Back in January, and before all of this mess with Stumpy and my wife kicked off, I met a girl called Jennifer.  Young, daft, full of life. An instant attraction. However, she was already engaged to someone else (and still is) and whilst this guy is a bit of a weaner, I decided to leave well alone. No sense in messing up a nice, working relationship.

All the same, Jennifer and I became friends and, in time, Facebook friends and then, ultimately, Skype friends. An interesting progression, eh? Friends on Facebook, virtual lovers via Skype.

The conversations became friendly, very friendly and then intimate. We met up a couple of times in the real world and it became apparent that our relationship was starting to become physical. There was a genuine and heart-felt attraction. I asked how her b/f would feel if he knew about our conversations.  She confided that whilst she loved him dearly and that he was a stable corner in her somewhat undisciplined life, there was something lacking in the chemistry department. In short, he didn’t give her that essential buzz. She said that I did, which I took as a compliment. Yeah, that’s right. But I defy you to name one guy who wouldn’t take it as a compliment.

Last week, she turned up at the house and, simply put, we made out. It was pleasant - very pleasant actually - but we stopped short of going the full distance because we both acknowledged that such a move would make life more complicated than it already was. She didn’t want to cuckold her fiance and I guess I am still not over what my wife did. Well, I know I’m not. I enjoyed a few rolls in the hay when we first split but have felt bad about those ever since, so stopping short of full sex was a wise move.

A week later and I’m still feeling guilty about snogging this girl and, worse still, grabbing her tits. I’m feeling guilty because she belongs to some other guy and I’m essentially repeating the kind of behaviour that I so despised in my wife. This isn’t right.

But she wants to go further and now the bullshit has started. She invited me round to meet her soon-to-be-husband. Wow. That’s going to feel great, isn’t it? Shaking the hand of the guy whose wife-to-be I only just stopped short of screwing. Bloody hypocrite that I am. Then she admitted that Dick had an appointment in the afternoon and that we would be free to .. well… whatever. She stopped short of the actual words but I can be pretty sure that she meant sex. She started telling me all about her previous sexual encounters and there have been many. The details include a bondage relationship with one guy, cuckolding another, nasty dirty sex with a couple of other guys and one girl, and, frankly, it’s all a bit much to take. Yes, I know. This is what the grown-ups do when the lights go out and some of you will be calling me a bloody moron for passing up the chance of a quality shag but I still have principles and some idea of what morals are.

Rather than man-up and grow a pair, I have taken the coward’s way out. I have just walked away. I’ve dropped off the social radar for a couple of days, ideally until this whole saga blows over. Tumblr is pretty anonymous, so I can come here to pour my heart out but Facebook and Skype are off limits. :)

What should I have done? I’d love to hear some opinions?

n3ph1l1mxx:

Fuck you. And fuck your happiness. I have no one.

Assholes.

I hear ya. I hear ya.

Fuck ‘em all. Fuck ‘em all to hell and back.

I’ve been quiet for a month.

I met the most fantastic person in the world. We were, for a time, like soul mates, destined to be together until the Good Lord tears us apart. 

But, ultimately, she decided to go back to her douche bag of a husband, a guy who beat the crap out of her, a guy who beats the crap out of his children and a guy who is currently cheating on her with three other chicks all young enough to be his daughter.

I have to admit that I am devastated. I feel like my heart and soul has been ripped out. Just when I was getting over my wife and her new lover, I find someone else, who then dumps me for a total sleaze bag.

What hurts the most is that, in her eyes, I don’t measure up to a violent, unfaithful abusive drunk. I am, somehow, less of a man than he is.

This stinks.

So, I’m sitting all on my lonesome on Saturday night, surfing the net whilst nursing something of a buzzy head from my lunchtime meeting with my lovely neighbours (no sarcasm there, they’re wonderful!).

I casually start searching eBay for a couple of musical goodies I have my eye on and, in one of those truly remarkable coincidences that makes me wonder what actually drives the Universe, I happen to spot two music keyboards that are of interest.  I have both of these instruments, a Roland Jupiter 8 and an Oberheim OBx, in storage because, back in the day, I used to play keyboards for a couple of major local bands. Curious, I clicked on the ads just to see what my stash is worth - not that I plan on selling them anytime soon. They’re old friends and, now that I’m single again, I have every intention of reacquainting myself with my musical career.

Keyboard players and tech heads will know that both of these instruments are collector’s items and fetch serious money on eBay. I know that a  Jupiter 8 in good condition goes for around four to five thousand quid. No kidding. Have a look on eBay if you don’t believe me. There’s a good example for four and a half right now.  Same with the OBie -  about two thousand quid for a good model.

