Pissing Razor Blades - Expanded

Thank you to everyone who took the time to comment on my first story. I took the suggestions on board and decided to rework the story. I realised I got lazy at the end, so I have rewritten the conclusion and extended it somewhat. I particularly want to thank LJA 644 for his collaboration. I already have another story in the works that is set in Chicago and takes a totally different perspective on marital infidelity. This version is longer, with a lot more coverage of the post-infidelity timeframe. I have not removed the original story. Perhaps some of you might tell me which version they prefer.

This story is fiction set in real locations that I know well enough to describe accurately. All characters and incidents portrayed and names within are fictitious; any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental. Any sex is among persons over the age of 18.

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Pissing Razor Blades - Revised and Expanded

To say I was blindsided is an understatement. I woke up and went to the loo as usual, then my world shattered. Instead of the soothing relief of a bladder emptying first thing in the morning, I was pissing razor blades.

It was 1990, we had been married for 12 years, and had 2 children, Tyler, 9, and Natalie, 6. We are both in sales & marketing. I am Tom, worked for a large multinational IT company, and my wife, Jenna, worked for a medical equipment company. She moved over from being a scrub nurse in the OR when she was overwhelmed by shift work and being called out in the middle of the night. We both travelled for work, with me doing so more frequently than she did, and that morning, I was at my usual hotel in Melbourne.

While I am not a rocket scientist, I am certainly one of the sharper tools in the shed, so by the time the agonising flow of urine stopped, I had worked out this was either a UTI or an STI. Now here is the problem. Until that point in my life, I had never had a UTI, and the only woman I had had sex with since we met 13 years ago was Jenna.

It was Friday morning, and I had flown to Melbourne from Sydney on Monday morning for a week of meetings with the local team. I had the day in the Melbourne office before the 1-hour flight back to Sydney tonight, followed by the hour's drive home on Friday evening traffic. Jenna had been at home in Sydney the week before but had been at a tradeshow the prior week on the Gold Coast.

She had been particularly cuddly all that week, and we had made love almost every night since she got home, especially over the weekend before my week in Melbourne. So, in all probability, plenty of time for me to start feeling the symptoms of this gift that keeps giving.

Bugger!

It was before the age of mobile phones, and we both carried a pager, which just told us to call the office, so I had no tells from watching her smile at text messages or hiding her screen from me. Nothing had changed in our lives that I could detect. She dressed the same, acted the same, talked to me the same, fucked me the same.

I decided to play it cool when I got home. There was no point in going off half-cocked; it would only delay getting to the truth of the matter. I did, however, start to set the trap that I was 99% certain would spring closed and signal the end of my marriage, at least the marriage I had known until I pissed my first razor blade this morning.

I parked in our garage just after 8:00 pm, after landing just after 6:00 pm, collecting my bags, retrieving my car and doing battle with Southern Cross Drive and the Sydney Harbour Tunnel to get home to Northbridge. The kids were all over me, and Jenna greeted me warmly without the slightest hint that there was anything amiss. I had eaten in the Qantas Club and again on the flight, so no need for dinner, I focused on putting the children to bed, reading to them and listening to whatever they wanted to tell me about their week.

After they were in bed, I found Jenna in the lounge room reviewing some new product briefs while she sipped on a glass of Chardonnay. I poured myself a large glass of Tonic Water and grabbed two Panadol, then sat down across from her and casually asked if she had symptoms of a vaginal infection recently. The tell was extremely brief, but it was there, just a glimpse of an "oh shit" reaction before she casually said, no and asked why. I then told her that I had been surprised this morning to find myself pissing razor blades and was planning on visiting our GP in the morning to get it checked out.

I have to give her full marks for coolness under pressure. Without missing a beat, and without a hint of angst in her voice, in fact, with a bit of a laugh, she asked me if I had been a good boy while I was away.

I looked her straight in the eye, held her stare for well over 10 seconds, smiled and replied, "Funny, I was about to ask you the same question." She returned her attention to her product briefs and her glass of wine. I would have killed to know what was going on in her highly intelligent brain.

