Three Little Words

“Three Little Words” Part One

by c.w. cobblestone

Those three little words from my wife destroyed me:

“We’re keeping it.”

My heart pumped painful shots of blood to my temples and the living room became a blurry, funhouse-mirror kaleidoscope. I lost my balance and crumbled to my knees, head in hands, palms drenched with tears while my inner ear blasted a chaotic symphony of swirling white noise, out-of-tune trumpets, screeching brakes and clanging bells.

Carmen’s bitchy tone cut through the fog: “You can figure out what to tell everyone. I really don’t give a shit. Jamal and I had a long talk and we’re keeping the baby. Period. We’ll deal with whatever comes next, but we’re keeping it. If you want a divorce, fine.”

I swabbed my tongue along the roof of my mouth trying to work up enough saliva to formulate words. All I could eke out was a single squeaky syllable: “Nnnoooo.”

My wife’s green eyes melted me. “You’re pathetic, Eddie. You know that? Fucking pathetic.”

“I-I … uh …”

Without another word, Carmen scooped up her purse, flipped her hair and breezed out the front door.

My tears formed two expanding dark spots on the carpet as I remained on my knees for a good 20 minutes watching the puddles grow. I finally managed to struggle to my feet, stumble to the couch and flop down, curling up in the fetal position.

I shivered and cried on the sofa for the rest of the night and well into the next day, not even getting up to use the bathroom. Luckily, it was Saturday; there was no way I could bring myself to even pick up the phone to call in sick, let alone think about going into the office.

It was getting on 2 pm when I finally rose from the couch. My legs wobbled as I made my way to the bathroom, and the simple act of pulling my dick out to pee was difficult because my hands were shaking so profusely. After relieving myself, I glanced in the mirror but averted my eyes, unable to face my reflection, fearful of what I might see.

Although I wasn’t hungry, I forced myself to fix something. I managed to pop two pieces of bread into the toaster with my shaking hands although I kept dropping the butter knife, so I used my forefinger to spread the butter on the toast before sucking the digit clean. I was afraid I’d drop the juice container or milk carton and spill shit everywhere, so I turned on the faucet with my wrist and scooped water into my mouth with my cupped, trembling hands.

I then wandered to the living room and back to the couch, where I remained curled up for the rest of the weekend, crying the tears of a sad, lonely, confused cuckold simp.

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I dialed the first 6 digits of her phone number — 647-432 — before losing my nerve.

She’d never stayed gone so long. Five days.

After staring at my cellphone for an hour I redialed: 647-43 — making it only 5 numbers on my second try before chickening out again.

Steeling myself, I managed to compose a text:

I’m sorry to bother you but I’m really getting worried. Please let me know that you’re OK

It took 20 minutes to muster the courage to push the send button. Then I sat there for the next 2 hours watching the phone like a sap, waiting for a response that never came.

My heart guided my thumbs as I tapped out another text:

Carmen, I’m so sorry for the way I reacted, and I’m sorry if I insulted you in any way. It was just a shock, but you know I will support you in anything you do. I really am trying to give you the space you need to develop your relationship with Jamal so that we can keep our marriage together like we discussed. When you first told me about him it was a shock too, remember? I’m only human. But I promised I would be supportive, and you have to admit I have been. I understand that you want to keep the baby and I promise I will be supportive of that decision, too. It can all work out. The last thing I want is to stand in the way of your happiness, and I hope you know that I will do whatever it takes to keep this together. I’m so sorry to bother you right now but I just need to know that you’re OK and then I’ll leave you alone. Please just let me know that you’re OK. I love you so much

I fell asleep clutching the phone to my chest.

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Over the next 2 days I sent another half-dozen unanswered texts, and finally found the balls to dial her number, only to have the calls keep going straight to voicemail. I left 3 whiny messages before deciding it was futile.

On Friday night, a full week after I’d last heard from my wife, I sent her another text:

Sorry, but since I haven’t heard from you for a whole week, I’m going to call the police to report you missing

Within a minute my phone dinged:

Don’t call the cops asshole I’m fine will come home when I’m ready

My heart leapt. I texted her back:

I’m so glad you’re OK. I’ve been worried sick. See you when you get home. There’ll be a cherry cheesecake waiting for you in the fridge

She didn’t respond. I didn’t expect her to but I stared at my phone anyway, feeling like a pathetic loser, but also relieved that my Carmen was safe.

Safe in her boyfriend’s arms.

With their love child growing in her womb.

I cried myself to sleep. Again.

 

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“Three Little Words,” Part Two

by c.w. cobblestone

Another week passed with no word from Carmen. Finally, when I returned home from work the following Friday evening I saw her BMW in the driveway. I started heaving and sobbing, lost control of the steering wheel and almost jumped the curb. My hands were shaking like crazy and I had a tough time navigating my Kia into the driveway next to her Beemer.

When I opened the front door I was smacked in the face by the smell of marijuana smoke. I stepped into an empty living room and cleared my throat.

“C-Carmen?”

“Up here.”

