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From: "H. Jekyll" <h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} [Cheating Festival]   "Positive"   (MF, cheat wife, oral)
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Date: Tue, 15 Aug 2006 06:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

"Positive"

By H. Jekyll

(MF, cheating wife, oral)

* * * * *

Copyright 2006 by H. Jekyll. All rights are reserved. Do not read this
if you are either under the legal age to read sexually explicit
stories, or you live where it is illegal to read such stories.
"Positive" was written for the August 2006 "Cheating Festival" at
alt.sex.stories.moderated.

The only reason to stay in on-line life is the ability to meet
interesting people. Please write with criticism, praise, or
conversation: h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com

H. Jekyll story archives:
Alt Sex Stories Text Repository
(/files/Authors/h_jekyll/)
Ruthie's Club (http://www.ruthiesclub.com/)
StoriesonLine (http://storiesonline.net/home.php)

* * * * *

[A note to the reader: parentheses show the thoughts of the narrator at
the time of the events he is describing]

"Positive"

It's hard after the fact to be sure, because the memory is affected by
everything else that happened. I think I expected something, or
suspected something, but who could know? There was something about her,
something more distant than the usual chasm, even with the little
faux-sultry looks I was getting, and her use of "sweetie," and what
seemed to be her almost uncontrollable laughter. Was the ground thawing
at last? Judith was completely agreeable on everything, kidding about
everything, laughing at everything, laughing at nothing at all. It was
as though she'd suddenly feel a laugh come on and couldn't contain it,
like a hiccup, looking sheepish at her newly-found hilarity, as though
she was experiencing some new and overwhelming state that pulled her
every way there is, so that she was forced to laugh at the idiocy of it
all. And she was.

Before she took her bath she pulled me to her and gave me a slow,
sultry kiss full of lips and tongue and warm breaths, and she made a
promise: "I have a surprise for you in bed." She chuckled as she walked
to the bathroom.

And in bed? Here the facts are clear enough. Judith checked to make
sure I was ready to accept the kind of promise given with lips and
tongue and warm breaths, caressed me all the way from my balls to the
tip of Big Ben, even pulled on me twice. I'm sure it was twice. Then
she gave me a simple goodnight peck and, turned away, and as I was
starting to protest at this playful promise break, she said in her most
syrupy voice:

"I had sex with George Mathis this afternoon."

*****

(What?) I said it milliseconds after I thought it. "What?"

"Well, I just thought you should know. Good night, sugar."

What kind of joke was this? I was sure I'd heard her right. I waited
for a punch line, and when there wasn't one, I asked: "What are you
talking about, Judy?"

"I told you." Her voice was still honey and cloves.

I turned on the light.

"Why are you saying that?"

"It's true."

"Sex? With George?"

"Well, what's good for the gander..."

"What in the world are you talking about?"

That's when the scene went from troubled dream to absolute nightmare.
If it had been a movie, the light would have changed to something
garish and eerie, and there would be strange, discordant music.
Instead, it was just the two of us in bed, but Judith sat up and turned
toward me, and her voice grew tight and thin, almost teary with anger.
"I sucked him too! Do you want to know what he tastes like?"

Chew on that a while. I wasn't sure she'd actually done what she was
saying, but I didn't know what to think any more than any other husband
would. I had to ask one more time.

"Honey. I don't know what you're talking about. What's going on?"

"Don't you `honey' me, you bastard! How much have you slept around? How
many times have you done it? How many women have you done it with? Or
have they been men? My God, you're gay! That explains it!"

"Judy ..."

"How could I have been so taken in by you? Am I that stupid?"

"Judy!"

"And you know what else, you son-of-a-bitch? You went and got yourself
infected with HIV! And now you've infected me!"

"Judith!"

"Get out of my bed! Did you have to ruin my life? Wasn't cheating
enough?" She was crying openly.

*****

Nothing prepares you for something like that, does it? Could it? I'm
not even sure what I thought at first. That she was crazy? That this
was an over-the-top joke? That ... what? I wasn't worried, or sad, or
angry, not yet. I just didn't get it.

"Judy! What's going on? HIV? Sex with George? This doesn't make any
sense!"

"Get out!"

I got off the bed. 

"I don't have AIDS. I'm not gay. What are you talking about?" (Sex with
George Mathis? Could she have done that? HIV? She couldn't have that.
Could she?)

"I got tested today. I'm HIV positive." She seemed to be trying to
control herself.

"What? How? Why were you tested?"