And both of these units on eBay look like they’re in superb condition.

They also look very, very familiar.

They are.  Because they’re mine.

I go to my laptop and dig around for the studio records, which I keep because  these puppies insured for obvious reasons. Sure enough, the serial numbers match. 

Fuck.

Straight away, I call Judith. “Where are my synths?” I ask.

“Storage.” she says. “Where you left them…”

“Then why are they on eBay?”

“Huh?” she says.

“My keyboards, the Jupe and the Obie, are on eBay. Right now. The auction has three days left to run.”

There’s a pause whilst Judith figures what’s going on. “You’d better get over here straight away.”

Still tipsy but not drunk, I jump into the car and drive the twenty or so miles to my former house. Judith is waiting for me at the front door wearing her hat and coat. “We’re going straight around to Colin’s.” she says.

Colin is “Stumpy’s” real name. Yeah, the one-legged guy she cuckolded me for.

It takes us about ten minutes before we’re banging on Colin’s door. Colin aka Stumpy answers. And what a catch he is. I can’t believe she threw me over for this piece of shit.

He’s drunk. Blind drunk. Fag hanging from his mouth, dirty white vest, jeans covered in oil, barefoot. Doesn’t smell like tobacco in that cigarette either.

“What the fuck do you want?” he says, he speech slurred.

“My stuff, you ***t.” I whisper in a tone that Judith can barely hear.

I push past him and, well, there they are. My Jupiter 8 and Obie, plus a couple of other bits of studio kit that had been in storage with the keyboards. There’s a scruffy kid, female, about ten years old, sitting in her underwear on the couch. 

“You can’t have them fuckas. I have a fuckin’ buyer for them.” says Stumpy.

“Then I’m gonna call the cops and tell them they’re stolen…”

Colin/Stumpy goes red then white. 

“Tell you what. I’ll give you sixty seconds to put all of my shit in the back of my car and I’ll not tell the cops about the fact that you stole them or that you’re smoking some pretty shitty stuff in front of a minor.”

“Fuck you!” he screams.

“Sixty seconds, dip shit.”

Colin just stands there and won’t budge.

“Okay, I’ll get them.” I bend to pick the Jupiter up and he hits me, on the back of the head, dunno what with but it feels wet and smells like… blood. It hurts.

Great. This is the chance I’ve been looking for. 

I kick the front door shut, locking Judith out. I grab the skinny little kid and toss her out in to the kitchen then go to work on Stumpy. 

To his credit, he puts up a token defence but it’s nothing compared to the shit storm that lands on his face, neck and chest. Thirty seconds later and he’s running, out the back door and down the lane.

I let Judith back in and she tends to the two inch long gash in the back of my head that is bleeding profusely. I’m going to need stitches. Lots of them.

Five minutes later… the cops arrive. 

Oh, great. Wonderful. What a marvellous Saturday night.

Six hours later, I leave accident and emergency with Judith and sixteen stitches. I’ve made a statement to the cops though they want to see me again so that I can confirm that the goods found in Stumpy’s flat are mine.

After a good night’s sleep (on the couch at Judith’s) I make my way down to the Police Station where Stumpy is still in custody. He’s been arrested for a string of offences, mostly relating to stolen property but he’s also been found with a massive stash of naughty weeds. 

I am released on a caution, and told to report back to the station next Thursday. 

It’s Wednesday. The cops have just been. I’m in the clear but Stumpy is looking at gaol.

At least I have my beloved keyboards back. 

I lost a follower. 

Down to just eight.

Bugger.

Following a shitty week at work and an even shittier communication from Judith and ‘Stumpy’, I decided to hit the town with the intention of getting completely and utterly pissed. 

In my younger days, I was an absolute devotee of the Friday night pub crawl. Indeed, it was all I ever looked forward to. As soon as work was done for the week, we’d be out the door and in and out of every bar in Newcastle that we could find, assuming that they hadn’t already banned us. Those were fun times, if a little rough on the wallet and your liver. 

However, I gave up this weekly orgy of cheap booze and even cheaper pizza as soon as Judith came on the scene. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like the idea that we were out of control. Didn’t like it that there would be other women, rivals that she couldn’t remove with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. 

But Judith is now history and I’m free to do as I please, subject to my advancing years. I can’t keep up with the young bucks any more. It’s the Old Codger’s Table for me from now on. Sadly.