I jogged up the stairs toward the sound of my beloved wife’s voice. As I neared the top of the stairwell I saw that the bedroom door was open — and the image of Carmen lying naked in bed with her lover nearly knocked me over. I had to grab the banister to keep from falling down a flight of stairs.

Fighting the urge to vomit, I braced myself and continued forward, repeating the mantra that had defined our marriage from the beginning:

Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive.

I paused in the bedroom doorway. Carmen was curled up to Jamal, her leg draped over his thigh and her head tucked under the crook of his arm as he lay back on my bed like a king. Both were smirking.

For two weeks I’d dreamt of the moment when Carmen would finally come home, but the three little words she greeted me with weren’t exactly what I had in mind:

“You remember Jamal?”

I licked my lips. “Um … yeah, uh, hey, man, how you doing?”

Jamal didn’t reply; he just shook his head.

My wife snapped her fingers. “We could use a couple sodas in here, Ed.”

“Uh … okay.”

As soon as I left the bedroom I started bawling. I made it to the foot of the stairs before falling to my knees, trembling from head to toe and sucking in breaths as if I’d just finished running a marathon. I was certain I was about to pass out when the mantra filled my lungs:

Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive …

The refrain, which had been hammered into my head since childhood, gave me the strength to rise, wipe the tears from my eyes and continue my life’s mission of making my wife happy. Right now, she and her boyfriend wanted sodas. When I opened the fridge, the first thing I noticed was that she hadn’t touched the cheesecake I’d spent so much time preparing. There was only a little soda left in the two-liter bottle of Diet Coke, so I grabbed a pair of glasses from the cupboard, added some ice and poured each container not quite to the halfway point.

When I returned to the bedroom doorway I hesitated, feeling like an intruder in my own home. Carmen and Jamal were kicked back on the bed watching TV. It didn’t escape me that he held the remote — something that never happened when Carmen and I watched television together.

I almost knocked on the door but shook off the urge and ventured into the room.

Carmen frowned at the not-quite-half-full glasses as I set them on her nightstand. “What the hell’s that?”

“Um, sorry, there was only a little bit left.”

My wife snorted. “Well, then, I guess you’re gonna have to drive your ass to the store and get more, ain’t you?”

I held out my hands. “Aw, come on, honey. I just got off work. I’m exhausted.”

The last word was barely out of my mouth when Jamal flung back the sheets, leapt out of bed and punched me in the eye so hard I saw fireworks. Everything went black and I slumped to the floor.

“Don’t you ever talk back to my woman when she tells you something, you hear me, white boy?”

I guess I didn’t answer fast enough because he kicked me in the ribs.

“You hear me? Motherfucker?”

Another kick. Through my haze of pain I heard a feminine giggle.

“Unngh, yes, yes, I hear you.”

“Now, apologize.”

“H-honey, I’m— oooofff!” Another kick.

“Don’t you be calling my woman, ‘honey.’ Apologize proper.”

“I-I … Carmen, I’m very—unnngh.”

Jamal corrected me: “Miss Carmen.”

“Um, Miss Carmen, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jamal nodded. “That’s better. And don’t get that nasty-ass Diet Coke, either. Get Mountain Dew.”

I didn’t reply so he kicked me again. “What do you say when I’m talking to you, bitch?”

“Y-yes—unnnngh.”

“What’s that, pussy boy?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

My wife sniggered. “He has to call you sir. I love it, babe.”

“Yeah?” Jamal fell back onto the bed and pulled my wife close. “You like that shit, MISS Carmen? You like my idea of having us a little bitch around to do what we say? I told you he wouldn’t stand up for himself. I know these pussy-boy motherfuckers. We're gonna have it made.”

“Mmmm.” Carmen nuzzled her nose into her lover’s chest. “Whatever you want, baby. Whatever you want.”

After their tender moment passed, Jamal glared down at me from his perch on my bed.

“What the hell you still laying there for, white boy? If you ain’t off that floor by the count of 3 I’m gonna stomp your ass.”

I scrambled to my feet, my entire body aching from the kicks and my eye throbbing from the punch.

As I started to back out of the room, Carmen sneered. “Get Diet Coke and Mountain Dew. And pick up chips and sour cream dip — and if you don’t hurry the fuck up, I’ll have Jamal black your other eye.”

“Y-yes, Miss Carmen.”

The last thing I saw before turning to leave was their victory kiss.

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As badly as I was convulsing, I was afraid I’d wreck the car. I cried the entire way to the store, trying to focus on the road and shut off the thoughts:

Why is she doing this to me? Why is she being so cruel?

Should I call the police and report Jamal for assaulting me? Oh, no, jeez, hell no. Carmen would never speak to me again.

Why did I tell her I didn’t feel like going back out to get her soda? That wasn’t being very supportive, was it? It’s my fault Jamal kicked my ass. I brought it on myself for being so selfish.

