Ashley's Story

In my original plan for The Madonna and the Manatee, the wife, Ashley, was going to be a bit character, basically a shallow foil to set up the ultimate confrontation between the main character and the man who cuckolded him. As I wrote it, though, I decided that I wanted to create someone with more complexity and a bit more depth.

I went a bit overboard.

After I published the story, an inordinate number of readers commented that they wanted to see a lot more Ash. I never really planned to return to her, but those comments struck home. I began to wonder if I could create a more richly developed character who did some truly grotesque things. Someone evil, but still somewhat charismatic. A character you hate, but could also love a bit, too.

To really get this one, you'll probably want to read Madonna and the Manatee first. That said, this is one of those cheating wife POV stories, and it's also pretty long...

Trigger warnings: Barbies, wandering fingers, finance douchebags, clean freaks

*****

Ashley's Story

Copyright B. Watson 2023

So here I am:

Two years after my depressing affair,

One and a half years after my divorce,

One year into therapy,

22 words into writing my story,

And I think I've got writer's block.

I told Dr. Thompson I'm not a writer by nature, but he insisted. His idea--minus the shrink gobbledygook--is that, by narrating the history of my life, I might be able to find a way to move it forward. As if my life is a fairy tale. As if I'm just a character.

As if, by writing about the worst mistake I ever made, I could write myself a happy ending.

I think it's bullshit, but Thompson's the one with the doctorate and the 4.8 rating on Google reviews, and I'm the one who hired him, so I guess it's on me to give it everything I've got. That said, there's no way in hell anyone's going to see this--most definitely including the good doctor. It's one thing to admit your ugliness and cruelty to yourself--usually at 1AM, with a glass of white in your hand and three more in your stomach--but it's totally different to lance that wound in a beige room with Mondrian prints on the wall and a guy who looks like William H. Macy sitting across from you.

This story isn't about the proud moments of my life. It's about dark days and stupid decisions and regrets.

So many regrets.

As for my happy ending, forget about it. Clarity doesn't change the past, and it isn't going to change what my life is now. For some mistakes, there's no takebacks, no do-overs, no olly olly oxen free. There's only honesty, regret and--hopefully--understanding.

At least, that's what I'm praying for. Because I desperately want to know why.

*

So there I was:

By the third time I had sex with Winslow Hubble, I'd gotten it down to a routine: blowjob, missionary, a quick orgasm for him, a few minutes of pillow talk, and he was out the door. I had it streamlined it to 44 minutes, including conversation and getting him dressed.

The post-sex cleanup actually took longer than the cheating itself, which was fine with me. After all, I loved cleaning and I hated fucking Winslow, so why not spend my time on the thing I like the best?

Priorities!

Straightening up after Winslow's visits was like a meditation. Changing the sheets, spraying air freshener, showering, putting hospital-grade disinfectant on pretty much every surface he touched...the rhythm of it soothed me. Helped me get back my feeling of balance.

This was especially true on day six, the last day we had sex.

That afternoon started the same as the five previous days: I led Winslow to the bedroom, where I promptly sank to my knees, unzipped his pants, fished out his penis, and started sucking. When it came to blowing Winslow, speed was of the essence--I wanted to spend as little time as possible looking at his dick and thinking about what I was doing.

That isn't to say I phoned it in. I was strongly motivated to give Winslow my best--after all, if I could finish him with my mouth, it meant less time, less cleanup, less Winslow. In the back of my head, I was hoping I could get rid of him and start cleaning in under fifteen minutes.

I'd chosen Winslow for my revenge because he was easy to manipulate, but when it came to blowjobs, the man showed a surprising amount of backbone. Just like the other five days, he managed to yank himself from my mouth, jerked me to my feet, pulled down my skirt and panties, and pushed me onto the bed.

As the old saying goes, no plan survives first contact with the enemy, but I had contingencies in place: If I couldn't rush Winslow along with my best blowjob, I'd do it with amateur theatrics. As soon as he was in me, I treated him to more moans, swearing, gasps, and shrieks than the gunshot ward at Bellevue hospital. This, too, was a routine: My bedroom performance with Winslow was about as spontaneous as a TV laugh track.

So there I was, staring at the ceiling, moaning my moans and gasping my gasps, when I noticed that something looked different. Did Charlie buy a new smoke detector?