By mutual agreement, we didn't attempt anything more than a cuddle before we both drifted off to sleep, although neither of us seemed to sleep well that night. Hmmmm.

The next morning, I was off to visit our GP, who was also a close friend. If the result was what I suspected and the shit hit the fan, I wanted Jenna to wear her fair share of it. We were on a first-name basis with Lorraine, our doctor, and her husband Karl, so I casually told her the story, explaining the timeline from that morning, back to my first episode of pissing razor blades on Friday morning, to Jenna's week in a hotel on the Gold Coast.

After describing my symptoms, Lorraine looked me straight in the eye and asked me without emotion or judgment if I had recently been with anyone other than Jenna. I was expecting the question, and my answer was a claim but emphatic. "NO".

I told her what I suspected the Urine test would show and asked her if she thought I would come to her for the test if I had something to hide. I took the sample jar, visited the loo, produced a sample, albeit painfully and returned to her office. She used some of the sample for the rapid test and sent the rest to the Lab. I left with a prescription for a broad-spectrum antibiotic that would treat a range of STIs, even though the rapid test had indicated Chlamydia. I would get a new script once the lab results came back.

I left Lorraine's office with the firm knowledge that Jenna had cheated on me while she was at the tradeshow on the Gold Coast. My mind was flooded with a myriad of questions. Why, who, how often, was this the first time, who was he? The longer I thought, the angrier and sadder I got. Could we get past this? Did I want to get past this? Was it a one-time lapse, or was she having an affair? Either way, her choice of partner for her assignation was less than brilliant.

Bugger!

When I walked into our home, the air was so thick that you needed a chainsaw to cut through it. The kids were playing next door with the neighbours' kids, Jenna was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tea. She looked at me with a mixture of fear, anxiety, and trepidation etched on her face. Her eyes were red and bloodshot; she had been crying not long ago. I made myself a coffee and sat down opposite her.

I said nothing.

Jenna was an intelligent woman, she was a highly qualified registered nurse, and she had maintained her registration when she moved into medical equipment sales. She kept herself current on practitioner issues and trends.

Just like Lorraine had identified the most likely cause of my symptoms, so had Jenna. After sitting in silence across from each other for what seemed like an eternity, I took the packet of Doxycycline and put it on the table between us. I left it there for two or three minutes and then calmly asked if there was something that she needed to tell me. She burst into tears, burying her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

I sat there, unmoved, and just watched her howl her eyes out for a few minutes before I reached over to the bench, grabbed a box of tissues and gave it to her, stood up and put the kettle on. As I came back to the table, I told her that if she harboured any hope of saving our marriage, she had one chance to tell me the whole unabridged truth, complete with all the painful details. I suggested that she collect her thoughts and write them all down so that she wouldn't "forget" any important facts.

Under Australian Family Law, infidelity is almost irrelevant in divorce and property settlement. If we divorced, our assets would be divided, and I would be responsible for child support. As we both worked and had similar incomes, I would not be up for spousal support, but custody would be a lottery, and the idea of being an absentee Father was repugnant to me.

My dilemma now was what to do. Bugger yet again!

Thankfully, at no point did she attempt to accuse me of screwing around on her. When the crying stopped, she went to our home office, closed the door and worked away for well over an hour. I made a lot of very strong coffee in my biggest coffee plunger and gazed into the ether as I sipped on the strong, dark brew.

When she emerged, she handed me 3 pages of typed A4, giving me the full timeline of what happened at the Tradeshow. She apologised for cheating on me, promised me it was a one-time act of total stupidity that she regretted almost as soon as he fucked her and that she hoped I would never find out, and she could forget it ever happened. The last thing she expected was for him to give her a dose of Chlamydia that she still had no symptoms of. I picked up her car keys, handed them to her and told her that Lorraine was expecting her visit. She was visibly shaken when it registered to her that her indiscretion was known to her long-time friend.