No, fuck that — this isn’t my fault. Put the blame where it belongs. How could she do this to me after everything I’ve sacrificed for her? She starts having an affair and I put up with it to keep the marriage together. She says she needs her space; I give her space. I’ve done without sex. Without affection. I’m a fucking ATM and maid as far as she’s concerned. She tells me she’s pregnant with her fucking boyfriend’s baby and then stays gone for two weeks — and then when she finally comes home, the spoiled little bitch has the fucking nerve to bring him to our bed like that? It’s not bad enough she can see him whenever she wants; she has to rub my fucking face in it? How far is she going to keep pushing me? When am I going to wise up and get the fuck out of this marriage?

Wait a minute. Stop thinking like that. Be supportive of your wife, Eddie. Don’t be an asshole like your father was. He left Mom while she was pregnant with you to run off with his fucking secretary. You want to be like him? You want to leave your wife? Are you kidding me? Who the hell do you think you are? You should always put your wife’s needs above your own, Eddie. Be supportive. Don’t be like your dad. Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive …

But … but… what did Jamal mean when he told Carmen about his idea of “having us a little bitch around to do what we say?” It sounds like he’s planning something permanent. Fuck that. I don’t want that asshole around all the time telling me what to do.

Stop. Stop right now and focus. Carmen does want him around. That’s what matters. Don’t be an asshole. Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive …

I’d calmed down a bit by the time I got to the store, although when I set the groceries on the counter, the clerk frowned and said, “hey, man, you all right?”

I sniffled. “Y-yeah, I’m just … I’m just dealing with some … some stuff at home right now.”

"That eye looks pretty messed up; you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just ... a bunch of stuff."

The clerk bagged my purchases. “Well, whatever it is, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Yeah, right, good luck, my ass. There’s no luck involved. I’m simply too fucking weak to stand up for myself.

Stop that nonsense, Eddie. Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive ...

 

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When I returned home, the house still reeked of weed. I made a beeline to the kitchen and poured two full glasses of soda — Mountain Dew for him, Diet Coke for her — and filled a bowl with chips, and a smaller container with dip. I put it all on a tray, and as I ascended the stairs I almost felt proud of myself for taking the initiative to prepare their snack without prompting. Then, I felt like the most pathetic loser who ever walked the earth.

My wife and her lover were still relaxing on the bed; Jamal was passing my wife a blunt. She dangled it from her lips and accepted her glass of soda. I set the chips on the bed next to her then shuffled to the other side of the bed and handed Jamal his drink, feeling like a waiter.

Carmen toked the blunt and with her lungs still full, said, “Listen Ed…” She took another toke and blew smoke at me. “I hate to break it to you, but you're going back out again. I want McDonald’s. Quarter Pounder with Cheese and fries.”

My shoulders slumped. “Okay, Car … er, Miss Carmen.”

I turned to Jamal. “Um, do you want me to pick you up anything … uh, sir?”

“Yeah, bitch, Big Mac and fries.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Carmen passed the blunt to her boyfriend and sneered at me. “Oh, and tomorrow you’re gonna have to go to the U-Haul place and rent a truck.”

“But … uh, okay, Miss Carmen. But … uh, what for?”

My wife snuggled closer to her lover and delivered a crushing blow in the form of three little words:

“Jamal’s moving in.”

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“Three Little Words” Part Three

by c.w. cobblestone

The whistle blew as the train rounded the bend with a vengeance. I inched the Kia closer to the railroad tracks before stepping on the brake pedal. My other foot found the accelerator. The car lurched forward when I revved the engine with the brakes still pressed down. Closing my eyes, I repeated the three little words that made up my new mantra:

End the pain. End the pain. End the pain.

As the train rumbled closer, I knew what I had to do to escape my hell.

Lift your foot off the brake, Eddie. Drive onto the tracks, Eddie. Kiss the train; end the pain. Kiss the train; end the pain. Ready … set …

No.

I couldn’t.

The clatter of the passing boxcars was drowned out by the voice screaming in my head:

Coward! Coward! Coward! Coward! You fucking lousy coward!

I flinched when the driver behind me honked his horn. I opened my eyes. The train was gone. The barrier had lifted. Green light. Time to move forward.

Back to hell.

The first ring of Hades in this case turned out to be the Piggly Wiggly on Main Street which rented out U-Hauls. I nosed the Kia into the parking lot and sat there and cried for 20 minutes before pulling myself together. As I trudged to the U-Haul counter at the rear of the store I felt like a man dipped in shit.

The girl behind the register popped her gum. “Can I help you?”

Yeah, I’d like to rent a truck so I can move my wife’s boyfriend’s shit into our home.

“Um … I guess the 17-footer.”

“You want to rent the 17-foot truck, sir?”

“Um, yeah. Yes.”

“Moving out of state?”

“Um, no. No. Just … helping a … a … friend … move … into …”

I started sobbing again.

“Sir, are you okay?”

“I, uh, thank you, but, no, I’m … I’m ... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Just the 17-footer, thank you. Sorry.”

 

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I was fine driving the truck the first couple miles but as I approached Jamal’s apartment building my hands started shaking again, and I had such a tough time gripping the steering wheel I had to pull over and calm down.