"Because Dr. Schadenfreude thinks everyone should be, and he
recommended it. So I got to find out that you infected me!"

"When?"

"It was my regular visit! This morning! Damn it, you never pay
attention to anything! All you can think about is screwing, isn't it?
He has a fast test. And I'm HIV positive, you bastard! Get out! Get
out! Get out!" Judith was shrill, screaming, red-faced, a banshee. I
thought she was mad. Maybe I was right. I went as far as the door.

"What about George?"

"What about him?

"You sexed him? Did you really?"

"Yes. You're not the only person in this house who can get laid, you
know!"

"With him?'

"Why not him? How many different ones did you do?"

"But why?"

"Get out of here!"

"There's one thing..."

"No!"

"Listen first! Did it ever occur to you that your result could be a
false positive?"

The tenor of the conversation changed right then. Judith stopped and
looked at me for a second. 

"Don't try that. You gave it to me. I've never, ever cheated!"

"Until today."

"Yes, you bastard! If I'm going to get sick because you've been
screwing around, I might as well enjoy myself too!"

"Well, you didn't get it from me!"

"Are you saying you've never cheated?"

"I'm saying I'm not HIV positive. Damn it! I don't fool around." While
she was thinking of how to answer, I thought again: (George Mathis?
George Mathis? That wife-chasing asshole? And she even sucked him?)

"Well, you can't get it from toilet seats, you know!" Judith doesn't do
sarcasm well.

"But you can get a false positive from the test. Judy, shit! I did not
infect you! Period! George Mathis?"

"I made him use a condom, which is more than you've apparently done!"

"When you gave him the blow job?"

"You can't give AIDS that way. So, yes, I sucked him, and he liked it.
I swallowed it all. He liked that too and wants to get together again
tomorrow. He wasn't even very clean!"

"It's not impossible to get it that way. Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus! If you're
infected ... but you're not because I'm not, and you've just done the
stupidest thing imaginable."

"Me? I didn't infect my wife! You are an absolute bastard! You won't
take responsibility even when it's obvious!"

Murky. It was murky, with strange, shifting tides of meaning. It was
too much to comprehend. Any part of it could make sense. It would be
bad, but it could make some sense. There was just too much, though. I
had to get away from her and think. I had to get my head straight.

"Okay. Okay. This is what we're doing. We're going in to get tested
together. Together! I'm going to call your doc first thing in the
morning."

"And then you'll see the results of what you've done!" 

She didn't sound completely convinced. 

*****

I lay awake most of the night. Judith was awake too. At one point I
heard her moving around in the back of the house. I knew I couldn't be
infected, could I? You can know, but you don't actually know, do you? 

(Is it even possible? How could it have happened? What if she's
actually HIV positive? Where else could she have gotten it? Could she
be trying to shift the blame to me? Could she have become infected by
another man--maybe George--and be trying to make me think I'm the cause?
The best defense for her is always a good offense. Hell, she could have
infected me! And she fucked and sucked George! It didn't take her any
time at all. It must have been within a few hours of when she got the
results. A person who could do that could do it with anyone.)

I thought of Judith with George a long time. No one could miss how he'd
looked at her over the years, in the grocery, at parties, across the
yard. Not that he'd looked at her so much differently than he did other
wives, but it was pretty obvious, and being obvious seemed to work for
him. It got him divorced, and since then there had been a long string
of women, most of them apparently married. Some of them had managed to
save their marriages afterward. 

I imagined Judith kneeling over George's penis. He'd held her head
while she did it. I was certain of that. Judith would do the whole
thing slowly, taking it deep and sucking especially hard as she pulled
it out. How did she get George to use a condom? I'm sure he enjoyed
her. I imagined his wide grin. Oh happiness, to have such a pleasant
surprise come walking up to him! But maybe not such a surprise.

*****

We didn't talk the next morning until Judith said, "I went on-line last
night. The test is more than 99 percent accurate."

Shit. She didn't have a clue.

"But only half a percent of white women are infected. About half of all
their positives are wrong! Didn't Schadenfreude say anything about
that? That the fast test is just a screen?"

She stormed from the room, and we didn't talk again until it was time
to go. 

So it was just a screen. So? It was still 99 percent accurate. What if
Judith really was infected? What if I was? When did it happen? When for
her? When for me? Could I have given it to her? How? It was impossible,
wasn't it? Could I have got it from her? Questions, questions,
questions. Then I thought of George Mathis' penis and Judith's mouth
again. It almost pushed the thoughts of AIDS out of my head.

