When I started this blog, I had no intention of writing solely about my ex-wife's sexual exploits. However, since we've begun to talk to each other again, she has been very forthcoming about all of the absolutely lurid shit that she's been up to over the years. We had a conversation today wherein she told me that I'm the only person to whom she could reveal herself. Apparently, neither her mother nor her sister nor her best friend are privy to her dark sexually transgressive behavior.
There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason as to when she'll get chatty and unearth some astonishingly hot and twisted episode from her past. But, as it just so happens, today (technically yesterday) was just such a day.
Let me put this into context. She and her man (perhaps ex-man at this point) are on the outs. So, he is no longer de facto living with her. This is, perhaps, a factor in why I've been seeing so much more of her lately.
Anywhooo, I took her out for dinner and a movie on Saturday. We ate Middle Eastern food, and we saw "No Country for Old Men." None of that is pertinent to this story. She told me that we couldn't stay out too late, because she had to take some piddling amount of money to her best friend, who lives way the hell on the east side.
She lives in the bleak redneck abyss of Macomb county Michigan. This is a blue collar--Reagan-loving--lower middle class post industrial nightmare, where it's always 1979 and the mullet has never gone out of style. If you saw the Emimen movie, "8 Mile," then you got a taste of how soul-suckingly grim Macomb county is.
Debra also mentioned something about having to put in an appearance at a party being thrown by one of her co-workers (never have I met and tackier bunch of screw-balls than her fellow postal workers. Newman, from Seinfeld, was not an exaggeration. That is precisely the kind of scumbag who ends up delivering the mail.) So, long story short, I took her home around 22:00, kissed her on the cheek and went about my business. About 45 minutes later, I called her for something or other, and she mentioned that she had just gotten out of the tub. This struck me as every so slightly odd, figurine that, if anything, she would have simply showered. I didn't mention this to her. It is well enough within the realm of reason that a woman would simply want an impractical and not so hygenic--you're basically stewing in your own filth--bubble bath, that I didn't think it bore comment.
I went home and quickly fell asleep whilst reading The Nation and listening to Howard Stern. Fast foward to 05:30, when I work up and decided to run out for the Sunday paper and some just made kosher bagels. For some reason, maybe it's just the stalker in me, but I decided to drive past my ex-wife's house. Mind you, it isn't too far from where I live--I had to stay close in order to take our kid to school every morning until she graduated. However, I wouldn't want to have to explain to a majestrate what I was doing driving past at 05:45. As I approached the house, my breathing became constricted and my nuts drew up to my body. I don't know why the fear of seeing exactly what I knew I was going to see had such a pronounced autonomic effect on me, but it did. There, just as I suspected, was another car parked in the driveway behind hers. This is fitting, because I was to later find out that the car's owner was behind her at around the time that I drove past.
Sometime later that morning, around 11:00-ish, I text messaged her and asked her if she has gotten any last night or more correctly, this morning. However, in the interest of saving time and , to be perfect honest, simply not wanting to type of that on a tiny phone keyboard, I simply wrote, "You got some last night/this morning?" Apparently the question mark wasn't a clear enough indicator that the message was an inquiry. Because, she responded a few seconds later with "How U Know?" She thought that I someone knew that she did indeed get it that night, and then again in the morning before Mr. big-dick-du-jour went on his merry way.
When she told me this, I remarked something to the effect that I hoped that her overly endowed paramours appreciated how special what they were getting was. She instantly dismissed the possibility, saying that he didn't and that he has "The Itis."
Now, as far as I'm concerned--and sorry white people, Dave Chappelle didn't make this up, it's al old old old joke in the black community--"The Itis" is nigga-itis. It refers to stuffing oneself with food, and then--probably due to insulin resistance and the earliest stages of Type-2 diabetes--falling asleep. When I asked what she meant, because she clearly wasn't talking about his eating habits, she said that it was BD-itis. She was in a store at the time, and thought better of spelling it out. I, however, was well aware of what she meant. BD this and BD that is one of her favorite abbreviations. It means, of fucking course, big dick. So, apparently the guy who'd spent the night with her had big-dick-itis. Which, according to Debra, means that he is basically an asshole who knows that he can get away with almost anything where women are concerned because he has a very large penis.
She finally explained her thoughts on The Itis et al. today. On Sunday, she was too busy to go into it. Apparently there was a football game of some interests or something. And, while she was explaining what the itis was, she went on to tell me about another guy she used to fuck, who had an even bigger dick and a proportionately larger case of BD-itis. I'll write about that later. I might even try to turn it into an erotic story. It's pretty wild stuff. Suffice it to say for imagined Debra being submissive to anyone, not even a dude with a huge dick. The-now dead-guy with the 11 inch dick; She had him so emotionally distraught that he threatened to jump off the roof... of a house (what a fucktard.) Yesterday morning, however, she admitted to me that, for a while, she was fucking--there was no dating going on--a guy whose mother lived on her mail route, and that on a couple of occasions, he pulled her into his mother's house, presumably when she wasn't home, and engaged in strong-arm love.