Hang in there, Eddie. Be supportive. This is what Carmen wants. Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive …

After finding a parking spot I dug Jamal’s keys from my pocket and entered the building’s lobby, noting with a sigh that the elevator was out of commission. I climbed the stairs to the 3^rd floor and found unit 312. The thump of hip-hop bass and the scent of weed were noticeable from down the hall.

I wasn’t sure whether to let myself in, so I knocked to be safe. The music stopped.

“Who is it?”

“Um … it’s Eddie.”

“Didn’t I give you a key, white boy?”

I heard laughter as I slipped the key into the slot and opened the door. Jamal sat in the living room with two other guys, one of whom toked a blunt.

“This is my new pussy boy I was telling you about,” Jamal said to his companions. I gulped and looked at my shoes, fighting the urge to pee as I stood before the three smirking men.

“Damn, Jamal, you fucked his eye up. Look at that shit.”

“Told you. The little bitch got lippy with my lady and I had to check his ass. Didn’t I, bitch?”

“Um … uh, yes, sir.”

The two strangers scoffed.  

One of the men leered at me. “You know, you got a fine-ass wife. She comes up to the club all the time shaking that ass. How you let Jamal take her off you like that?”

“I-I don’t know … she … I just want her to be happy.”

“She’s happy getting that black dick. What’s wrong, you don’t fuck her with that little white thing you got?”

Jamal scoffed. “Oh, hell no. I told ol’ girl to cut him off a long time ago, didn’t I, pussy boy? When’s the last time you put that little faggot dick anywhere near my woman?”

“I-uh … sir, it’s been more than a year, sir.”

“Damn skippy.” Jamal was in his glory putting me down in front of his buddies.

I bit my lip to keep from crying. The room started spinning and I felt sick to my stomach.

Jamal took the blunt from his friend, toked it and blew smoke in my direction. “So you ready to start moving my shit into my new crib, pussy boy?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

He frowned.

“Where’s the boxes?”

“Um … boxes, sir?”

“Yeah, the damn boxes to pack my shit, fuck face. What, did you think I was gonna pack everything for you?”

“I-I, uh, no … I’m sorry, sir.”

“Sorry, my ass. Get your ass down to the Home Depot and pick up some of them good boxes.”

“Um, yes, sir. Uh, about how many I should get, sir?”

“I don’t know. You’re a smart white boy; you’ll figure it out.”

“Y-yes, sir,” I said as Jamal’s friends cracked up.

I hightailed it out of there amid the sound of taunts and laughter. As soon as I hit the corridor I dropped to my knees and started bawling. An elderly man who was carrying a bag of groceries into his apartment across the hall turned toward me and frowned.

“You all right there, young man?”

I stood and wiped my eyes.

“No. No, I’m not fucking all right. My life fucking sucks, okay?”

The old man shook his head.

“Damn, son, sorry I asked.”

 

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Jamal and his friends had vacated the apartment by the time I returned so I was able to work in peace. It was a major pain having to pack everything and carry each load of boxes down three flights of stairs and then across the parking lot to the U-Haul truck. The job took several hours.

Finally, just before dusk I was down to my final load, but before I toted the last two boxes to the truck I flopped down on the living room carpet to take a break, completely wiped out.

I hadn’t been lying there more than 30 seconds when my cellphone rang. My heart twitched when I saw that it was Carmen.

“H-hello?”

“What are you doing?”

“Um, I was just about to carry the last load of boxes down … uh, Miss Carmen.”

“Well, we’re hungry, so stop at McDonald’s and hurry up and get home. Quarter Pounder meal for me; Big Mac meal for him.”

“Okay, Miss Carmen. I’ll be home in a—”

She hung up on me.

After locking up Jamal’s apartment and carrying the last two boxes to the truck, I drove to the nearest Mickey D’s and ordered food for Carmen and Jamal, getting myself a Big Mac as well. When I returned home, knowing my wife and Jamal were hungry I brought the food into the house before unloading the truck.

Carmen and Jamal were in the living room watching TV when I limped in, my entire body aching from the day’s work.

My wife looked up from the television. “About damn time. What took you so long?”

“I-I … I’m sorry, Miss Carmen.”

“Uh huh. Go get plates.”

I did as she ordered, and after Carmen and Jamal were served I dug into the bag, pulled out the box containing my Big Mac and sank into the easy chair across from them.

Jamal stared at me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, pussy boy?”

I blanched. “Um … uh … I don’t know, sir. Um, did I … I’m sorry, sir, did I do something wrong?”

“First of all, who said you could eat?”

I glanced at the Big Mac box. “Um … I … uh … sir, is it okay if I eat, sir?”

“Hell no, you can’t eat, bitch. That burger’s mine, now.”

Carmen giggled and nibbled a French fry as Jamal continued tearing into me:

“And what are you doing sitting in that goddamn chair?”

“Uh … I’m sorry, sir. What do you mean?”

“What the fuck do you think I mean? Get your ass out of that motherfucking chair, pussy boy.”

I jumped to my feet.