While she was out getting her own course of Doxycycline, I opened a new bottle of Glenlivet, poured a decent amount into a glass, added ice and some water and settled down to think about what the hell I was going to do next. Yes, I know antibiotics and alcohol shouldn't mix, but who gives a shit? That is the least of my worries.

Broadly, my options were to divorce her, seek custody, and be the best single father I could be, or try to rebuild our marriage and save our family. The answer to that would depend heavily on the next conversation I had with Jenna.

I sat and read her timeline. It was clinical, analytical, and devoid of emotion, just the facts and absent any attempt to obscure the truth or deflect responsibility. She had done exactly what I had asked, she told me exactly what happened, absent the gory detail. Over the first two days of the tradeshow, she had chatted with a rep from the company in the adjoining booth. In the lulls between sessions, they got to talking about life, the universe, and everything. I know what it's like; I have done it many times.

It started to go off the rails at an exhibitor's cocktail party on the second evening, where they ended up chatting over good wine and finger food, which became dinner and then a walk along Broadbeach Boulevard arm in arm. While nothing further happened that night, multiple barriers had come down, and a few lines had been crossed, including a less-than-professional kiss goodnight.

Her suitor was a recently divorced marketing manager from a company that owned private hospitals across Australia, named Simon. He was our age, handsome, tall, witty, confident, and had eyes that seemed to "penetrate to her soul", to use her words that sickened me to read. She had no intention of being unfaithful, no intention of breaking her vows and no intention of going to bed with Simon, but on the third night, that is exactly what happened.

She wasn't particularly drunk, though she had consumed about a bottle of Chardonnay during the evening. In her own words, she just felt comfortable with Simon, and when he turned and kissed her on the lips with passion, she didn't resist; in fact, she responded with gusto and happily followed him to his room. Where the kissing continued, followed by fondling, the removal of clothing, and him entering her somewhat more forcefully than she was accustomed to, that jolted her back to reality. Still, by then he was in her and banging away, spilling his seed in her unprotected pussy in just a few minutes, before he rolled off her, looking proud of himself. All she felt was disgust with herself, with him, and with what she had done to her marriage and her husband.

She quickly got up, gathered her clothing and purse, dressed and ran from his room back to her neighbouring hotel and the privacy of her room. There she vainly attempted to wash her sins away with a long, hot shower as she sobbed violently, while the possible ramifications of what she had done dawned on her. What the hell was she going to do now?

Jenna avoided Simon the rest of the Tradeshow; the one time they spoke, her words were terse: "Last night was a huge mistake. Please don't talk to me again. I have to work out how to save my marriage", and with that, she turned her back on him and walked away. At least that is what she wrote in her confession. She planned to come home and do her best to forget what happened, to come back to our marriage and make sure she never fell from grace again. But how could I ever trust her again when she was away? God knows how many opportunities I had to sample willing women in my travels, but thus far, I had assiduously refused to betray my wife. Had I been a fool all this time?

After a few hours, Jenna returned home with her own packet of Doxycycline and a sheepish look on her face. She had been Lorraine's last patient of the day, and they had stayed talking for a long time. I got the distinct impression that Lorraine was not overly sympathetic to her. I had retrieved the children and started to clean them up after an afternoon with their playmates next door, and was organising their dinner, I hadn't even thought about what we were going to eat.

I asked her to go down to the shops and get us a share plate from the Greek Restaurant and some wine so we could have a conversation after the kids were taken care of. I don't know if she was comforted or stressed by my calmness. For me, it was the only way I could control the seething anger and feelings of betrayal that were simmering just below the surface.

By the time she got back, I had the children fed and happily snuggled up in front of the Wizard of Oz for the umpteenth time in our lounge room. Jenna and I sat at the kitchen table over a mixed Souvlaki plate with Greek Salad and Lemon Potatoes. I opened the Red for me and the White for her. After about 10 minutes of awkward silence, I said one word: "Why?"