I have a lot to get out of my head, a lot of it deeply unpleasant, and drowning those troubles is a sea of doubles and triples perhaps doesn’t sound like a sensible thing to do but it the best solution I have at the moment. I just want to forget.

Our party numbered about ten and, as a group, we began by stopping off for dinner at a fairly respectable restaurant in Newcastle City Centre. The food was okay. Nothing spectacular but small portions. I could have eaten far more and then some. After that, we went down to the Quayside and hit a series of bars, one after another. This wasn’t an altogether pleasant affair. I remember when Newcastle City Centre was positively jumping with people out to enjoy themselves but, these days, it seems that the locals have abandoned the usual haunts and the place is now overrun by gangs of young brides-to-be and younger grooms out on their respective Hen Parties and Stag Nights.

By ten pm, most of the couples had gone home and I was left in the company of the seasoned drinkers, who were determined to party on until the wee hours. Which they did.

Finally, we stopped off at a bar called Trillians, which is near the City Library, and I was introduced to a very pleasant lady by the name of Rachel. Rachel was older than me by quite a few years, say late fifties, quite short and well rounded with dyed red hair and a pleasant manner who, straight away, made it very, very clear that she was very, very interested in yours truly. Indeed, it wasn’t long before we were heading up the A1 in her rather smart VW Golf Deisel at some considerable speed, bound for her small flat in Ashington.  

Ashington is not a cool place. Ashington was what was left behind when the Great Maker had finished building the Thames Estuary and needed to “park his breakfast” before moving on to the fiddly bits off the coast of Norway. I hate the place. Passionately.

What followed was a night of somewhat athletic sex. Rachel was as inventive as she was energetic, and I enjoyed every single minute. It’s been many, many years since I enjoyed a really good hard fuck like that. Just what the Doctor ordered, frankly. I went to sleep utterly exhausted and utterly spent, my dick a withered prune in the wake of Hurricane Rachel. With hindsight, I would like to think that I acquitted myself fairly well and that the lady seemed well satisfied with my efforts, clumsy and unsophisticated as they were.

I woke the next morning in an empty house. There was no sign of Rachel anywhere except for piles of discarded clothes on every available surface. I checked the clock - 11 am - and wondered what to do next. The first order of business was breakfast. Coffee and toast seemed logical. With that out of the way, I decided to hit the shower because the smell of cheap booze and dirty sex hung around me like a tramp’s cologne. 

Whilst I was undressing, I noticed a phone number written on my arm, which I wrote down carefully. I presumed that Rachel had put it there. 

Once showered, I decided that I would head for home. It seemed the gentlemanly think to do, and might avoid any embarrassing exchanges in the cold light of day. Better to remember the  encounter through a drunk-induced haze, eh? That way, I can at least convince myself that I’m still half way good at sex, even if the truth is not very pleasant. 

Sliding into my natty suede jacket, I checked the pockets more out of habit than anything suspicious and immediately discovered that my mobile phone, keys and (critically) my wallet were all missing. 

Shit.

In short, I panicked.  I’d been robbed.

I wondered if I’d left them in the back of her car but then remembered that I’d had them in my hands when I took off my jacket. I could clearly recall putting them down on the table in the living room before we retired for the evening.

Robbed? Really? Rachel didn’t seem the type. Logic took hold, for a moment anyway. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. No sense in this getting silly, right? Right.

I figured that they had to be somewhere in the house so I searched a bit more but nothing turned up except, well, lots and lots of chick stuff. 

After a couple of hours, I called some friends and asked if they could come and rescue me, except that none of them were available. Wankers. 

And without money or a phone, I was in for a long, long walk home. 

I left at around 2 pm, carefully lifting one of her utility bills so that I had her address. I also noted down the registration number of Rachel’s Golf, which was still parked opposite her front door. 

And then I began walking. 

Six hours  later, I arrived at my front door. Even though I’d managed to hitch for a couple of miles into Newcastle, I ached from head to toe. 

The caretaker had a spare set of keys and he let me into my flat, and then stayed with me until we were sure that I hadn’t been raided. Thankfully, my stuff was exactly as I’d left it the day before. That was some relief.

However, I’d had six hours to dwell on this. Six hours of guilt, six hours of worry, six hours of stressing. And all of this told me that, no matter how irrational it sounds, I needed help.

I called the cops. I knew this wasn’t sensible but I had visions of my whole life being trashed by this woman. Then I called my bank and had them cancel all of my credit cards. Thankfully, they were able to confirm that nothing had been withdrawn from my account since I’d taken out fifty quid the day before. I also called a locksmith, who agreed to change all of my locks for me the following day. I also called my phone company and had them mark the phone as stolen.