“Give me that Big Mac. And if I catch you sitting on the furniture around here again, I’ll whoop your motherfucking ass, you hear me?”

“Um … yes, sir … but … uh, sir …”

“But what, white boy?”

“Where … um, even the bed?”

“What do you mean ‘even the bed’?”

“I mean, sir, um … can I still sleep on the bed? You know, um, in the guest room?”

“The guest room’s my room now, bitch. That’s gonna be my X-Box room. And hell no, you can’t sleep on no motherfucking bed. What the fuck do you think ‘no furniture’ means, pussy boy?”

Carmen threw back her head and laughed.

My senses were reeling but I managed to peep, “yes, sir.”

Jamal picked up the remote. “Okay, bitch, get back to work. I want all that shit unpacked tonight. Did you clean my place before you left?”

“Um, er, no, sir.”

“Well, then, when you’re done unloading the truck, take your ass back there and clean it. I want my motherfucking security deposit back, so it better be spotless, you hear?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Carmen chuckled. “Looks like someone won’t be getting any sleep tonight.”

 

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“Three Little Words” Part Four

by c.w. cobblestone

I looked in the mirror at the face of rock bottom — a swollen left eye, a bleary right one, a runny red nose, a quivering bottom lip and a chin smeared with puke.

My reflection taunted me with those three little words:

You’re a joke.

I washed my face and flushed vomit down the toilet for the third time before venturing another glance at myself.

You can’t stay here hugging the commode all morning, asshole. You’ve got to go home and face him sometime. Pull yourself together.

I made one final walk-through of Jamal’s apartment. I’d busted my ass literally all night to get the place spic and span but I checked each nook and cranny anyway, limping from room to room, dead on my feet, arguing with the voices in my head:

This is ridiculous. You’re exhausted, Eddie. Just lay down on the floor and take a goddamn nap, already.

No! As tired as you are, you might end up zonking out for 10-12 hours. OMG, Jamal would be so pissed.

You could just set the alarm on your cellphone for 20 minutes and sneak in a quick one — but what if you slept through the alarm? Or what if Jamal found out? Fuck that, stay awake. Get through it.

Jeez, Eddie, how pathetic can you be? You can’t even scratch your ass without worrying about Jamal. He’s in your head 24/7.

Well, yeah, no shit. Why wouldn’t he be? It’s kind of hard to forget an ass-whipping like the one he gave you. Do you want to go through that again?

The kitchen gleamed, although I spotted a dust bunny behind the refrigerator. While it was unlikely Jamal’s landlord would withhold his security deposit for a little fuzzball behind the fridge, I nevertheless squeezed back there and plucked it out.

What the hell does she see in that bully, anyway? Okay, other than him being big-dicked … and handsome … and arrogant the way she likes her men.

You’re not arrogant, Eddie. You’re a nice guy.  But you don’t count, do you?

Not to Carmen, you don’t. She made that clear a long time ago. And you put up with it, too, didn’t you? Fucking sap. She kept pushing you further and further down the shit hole and you didn’t say a damn thing. And now? You think she has any love for you whatsoever, Eddie? Are you kidding? Wives who love their husbands don’t move their fucking boyfriends into their homes, Eddie. They don’t get pregnant with their boyfriends’ babies. Carmen doesn’t love you; she loves making you miserable. She gets off on it. You heard her laughing when her boyfriend was kicking your ass. She thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

Why are you still with that evil bitch? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Stop that, Eddie. Stop that right now. You are Carmen’s husband. You took sacred vows. You have to somehow find a way to make this all work. This is your life now, Eddie. Get used to it. Think of this marriage as a job, and Jamal and Carmen are your bosses. This is obviously the way she wants us to live: in a three-way relationship with you in the subservient role. It’s either that or leave. Divorce. You have to keep this marriage together at all costs, Eddie. Don’t abandon your wife just because things get hard. Do what she says. That means doing what he says.

Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive …

The living room was spotless, as was Jamal’s bedroom. During a final bathroom check I noticed some dirt inside the light dome, so I stood on the toilet, unscrewed the holder and washed it out.

Ugh, damned stomach pains. You know, you could just stop at McDonald’s on the way home and get a goddamn burger or grab something at the store when you drop off the U-Haul. He would never know.

Fuck that. Are you crazy? He specifically said he didn’t want you eating without permission. You want to get killed? Wait until you get home and ask him. Give the man his respect. It’s the only way you’re going to get through this in one piece.

Ugh, more stomach pains! Stop thinking about juicy hamburgers, Eddie.

Carmen will start having cravings pretty soon. You better get used to running to the store in the middle of the night because Jamal sure as hell won’t do it. Why would he? He’s only the kid’s father.

Damn it. What are you going to tell everyone? How do you explain a black guy living in our house? And a mixed-race baby? OMG, what are Mom and Tina gonna say? Tina will probably laugh. She hates you. Come to think of it, Mom will probably laugh, too. They both hate you.

No. No, they don’t. They don’t hate you, Eddie. They just raised you to be respectful to women, and to put their needs first, that’s all.