My thoughts were interrupted by Winslow's hand sneaking across my butt, moving toward the edge of my asshole. Not gonna happen, pal, I thought as I seductively slid his hand back up to my chest and used it to rub my nipple. Winslow got the hint, but I'd barely had a chance to return to my analysis of the smoke detector before I felt his other hand slide down. I was wondering if I could use the same move again, when he went for broke and jammed his finger up my ass.

Do you ever look at yourself and wonder "How did I get here?" Or, more specifically, "How did I end up with a sloppy trust fund baby jamming half his finger up my anus while I tried to make him come as quickly as possible?"

I know--it's an odd question.

The thought flickered through my brain as I threw Winslow to the floor and started screaming at him to get out of my apartment. I think he had his pants on by the time I slammed the front door, but I'm not sure. All I knew was that, if he stayed in the apartment a second longer, I was going to kill him.

I spent the next few hours cleaning the bedroom, gagging, changing the sheets, gagging some more, and taking a long, hot shower with antibacterial body wash while gagging. The cleaning and gagging didn't give me much time to explore the existential crisis caused by Winslow's wandering digit, but I've had a lot of time since then to think about it--and then a lot of time in therapy to analyze all that thinking. Two years later, I'm starting to get a handle on it.

I'm pretty sure it all began with Barbie.

*

To a disinterested observer, my reaction to Winslow's low-level anal play may seem a bit extreme--I'm told most women don't respond to a little butt-fingering by going full WWF, throwing their paramour across the room, and threatening to claw his eyes out.

The thing is, I've got a quirk. Not a condition, exactly. More like a little issue.

I like things clean.

When I was a kid, it was a problem. I grew up in a house full of boys, so as far back as I could remember, I was surrounded by dirt. Dirty dishes. Dirty clothes. Dirty sports equipment and football cleats, dumped all over the house.

My parents kept up as best they could and I pitched in when I got older, but no matter how fast we cleaned, my brothers messed up the house even faster. My parents threatened and punished, but even I knew they were a soft touch. I think my brothers tried to clean up after themselves, but it was always "I'm just leaving my mitt here for a minute" or "I PROMISE I'll put my shoes away later!" With four boys, a few minutes here and a few laters there translated into a living room that looked like the town dump.

Between my cleanliness issues and my brothers' filth issues, I was effectively exiled from the living room, the kitchen, and any other room that the boys occupied. Luckily, there was one place in the house where I could always escape the mess: my bedroom.

Not that I was completely comfortable there, either. My mother, bursting with excitement about FINALLY having a daughter, had decorated it in her version of the perfect little girl's room--pink canopy bed, frilly lampshades, lacy curtains and fussy Provincial-style furniture. For me, it was a different kind of mess, a slightly more acceptable form of clutter. Needless to say, I wasn't a fan.

I dreamed of clean lines. Barren surfaces. Neutral shades.

When I turned nine--the official age for picking out your bedroom furniture in the Collins household--I made a plan to transform my mom's girly gulag into my perfect fortress of solitude. Step one was a trip to Ikea.

Oh, Ikea!

This is where I wish I was a better writer. I wish I had the words to express the joy I feel when I go into Ikea. I'm reminded of a quote from Alex DeLarge: "Oh bliss! Bliss and heaven! Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. It was like a bird of rarest-spun heaven metal or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now. As I slooshied, I knew such lovely pictures!"

Granted, Alex was a fictional thug talking about Beethoven and I'm a disgraced divorcee talking about Swedish furniture, but the spirit's the same. I'm pretty sure I don't have a drop of Scandinavian blood in my body, but my little preteen heart beat with purest rapture whenever I strolled through the store's perfect little bedrooms, each carefully arranged with an ideal amount of minimalist furniture. Everywhere I looked, it was straight lines and uncluttered spaces.

To be honest, Ikea still gets my heart going fast.

I'd spent most of the month before my birthday drooling over the Ikea website, so I already had everything picked out before we even got in the car. An hour after we entered the store, my parents and I left with a Billy bookcase, a perfect little Aynöl desk and a Retentif storage bed, with drawers for all my toys and art supplies. In the basket, we also had a set of Prevört panel blinds and an Intarogatür LED desk lamp.

A few hours of banging, screwing and swearing, and my bedroom was finished. Looking at it, my eyes filled and my vision went blurry. It was PERFECT. My father and I had constructed an oasis, a place of spotless surfaces and stark lighting, pastel colors and low-pile industrial carpet. Everything clean. Everything where it belonged.