The cops came around to see me at about 9 pm. One of them agreed to follow up on Rachel’s registration number and was able to confirm her address. I noticed that the other cop was enjoying a good look around my flat, obviously looking for something out of the ordinary (a well known Police habit!) just in case I wasn’t telling the whole truth.

After that, nothing. I just stayed in my flat and quietly freaked out, panic slowly eating away at my common sense until I was just a wreck. I slept badly that night, with a carving knife tucked under my pillow and chair jammed under the door.

Sunday was another day. I’d sobered up completely and started to come to my senses. Clearly, I’d still be under the influence of something following my tryst with Rachel but I have no idea what. The locksmith turned up promptly at 9 am and changed all of the locks before I went out to grab some food.

When I got back, the caretaker was waiting for me with the two cops I’d spoken to the previous day. They presented me with a sealed Jiffy bag, which I opened in front of them.

Inside were my phone, my wallet and my house keys. There was also a note. It read as follows:

“Your stuff. It’s all there. None of it is missing. Rachel.”

and, at the bottom, a post script:

“P.S. Thanks for calling the cops. I really enjoyed my overnight stay down at the Station.”

Ouch. Guess I won’t be seeing Rachel any time soon.

My nine or so followers may have noticed that I have been quiet for a few weeks now. The reason is simple. I moved out of the house I have shared with my partner for nearly two decades because I caught her in bed with two guys. See? Simple, really.

Truth be told, we had not been getting on well for months but that wasn’t unusual. We go through rough patches every two or three years, which is to be expected after so many years together. After a while, we both come to our senses and try to make amends for being difficult/arrogant/moody/selfish etc because we know we’re better together than we are apart.

But this time was different. She clearly wasn’t happy with me at all. Not one iota.

We talked about splitting, which again wasn’t unusual. It’s part of the process of acknowledging there’s a problem and that we need to work through it but, in time, I became convinced that she was done with me.

A month ago, she hired a couple of decorators to paint the house from top to bottom, which she said was necessary because I hadn’t bothered to do anything in years. That much is true. However, I recognised that this was a prelude to putting the property on the market and I figured that, this time, she meant it. She was off.

Three weeks ago, I came home from work early and found her car in the driveway,  the back door wide open and painter’s stuff all over the living room. As soon as I entered, I could hear something going on upstairs. Yeah, you’re ahead of me. She was entertaining the two decorators.

I made my way upstairs slowly, peered around the bedroom door and, well, there she was, my darling partner of seventeen years, getting serviced by these two Neanderthals. It was like walking onto the set of a really, really low budget porn movie. 

I found Judith lying face up, her head over the side of the bed so that she could deep throat the first of these two guys. Her hips were wrapped around the second, left leg locked around his backside, her right leg was swinging freely, rocking back and forth, in a manner that locked as uncomfortable as it was comical. But this didn’t detract from the fact that was another guy hammering into my beautiful girlfriend’s vag.

What was unusual - and I am not joking here - was that this guy didn’t have the full compliment of legs. No, seriously. I’m not fooling about or messing with you. Instead of the normal compliment of two, he had a stump above the left knee, and he was balanced very precariously and hanging on for dear life. For some reason, I found this incredibly funny. Is this the best she could do?

Judith did actually look up just at that moment, and she must have had a real fright because she bit down hard on the guy she was deep throating and he screamed like a bitch. The guy banging on her didn’t even pause for breath even though his mate was crying like a little girl.

Me? I just left them to it. I grabbed some stuff from the spare bedroom and walked out.

Judith called my cell half a dozen times that night before I finally picked up and told her to fuck off. Twice.

This is where the fun begins. Instead of being hugely depressed and seriously unhappy, I had a real and deeply profound sense of euphoria, like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I was free at last. 

I stayed with some friends for a couple of days, and quickly signed the lease on my new place. It’s at the top of a six storey building, right in the middle of town but it feels like home. Whilst it’s small, and the neighbours are a bit rough, I can at least say I am happy here. I spent the last week cleaning and fixing the place up. One of the guys downstairs offered to fix me up with a Sky box if I gave him a blow job but I declined on the basis that I don’t like Sky at all. 

Judith has the house on the market but I don’t expect it to sell any time soon. She says she’s sorry and has asked if we can get back together in a couple of months, when things have settled. I said no, which should come as no surprise. 

Right now, I’m enjoying the plusses. My two hour commute into Newcastle every day has been reduced to just a ten minute walk. I have a profound sense of freedom again and I am, at last, starting to enjoy my life once again.