Bullshit. They fucking hate you. You’re the scapegoat. You’ve been treated like shit your entire life because of what your father did. And you married a woman who would continue that treatment because you feel that’s all you deserve. You need professional help. You shouldn’t have to put up with this. You need to get out.

Stop. Stop thinking like that, Eddie. Stop focusing on the negative. You are a lucky man. You have a good job and a beautiful wife.

Yeah, right. A beautiful wife who loves another man. A beautiful wife who’s pregnant with another man’s baby.

And now, the asshole lives with you and is going to make your life miserable. You’re not allowed on the goddamn furniture? In your own house? What the fuck? Where are you supposed to sleep? On the floor?

You can’t do this, Eddie. You can’t live like this. Go back to those train tracks, Eddie. Finish the job. Don’t be a coward.

No! Goddamn it, you need to stop this shit, Eddie. Focus. Focus! Not facing up to your husbandly responsibilities and killing yourself would be the cowardly thing to do. You can either be a piece of shit like your father was and abandon your marriage or you can put your wife’s needs above your own. Every time you start down this road you need to ask yourself: What does Carmen want? What does Carmen want?

Carmen wants to live with Jamal and have his baby. She wants you to do everything they say. That’s what Carmen wants, Eddie. Roll with it. So what if he’s mean to you? Lots of people have bosses who are mean to them and they get through it. Figure out how to keep him happy. Yeah, it sucks, but marriage is work. This is a job. Your job. Just do what your new boss says and don’t piss him off.

You’re lucky to still have Carmen in your life, Eddie. Even after she fell in love with another man, she decided to keep you around and hold the marriage together. So don’t fuck this up. This is what she wants. Your job is to be supportive.

Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive …

With a shiver and one final glance, I hobbled out of Jamal’s apartment and locked the door behind me.

As I passed the old man’s apartment across the hall, I hocked up a loogy and spit it on his doorknob.

 

////\\\\////\\\\////\\\\////\\\\​

 

I felt like throwing up again as I pulled the Kia into the driveway but I was able to take deep breaths, park the car, put one foot in front of the other and forge ahead into my house — their home.

Carmen was slouched on the sofa fiddling with her cellphone. I heard the shower running upstairs.

She cocked her head when I walked in. “You get his place good and clean?”

“Yes, Miss Carmen.”

“You get any sleep?”

“N-no, Miss Carmen, I worked all night. But it’s real, clean, Miss Carmen. He won’t have any problem getting his deposit back, I’m sure of it.”

My wife set her iPhone on the cushion next to her and pointed to a spot on the carpet. “Come kneel down here, Ed.”

I practically fell to my knees.

Carmen leaned toward me. “You gonna be able to handle this, Ed? I can tell you this ain’t gonna be easy. You gonna run away? You want a divorce?”

“N-no, Miss Carmen. Please, I don’t want a divorce.”

“What about when the baby comes? You gonna stick it out then? Change diapers? Support us all?”

“Please, Miss Carmen … I just want you to be happy. That’s all I want in this world. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Well, then you need to do what he says. He doesn’t play around, Ed. Don’t cross him.”

“I-I won’t.”

“I’m telling you, he’s gonna be hard on you. You sure you can take it?”

“I know I can, Miss Carmen. I’d do anything for you.”

“Good.”

“I … I love you, Miss Carmen.”

My wife scowled and glanced at the stairway. “You’d better not let him hear you. I don’t think I’d go around saying that anymore if I was you.”

“I-I’m sorry.”

She picked up her cellphone and started scrolling.

“Um … Miss Carmen?”

“What?”

“Uh, is it okay if … if I get something to eat? I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday.”

“You need to ask him.”

“Uh, okay. And, um … Miss Carmen?”

She sighed and pressed her phone to her chest. “Yeah, Ed? What?”

“Um … where … uh, since I’m not allowed on the furniture, where do I sleep?”

“Jamal says the basement.”

I dropped my eyes. Carmen scoffed.

“I told you he was gonna be rough on you. Just do what he says and you should be okay. Sleeping on the floor down there … it won’t be that bad. You’ll be all right.”

“Y-yes, Miss Carmen.”

“Good. Now, go fetch me a soda.”

Jamal ambled downstairs as I was serving Carmen’s drink. He settled on the couch next to my wife and picked up the remote. I turned toward him and bowed slightly with my hands folded in front of me.

“Um, sir, can I get you anything to drink, sir?”

He didn’t answer, lost in his channel-surfing, and I stood there for several minutes pondering whether or not to ask again. I decided against it.

Finally, he settled on a basketball game and looked at me. “Is my apartment nice and clean, pussy boy?”

“Yes, sir. I really cleaned it real good, sir. There should be no problem getting your deposit back, sir.”

“There better not be.”

“Um … uh, sir?”

“Yeah, pussy boy?”

“Um … sir, is it okay if I … if I get something to eat, sir?”

“Did you eat anything since yesterday?”

“No, sir, you said I needed to ask you, sir, so I didn’t.”