She looked at me with emptiness in her eyes; it was almost as if the essence of Jenna had left her body, leaving her to just sit there on autopilot. Finally, in a croaky voice that I struggled to hear, she said she doesn't know why she did it. She said she has struggled to answer that question since she ran from Simon's room. Her eyes began to tear up again, and she looked aimlessly at the remains of her dinner.

"How do I ever trust you again?" I asked her.

She looked up at me with horror in her eyes as yet another implication of her infidelity became apparent to her.

In a weak and hesitant voice, she said, "I am so sorry, sorry for cheating on you, sorry for betraying your trust, sorry for the pain I have caused you, sorry for failing our family. Is there any way we can fix this mess that I have created? Please forgive me."

I asked her what she would be doing right now if the roles were reversed and I had given her an STI after returning from one of my many trips. Then I slowly started to explain to her how I felt and what I thought my options were. I told her that in all the business trips I had made since we were married, I had more opportunities to cheat on her than I could count, but not once had I broken our vows to each other. I told her I had a defence mechanism to protect our marriage and wondered why she didn't have the same.

I then asked her, "Why did you put yourself in that situation in the first place? Were you dissatisfied with our marriage?"

"NO!" she almost screamed, before she remembered that the children were in the next room and covered her mouth in horror.

Using all my willpower to remain calm, I told her that my options were to divorce her and do my best to co-parent our children or to stay and keep wondering when she would step out on me again. I told her that at this moment, I was tending towards Divorce. She recoiled in shock.

I stood up, grabbed my jacket and walked out to the door, where I turned and told her I was going for a walk. I asked her to put the children to bed and that I would be back in an hour or so. I asked her to think about how she would regain my trust if I were to decide to remain within our now broken marriage. As I walked out the door, she was once again in tears.

I have no siblings, and my parents, who had me late in life, are both dead. Most of my friends are "our" friends, which meant that I had few people I could talk to without broadcasting this to our whole peer group. The one person I could bear my soul to was Lorraine, so I walked the 2 km to the home she shared with her husband Karl and knocked on the door. Karl opened it, saw the look of despair on my face and quipped, "Who died?"

My reply, "my marriage", shocked him, and he invited me in. Lorraine met us in the hall and gave me a hug and said, "I was wondering when you would show up."

Karl looked confused.

Lorraine asked me, "Am I allowed to tell Karl?" I nodded and followed them into their lounge room, where Karl offered me a Scotch and a seat in that order. Lorraine then told him about her two consultations earlier in the day with Jenna and me, and the reason for them. "Oh Shit" he said.

Lorraine then told me that if I was going to keep drinking Scotch, she would be giving me a second script for my antibiotic as the alcohol may reduce its potency.

I gave them both the abridged version of the story and told them my dilemma: divorce or try to forgive her and save our marriage and our family. I told them that my biggest issue, other than the fact she had let another man screw her, was the breach of trust and my fear that I would be living the rest of my life waiting for it to happen again.

To her credit, once confronted with the infection, she did not attempt to minimise the betrayal, didn't try to shift blame, confessed in detail and apologised for doing it and for all the pain it had caused. I was numb, too numb to be angry and too numb to feel the pain that I was bottling up inside. As much as anything, I needed to vent and let it all out, and that is what Lorraine and Karl experienced. I cried, I raged, I shouted, I called her ugly names, I cried some more, and they just let me expel it all. After about 40 minutes of angry ranting mixed with desperate grieving, I took a deep breath, collected myself and told them, "But I still love her".

Karl refilled my scotch, ignoring Lorraine's obvious glare, added some ice and a smidge of water, then asked me what would need to happen for me to be happy to try to make this work. I told him that one of the things I would need is to understand why she did it. I told them how impotent her first attempt at telling me "Why" was, and that I would need something more reflective and soul-searching than "I don't know".

I also perversely wondered if I needed her to feel the pain of betrayal, and that perhaps she owed me a dalliance of my own at a time and place of my choosing. Neither of them thought that was a great idea, and in my heart, neither did I, but I may use the threat of it to rub some salt into Jenna's emotional wounds. After imposing on Karl and Lorraine for just over 2 hours, I excused myself and started the walk home.