Posted by nigel1 on June 10, 2002 at 08:57:18:
After they married, he kept distributing religeous tracts and Jean took control of finances. She couldn't talk him into moving out of his somewhat rundown family home, but she made other improvements. Shopping for new furniture should have brightened her life considerably, but her new husband's love-making was so bizarre, it almost gave her fits. For instance, on the honeymoon night, a night she expected to be a total farce, he actually performed quite well, but first she had to stretch out naked on her back on the kitchen linoleum and let him pour at least a quart of catsup over her swelling belly. With nothing but moonlight streaming in through the kitchen windows, she played dead, dead and bloody, and heard him moaning like a lunatic coyote. After pinching and rubbing her boobs a lot, something that made her pretty horny, he drove his tool into her and began to fuck her, hard and messily, with the catsup going squish squish and the pile-driver hammering of his cock tending to scoot her butt around the slickened floor. She could feel her boobs bobbing and swaying in time with the pummeling of his hips. The guy was good, but FREAKY! She couldn't move! He just wouldn't let her do anything but be dead. After a few nights of that the smell of catsup made her sick. It didn't take her long to realize that that was how it would be, and maybe she could have adapted but he added new twists. Like, he pretended to stab her to death with a rubber knife. More catsup! She learned how to plead for her life, say disgusting things, like: Oh God, don't KILL me! Please, I'm PREGNANT-- don't stab my belly! OH NOOOOOO! Right in my pregnant belly! Right in my bellybutton! AAAGH! I'm dieing! He was a nut! He was a psycho! And when her boobs got big with milk, he'd use his rubber knife on them and she had to pretend he was torturing her, stabbing her swollen breasts. It was not easy to wash away the freakiness with the warm, sticky, "blood" and put on a normal face the next day and go out in public (she was probably being laughed at already, being married to the village idiot, and the subject of morbid curiousity about her sex life-- if only they knew!) and buy drapery and furniture and knick-knacks for that run-down victorian gingerbread monstrosity. Was she being punished for praying for a husband to spend her old age with? For a husband for what would be her last child? What if she had a daughter? Would this freak begin to turn his attentions to HER? Would he involve his own daughter in these bestial fantasies of his? She'd kill him. She really would. Little did she know that she became sentimental in her old age. A younger Jean would have chosen abortion. There were plenty of back-alley abortionists in Corpus Christi. She'd referred girl friends to several. She knew in her heart of hearts that her child's father had been the hot, hot trucker in the tight, tight jeans, the man who polished off two platters of Chili Rio Bravo, something she'd never seen any man do and survive without suffering a furious case of running shits. She'd even seen the "chef" drop a couple of dead cockroaches into the chili. Something told her that man was dead. He'd never returned. There had been an aura of death about the guy.
Who could possibly have known what sort of person a tract distributing religeous wack-o would reveal himself to be, in bed? It was easy enough for Jean to get her man. He seemed "imprinted" on her, like a duckling. The problem was, her husband seemed imprinted to her, not as a whole person, an entire warm body, but to her belly primarily, and as her pregnancy advanced, the attentions became more fanatical. She seemed pleased, at first, to see how quickly and easily she could control him. It was amusing at first to see how a provacative little belly-bump could put him into a sweat, ready to do anything for her. He clearly wanted desperately to fuck her, and that was fine, if that had been the whole story. Somehow, too, in whatever never-never land the guy spent his life, he had someone managed to acquire social skills and a rudimentary sense of the art of courtship. Maybe he watched tv a lot and absorbed such things by osmosis. Going to movies with him, in the early stages of their relationship, was a little strange because of the movies he picked. He certainly seemed to have a thing for horror movies. And B movies with gun molls. And grade B westerns where ladies got shot. They watched "Son of Cochise" at the drive-in and when the girl in the wagon train got an arrow between her tits, he got awfully amorous in a hurry. Well, the clues had all been there. She just wasn't smart enough to connect the dots. It was amusing too, when he began to offer her money for sexual favors. At first, she pretended to be offended. She put on her "Lady" act, and pushed the idea of marriage as the price of admission to the shrine between her thighs. She'd never heard the old joke about the business of haggling over the price. If she'd heard it, she'd have rejected the cynicism instantly. That sort of humor was so typically male. Women knew that the difference between committment in marriage and a cash offer of even a few tens of thousands of dollars (though very very tempting) spanned a difference so vast that it was not a matter of quantity anymore, but quality. Men never understood that, and they never would.
At seven months, with himself in suit and tie, cleanly shaven and not looking bad at all, he proposed. Jean was relieved. She couldn't have waitressed a moment longer. Toward the end, she'd prayed for just such a turn of events.
(The fact that Jean brought it off, the fact that the union occurred, proved that a life-force thought to be behind all acts of love and war, did not exist. If there had been a life-force at work, or even a principle of decorum, she'd have had an overwhelming urge to have an abortion, or the life-force would have caused her to abort spontaneously-- a not uncommon event.)
Night after night he just insisted on slathering her with catsup like a large, sexy frenchfry, and fucking her brains out, to the extent that she began to feel brutalized, and fear for her baby, until, in the midst of a welter of sticky tomato paste and gism, the contractions began. And then he flaked out totally, wailing like a banshee, refusing to take her to the hospital. She cleaned the revolting mess off of herself, got in the car, and drove to the hospital, leaving her husband banging his head against the refrigerator and sobbing. She didn't learn until later that he slipped in the pool of catsup and cracked his skull against a corner of the masonite trimmed kitchen countertop, hard enough to kill him. But not before he added great quantities of his own blood to the mess on the floor.