Jamal grinned at my wife. “He’s learning. The pussy boy is learning.” He turned to me. “Yeah, pussy boy, you can eat — but first I want you to get that bed and dresser out of the spare bedroom, and set up my X-Box system and my gaming chair in there.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you so much, sir.”

Carmen chuckled. “I told him about his sleeping arrangements.”

Jamal sneered at me. “I don’t want you sleeping anywhere near my woman, you hear? Not even on the same floor. You get the motherfucking basement. You hear?”

I don’t know what prompted me, but I sank to my knees and the words poured out:

“Sir, I just want you to know that I’ll do whatever you say. You’re the boss, sir. I know that Carmen wants you instead of me, and I … well, I really appreciate you allowing me to keep some kind of role in her life … um, in both of your lives, and I’m ready to serve you as best I can, sir.”

Carmen squealed. “OMG, that’s so sexy. He’ll do anything you say, baby.”

Jamal jeered. “Damn skippy. Now, go get me a Mountain Dew, pussy boy.”

 

////\\\\////\\\\////\\\\////\\\\​

 

“Three Little Words,” Part Five

by c.w. cobblestone

A toothpick is a fine tool for eradicating pebbles from sneaker bottoms. I found that out the hard way.

I thought Jamal’s Nikes looked fantastic after I’d spent more than an hour cleaning, polishing and buffing them. Unfortunately, he didn’t agree.

When I presented the shoes, he snapped his fingers and held out his hand.

“Let’s see.”

I felt proud passing him the once-filthy Air Maxes. As he inspected them my wife leaned in close to her lover on the couch to have a look for herself.

Jamal seemed pleased until he turned one shoe over and frowned at the sole. I shivered.

He held out the shoe. “What the fuck is this?”

“Uh, I … I … sir, I ..”

I wasn’t sure what to say. The shoe looked great as far as I could tell.

He showed it to Carmen. She shook her head.

“He needs to learn, baby,” she said.

“I–I’m sorry, sir, what did I do wrong, please?”

Jamal shoved the sneaker in my face and this time I noticed the problem: A few tiny pebbles were lodged in the shoe’s track.

“That shit look clean to you, white boy?”

“N-no, sir. I’ll get it right out; I’m so sorry, sir.”

“Sorry, my ass.”

I wasn’t prepared for him to suddenly rear back and smack me hard across the face with the shoe bottom. I collapsed onto the carpet and curled up in a ball, holding my face and crying.

“Sit up, sissy bitch.”

Somehow, I managed to pull myself into a kneeling position. Carmen giggled.

“Look, baby, he’s got a shoe-print on his face. But it’s only one side.” She smirked at me and snatched her boyfriend’s other shoe from the couch. “Come over here.”

I shuffled toward her and she slashed the shoe across my left check with all her might. Because I was braced for it this time I didn’t fall over, but remained on my knees crying.

“Now, it’s even; one mark for each cheek, just like rouge.” Carmen cocked her head. “Does it hurt, Ed?”

“Yes, Miss Carmen.”

“Well, then, maybe next time when your master tells you to clean his shoes, you won’t do a half-assed job, huh?”

“No, Miss Carmen. I’m sorry, Miss Carmen.”

“Don’t apologize to me; apologize to your master.”

“I-I’m so sorry, sir.”

“Don’t let there be a next time,” he said, handing me the shoes.

“No, sir, I won’t, I promise. I’ll clean these right up, sir.”

I retreated from the living room and swung by the kitchen to grab a handful of toothpicks before heading to my basement living quarters to work on Jamal’s shoes.

It took just a few minutes to pry all the pebbles out but I spent another half-hour going over every millimeter of the shoes to ensure they’d be perfect. When I was confident enough I slinked back upstairs cradling the Nikes to my chest as though they were spun from gold.

My masters had abandoned the living room; I heard their voices drifting down from the bedroom so I carried the shoes up there. Jamal was kicked back on the bed while Carmen dug through her dresser drawers.

I knocked on the door to their love nest.

“Um, sir, I have your shoes ready, sir. Can I please come in?”

Jamal waved me into the bedroom and held out his hand. I forked over the shoes and stood next to the bed shifting from one foot to the other while he examined my work.

“Not bad, sissy.” He snapped his fingers and pointed. “Now, kneel down right there.”

I obeyed and heard my wife approaching from behind. She draped a silky pink garment over my head and said the three little words that would send my already upside-down life spiraling deeper into chaos and humiliation:

“Put that on.”

I pulled the vestment from my head and noticed it was one of Carmen’s camisoles. I blinked.

“Um … you want me to put this on? But … why?”

Jamal scowled. “Don’t be questioning my woman when she tells you something, bitch. Just do what she says.”

I gulped, stood and started undressing while Master laid down the law.

“It’s been a few days since I moved in here, and something just wasn’t sitting right with me. I finally figured out what it was.”

Jamal looked me up and down. “How many men live in this house now, bitch?”

I almost replied “two,” but caught myself in time.

“Um, one, sir?”

