with other men. But it couldn’t be her fault. Now I was confused.
Brett expected his girlfriends to be faithful to him even while he pursued other boys’ girlfriends. A girl that cheated on him was a whore, never forgotten or forgiven. And married women should be sacred and untouchable. Except María – she was a trashy whore, his own mother, and he despised her. And he must have thought I was the world’s biggest loser for letting other men have her.
Now I realized how far back he knew of her whoring. He had suspected for years, but he got eyeball proof when we began our Humiliation Game. His school mates had seen María provocatively dressed with other men in restaurants in the Presa barrio, and they taunted him. He had an ugly fight with a classmate, beat him up badly, and was suspended from school for a week. After the fight, he went to see for himself. He watched María go into hotels with other men. Several other men. He knew María was a whore.
Brett had several girlfriends that lasted more than a few fucks. Both María and I thought Brett had bad taste in women, choosing plain, insipid girls. Now in retrospect, I thought maybe he did that because he knew his super attractive mother was a whore, and he thought a plain girl would be more likely to be faithful.
My first attempt at explaining María to him began with the concept of individual liberty – María had forcefully freed me which allowed me to free her. As a free individual, her choices to have multiple sexual partners were just as valid as my choices to be generally faithful. Brett didn’t buy that argument – he agreed absolutely with the concept of personal freedom, but she ‘should’ have chosen to be sexually faithful after we married. And since she made the wrong choice, she was a whore. That simple.
The ‘should’ fallacy – floating out in the social ether was a moral obligation, formulated by someone else, not chosen by María, that negated her liberty. I tried to examine this nebulous moral obligation with Brett, its origins, who might be interested in creating it and forcing it upon all women. Brett was still too immersed in peer acceptance, and intellectually under-developed to resolve the logical conflict between liberty and all the ‘shoulds’ invented by someone else. The ‘shoulds’ made her a whore. How many words are there for whore in how many languages? A partial list, just in Spanish and English: whore, puta, slut, zorra, harlot, piruja, prostitute, cusca, perra, furcia, golfa, cualquiera, ramera, prostituta, pingo, zángana, and on-and-on.
This was going to take some time.
I changed tack to talk about love, sex and marriage. Were these three locked together? Did he love all these girls he fucked? ‘Should’ he have to marry them? Was marriage, in reality, a contract of love and sexual fidelity, or essentially an economic union of assistance with children, or to clarify inheritance, or what. Brett talked around in great circles of illogic, contradicting himself every third statement. This was going to take some time, but I resolved to work hard at giving him understanding beyond conventional penis morality. María was not a conventional whore.
The semester ended, Brett changed majors from social science to a technical field, and we decided to move him to the public university in Guanajuato. This tactic worked – his classmates and mix of friends changed, and the bullies and taunters in the social sciences group disappeared. The peer pressure regarding his mother’s immorality shrunk to insignificance.
* * *
Despite my apparent reconciliation with María, Our lives did not return to the old normal. Our relationship had changed – it seemed small and unimportant at first but it was huge. She had left me again, and I had given her away. We didn’t feel that desperate bond we had after the DeepThroat argument or her episode with the Pol. We kept to our old rules, but it was different. She loved me but she didn’t want me. I wanted her but didn’t know what love is, even though I easily said those magic words.
We talked more now, trying to improve our communications, to understand each other better. In one of these talk sessions, I told her my humiliation pathology started when she cheated me, but I explained it badly. She was still deeply hurt by U&P, and outraged I blamed her for the Humiliation and Castration Games. I suggested if she stopped seeing other men, perhaps it would help me work out my issues. She quickly came to full Latina boil, and our shortest fight ever ensued,
“You dressed me up hot and sexy and sent me to fuck other men. I love fucking different men, I’m not complaining about that, but that doesn’t make me responsible for your perversion.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest it was your fault, it’s not. I just meant your cheating provoked the problem in me.”
“How dare you say ‘cheating’. I didn’t cheat – you knew. You let me, encouraged me to fuck for fun, for money, for gifts. You let the Pol drug me and pimp me out for votes. If I squeeze your testicles hard enough, you’ll give me away to any man. Now you tell me if I quit fucking around, you won’t want me to fuck around anymore.”
“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t say you did anything wrong, just that your sex with other men brings out a problem in me. It’s my problem …”
“I fuck other men because you’re not enough. One man has never been enough – you certainly aren’t enough, not even close. You’re a good man, you try hard, but you don’t burn me up inside. I like to be hurt too, with the fire that burns my groin, that paralyzes me with desire, that takes me out of myself. You don’t do that to me. Now I know there are many other men that will love me and want me as much as you, and they burn me up inside.”
“I want to be better for you, I want to be the man that burns you. You could help me, you could focus for a while on only me, teaching me how to please you better, how to burn you up …”
“I wouldn’t have cheated nearly as much if you hadn’t encouraged me to cheat. And of course, I eventually find someone who does burn me, and I want to stay with them. Then you cry and beg me to keep you, and I know you want me and love me, even if you don’t know it yourself. But you sent me to fuck these other men – what did you expect would happen? It was your games that led me to U&P, then you didn’t keep your side of the deal. Now you want to blame me for your problems. I can’t do this anymore. Brett is grown up and can take care of himself. I’m leaving you.”
And she left.
End of book content.
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