I finally had the sanctuary I'd dreamed of.

Of course, as with any sanctuary, intruders lay in wait just outside the gate. In my case, the barbarian horde was comprised of my brothers--Ethan, Logan, Brendan and Liam.

I took precautions. I made the requisite "No Boys Allowed!" sign for my door. To prove that I was serious, I forewent the traditional pink and printed it in blood red with 36-point white letters in Arial Bold. And, just in case they still thought I was joking, I also signed it "I'm SERIOUS!!!" in 14-point Script MT Bold at the bottom.

It seemed to work: Most of the time, the barbarians stayed out of my room. There wasn't much in there to interest an adolescent boy, and I'm pretty sure the obsessive order and lingering scent of antiseptic air spray upset their delicate sensibilities. When Brendan said that my bedroom felt like a surgery, I almost cried with appreciation. It was one of the few times with my brothers that I felt seen.

Looking back, I don't think he meant it as a compliment.

Ethan, my oldest sibling, was the first invader to break through the gate. His attack was motivated by a pretty severe oral fixation. He had it pretty bad--it later segued into a pretty serious smoking habit--but at fifteen, he limited himself to chewing on things he found around the house. Things like the ends of pencils, pink erasers...and my Barbies.

At the time, I thought Ethan was some sort of depraved monster, but I've since found that the chewy snappiness of Barbie feet have a certain cachet among the orally obsessed. And, apparently, gnawing on my Barbies while watching Friends reruns was just the thing to help Ethan wind down after a long day of school and football practice.

I discovered Ethan's habit when I tried to put a pair of particularly cute Laboutin slingbacks on my Endless Summer Barbie, only to have them repeatedly fall off. Looking closer, I discovered that Endless Summer no longer had any toes.

*

Before we go any further, a quick side note on Barbie: The Columbian musician Kali Uchis once said "I'm not a Barbie doll. I'm just a multidimensional human being who likes to make things."

I say Kali Uchis can go fuck herself.

I know, I know: the knee-jerk feminists' line is that Barbie is a terrible role model for little girls, causing them to develop everything from eating disorders to high-heel addiction to an obsession with RuPaul's Drag Race.

I respectfully disagree.

Barbie is an underappreciated feminist icon. She has been a lawyer and a judge, a firefighter and a police officer, an astronaut and a President. She can do any job, overcome any challenge. And, whatever she does, she's always equipped with the right wardrobe, tailored to fit her--admittedly!--uncommon body type. Every accessory is perfectly suited to her style, perfectly sized to her body, perfectly adapted to her needs. She is a toy with all the toys and--despite her unhealthy obsession with the color pink--she is the ideal role model for any little girl and every aspiring drag queen.

I still wish I had Barbie's life, and I'm almost 30 years old.

*

When I discovered Barbie's ruined feet, I ran to Mom, who yelled at Ethan, who got all sulky and mean with me. Nothing happened for a few days, then Stewardess Dream Barbie showed up with toothmarks on her toes. The cycle repeated, except that now all four of my brothers were making fun of me for being a tattletale. By the time Moonlight Dream Barbie's feet found their way into Ethan's mouth, I realized that whining to Mom just wasn't getting the job done, so I kicked it up a notch. I went to Dad.

I shuffled into Dad's study, doing the downcast walk that I affected whenever I wanted my parents to know that I was DEEPLY upset. Dad, who was immersed in his computer, waved me to the comfy armchair on the other side of the room, TOTALLY missing my Oscar-worthy performance.

While Dad wrapped up his work, I looked around. The study wasn't as clean or as organized as my room--there were knickknacks on his bookshelves, a few stray post-its stuck to his desk--but under the cozy, lived-in feel, I could see a clever pattern at work. Everything Dad needed was within easy grasp: printer next to paper, paper next to pens, pens next to him. I would have gone a little heavier on the clutter removal, but I could respect the planning and organization.

"Hey, Pumpkin!" he said, finally looking up. Then he caught my expression--especially my lower lip, which was sticking out far enough to warrant its own zip code. "Hey...what is it?"

I'd been holding it in a while, so it all came blurting out. "It's Ethan, Daddy! He keeps eating Barbie's toes!"