“Damn skippy. Only one man up in this motherfucker — so why you trying to be a man by dressing like one?”

“Um … I …”

There was nothing to say other than, “sorry, sir,” which made my wife scoff.

After disrobing, I slipped into the feminine camisole, which barely covered my genitals. Carmen threw a pair of her lacy pink panties, which bounced off my shoulder and fell to the carpet. I bent and put them on, too.

My wife joined her lover on the bed and I teetered before them in my humiliating outfit, their smirks burning holes in my soul. It was all I could do to keep from breaking down.

Be supportive … be supportive … be supportive …

Jamal shook his head. “Damn, bitch, you are one ugly-ass woman. That body hair got to go. And you need to put some motherfucking makeup on.”

Carmen sat up. “Don’t even think about using my good makeup. Hang on.” She slipped out of bed and ducked into her walk-in closet, emerging with a small travel bag.

“Use that until you can get your own,” she said.

I took the bag from her as the realization hit me like a swift kick in the nuts — if I was going to be buying my own makeup, that meant I’d be wearing it regularly.

As if reading my mind, my wife said, “We’re gonna have to get you your own wardrobe, too. For now, go shave and put that shit on.”

Jamal added: “You got 15 minutes to be back here, bitch.”

“Y-yes, sir.” I literally ran down to the basement utility sink, under which all my shaving equipment and other toiletries had been relegated since Jamal took over the master suite days earlier.

I took a deep breath and tried to sell myself on this new reality.

Okay, Eddie, this is no big deal. Be supportive. So what if you have to shave and dress like a woman at home? With everything you’re already dealing with, what difference does it make? There’s not much more they can do to humiliate you, anyway, is there? If it puts Carmen’s boyfriend at ease by having you dress feminine when you’re at home to reinforce that he’s top dog, what do you care? All you do is clean, anyway; you can clean the house wearing sweats or you can clean the house wearing some girly outfit. It doesn’t matter.

Oh, bullshit. Who the hell do you think you’re kidding, Eddie? Look at you, shaving your goddamn legs. You pathetic bastard. Look at what they’re turning you into. Get away from this shit, Ed. For the millionth time, get out. Leave now before you completely lose yourself to these cruel, selfish pieces of shit who only care about you supporting them financially and making your life miserable.

Stop, it Eddie. You really need to stop thinking this kind of nonsense. Do you want to hold your marriage together or don’t you? Carmen told you it wasn’t going to be easy, and you looked her in the eye and promised her you wouldn’t run away, no matter how hard it got. You also took a solemn oath during your wedding vows to stick it out through thick and thin, for better or for worse. So, stop whining; you’ve got 10 minutes now finish shaving, make up your face, put on Carmen’s outfit and get back to the bedroom before you get your ass kicked.

The fear of Jamal’s wrath kickstarted me into gear. I stopped arguing with myself and focused instead on making myself as feminine as possible, taking solace in the notion that this was something I’d only be required to do at home.

My masters crushed that idea shortly after I reported to them in the bedroom.

I knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Carmen said.

Jamal whistled. “You’re starting to look like a real bitch now. Come here and lift up that camisole. Let’s see how good you did.”

I was beyond humiliated as I held up the garment, exposing my denuded genitals. I was then made to turn around and spread my butt cheeks, and I wanted to crawl into a hole.

“Looks, good, sissy,” he said slapping me on my ass and making me jump. Carmen giggled.

“You’re gonna have to grow that hair out long, sissy,” Jamal said. “When it gets long enough, you’ll get a perm. I like blondes, so you can go ahead and get it dyed now.”

“I’ll take him to Bianca’s salon,” Carmen said. “They’ll get a kick out of the pussy. And then after his hair is done, maybe take him shopping for some dresses and shit he can wear to work.”

I almost fell over. “Um … uh, … I have to … um, wear women’s stuff to work, Miss Carmen?”

“Yeah, wear it to work. This is your big coming-out party, Ed. Although we need to find you a female name.”

“Buh, um, but, Miss Carmen … um, uh, what do you mean? Coming out?”

“Yes, coming out. You’re gonna be a transgender. Like, for real. Like Kaitlyn Jenner.”

My jaw dropped and I glanced from Carmen to Jamal, barely able to breathe.

“This is how it is, sissy,” Jamal said, lighting a blunt. “Like I said, there’s only room for one man up in this motherfucker. You can be the maid around this bitch. It’s what you do anyway. And when my baby comes, you’ll be the nanny.”

“Wha … wha … what should I tell … um, everyone at work, sir?”

“Tell them you’re a goddamn transgender, what the fuck do you think you should tell them? Nobody gives a fuck about that shit anymore. You ain’t gonna lose your job.”

“But … my family …”

Carmen scoffed. “Who, your mom? Your sister? They won’t be surprised; they already know you’re a sissy.” She turned to her boyfriend. “Now, then, baby, what name should we pick out for our new maid?”

“Fuck if I know, he’s a goddamn sissy, call him sissy.”

My wife clapped and laughed, and sealed my fate with three little words:

“Cissie it is.”