My father's face flushed and his mouth slammed closed. Seeing his expression, I felt vindicated: He--like me--was clearly overwhelmed by the cruelties visited upon my dolls. Bolstered, I continued: "What should I do, Dad? Barbie's shoes keep falling off!"

Dad bit down on his lip and his eyes seemed to be watering. I felt a wave of kinship. Daddy understood! He hiccupped something that sounded vaguely consoling and pulled me into a hug. I could feel him shaking--I had barely told him about Ethan's Barbie abuse and now he was crying! After hugging me for another minute or so, he pulled away and looked at me, his cheeks red and his eyes filled with unshed tears. He took a shuddering breath and gave me a soft smile. "What do you want to do about this, sweetheart?"

"I want Ethan to stop, Daddy! And I want to fix my Barbies' toes."

Dad nodded. "Well, fixing your Barbies shouldn't be too hard. Just bring them to me later tonight and I'll see what I can do." Then his expression turned serious. "But fixing Ethan might be a bit tougher. I'm guessing you already talked to your mom about this."

I nodded.

"What did she say?"

I folded my arms across my chest. "She yelled at Ethan. Then he did it again, and I told Mom, and she yelled at him again. Then he did it again!"

He leaned back in his chair. "That sounds about right. Your brothers are a little bit stubborn." He sighed. "And I'm guessing that you've figured out that she'll probably talk to him, he'll probably apologize, then the whole thing will start again?"

I nodded again.

Daddy looked thoughtful, then he leaned toward me. "Pumpkin, have you ever heard the saying that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?"

I shook my head.

"Albert Einstein said that. He was a pretty smart guy. I bet you can guess what it means, can't you?"

"I guess it means, if something isn't working, don't keep doing it?"

He rubbed my head. "Exactly, kiddo."

"So getting Mom to tell Ethan to stop isn't going to make him stop, is it?"

He smiled at me, and I felt a warm happiness. I liked it when Dad talked to me like an adult, asking me questions and really listening to my answers. It made me feel important. In control.

"I'm sorry, Pumpkin, but there's not much I can do that your mom hasn't. We can punish Ethan--in fact, I'm pretty sure he's going to be paying for your next batch of Barbies. But he'll probably keep chewing Barbie's toes."

My brothers' sneers of "Crybaby!" had gotten to me and I didn't want to whine--not to Daddy, at least--but the injustice was more than I could keep inside. "But it's not fair!"

Daddy sighed. "No, it isn't. Sometimes things aren't fair." He paused for a moment and looked at like he was measuring me. Deciding if I was ready for a hard truth. I sat up straighter and looked him in the eye. "Sweetie, look at it this way," he said. "If yelling at Ethan doesn't work, and punishing Ethan doesn't work, then it's up to you to find something that will work. How did Ethan find your Barbies?"

"I left them out in the TV room."

His mouth tightened into a straight line. "So let me get this straight. Ethan was sitting down in the TV room, maybe watching CSI or something--"

"Friends."

He nodded. "Okay, Friends. So he's watching Friends, and he sees your Barbie on the floor. Being in a chewing mood, he decides to pick her up and give her toes a try. Sound about right so far?"

I felt a scowl tighten on my face. "Yeah..."

Dad rubbed his chin. "So what if Barbie wasn't on the floor? What do you think he'd do then?"

I blinked. "I-I don't know. Maybe find something else to chew?"

He gave me a little smile. "That's what I think, too." He lifted me onto his lap and gave me a hug. "Look, I know it's awful that your brother is wrecking your Barbies, and it's even more awful that you have to find a way to fix the problem yourself. But this is also a good time to learn something important: Sometimes, it's your job to handle a problem that bugs you. So what are you going to do?"

"Put my Barbies away?" He nodded. "Maybe make a special place for them?"

He smiled at me like I was a genius. "That sounds like a good idea. Maybe one of the drawers in your new bed could be your Barbie drawer?"

I nodded. The idea had some appeal: Truth be told, I'd actually gotten into Barbie for the accessories--she had EVERYTHING!--and I could easily imagine turning one of my drawers into the ultimate Barbie closet/hideout/postapocalyptic fashion bunker. I could already imagine the rows of Tupperware containers, each filled with a different type of garment, beauty tool, or lifestyle accessory. Would I organize by color? Size? Number of items? My head swam at the possibilities.