*****

Dr. Schadenfreude was unctuous and non-judgmental and very careful not
to be obvious that he thought I was at fault. "You probably know that
almost all cases of infection come from mixing body fluids through
unprotected intercourse or the sharing of intravenous needles."
Something broke inside my chest. I didn't want to be there. I could
tell Judith was trying not to cry, and I felt sorry for her. (But
George Mathis? Him? She fucked him? She called him and went to him the
day she found out, HIV thoughts swirling in her head, the thrill of
desolation driving her to the biggest asshole we know, to George, and
she went right up to him and pushed her chest into his and looked him
in the face and touched her tongue between her lips. That's how she'd
do it. George would look her up one side and down the other, and fuck
it! Fuck it! Fuck it all!)

I asked, "What's the likelihood of it being a false-positive?"

"There's always a chance. That's why we'll do a more definitive test."
(Condescending bastard!)

Of course it would take several days to get the results.

Judith asked, "What do we do after we know for sure?"

"Well, let's not expect the worst. It isn't necessarily a death
sentence anymore." Silence. "If the result is confirmative, I think
you..." He moved a hand to indicate he meant both of us. "You need to..."
he cleared his throat, "you need to alert anyone you may have been
intimate with, or shared needles with, in the past decade. You should
be compiling a list."

I couldn't help it. "She's the one who needs to talk with sex
partners."

I know I shouldn't have.

Judith gasped. It was the loudest thing I have ever heard. Her eyes
grew round and she looked at the doctor, then at me. 

"You SOB!" This was a hiss. "You cheating, lying, fornicator! You, who
infected your own wife after screwing who knows how many people! You ...
bastard!"

"Please," said the doctor. "This isn't helpful." He touched the fingers
of his two hands together in front of his chest and looked back and
forth between us. "I know this is very difficult for both of you. We've
found it can be helpful to have couples meet with a counselor, to work
through the initial shock." He smiled.

"We won't need that," I said. I stood up, to be able to tower over
Judith while I said it. "She wants a divorce and I'm perfectly happy
with that." Then I stared down at her. "But I'm not moving from the
house!" And I left.

*****

Moving carefully around each other. No words at all from Judith when
she got home. She'd been hours. Finally I stuck my head in the den and
asked: "Been sucking George again?"

"Fuck you!"

"Mmm, good. Nothing like fresh cock..."

"Fuck you!"

"It's almost a meal in itself."

"Go do your boyfriends! I'll get you some grease!"

"Fuck you, you fucking bitch! You're the only one fucking anyone else!"


I got my jacket. As I opened the door she yelled, "Before you screw
your boyfriends, be sure to warn them!"

"Fuck you!"

*****

That day, and the next, and the next. I've talked with friends who've
gone through bad times together, two who eventually got divorced. They
had it a lot like us, even though none of them faced the added
possibility that they might have a deadly disease. Were we going to
die? That wasn't the worst thing - not right then. It was the awful
problem of having to see each other, to acknowledge each other. At
least I think it was like that with Judith. It was with me. The house
was filled with frost, then suddenly we'd be excessively polite to each
other. Did I want some of the leftover roast? "No. Thanks." At times I
thought I couldn't breathe. I'm not being metaphorical. I couldn't. It
was as though someone was squeezing me. I'd have to get outside, and
then I'd go for long walks in the park, but I always came back. Where
else could I go?

*****

I was ready to go to work before Judith woke up. I needed something to
do. I walked into the bedroom doorway, and when she saw me she stood
still, a statue, her eyes looking god-awful, the eyes of someone else
who had spent another night waiting for the world to end.

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for what I said before."
Judith stared. "It was cruel. And crude. Anyway, I'm sorry for that."

She turned her back and I went to work.

*****

That evening the phone kept ringing, but whoever called hung up when I
answered. The third time I grabbed it on the first ring.

"Hello?"

The line went dead again. Third fucking time.

The next time I finally ignored it and Judith picked it up. She tried
to be quiet, but I stood just behind the doorway to listen.

"Hi...No, he's still here...No!...Stop it, Mom!...Because I'm not going to let
him drive me out...He can leave if he wants to...Just call my cell number
next time..."

I went out onto the patio and sat for a while, staring at the clouds.
She talked a long time. I wondered how many people besides her mother
she had told about the test. Good old queer Matt. I'm sure her family
was all abuzz. I was certain she hadn't told anyone about George. My
family still didn't know anything at all, not as far as I knew.

*****

(Can I be infected? Could I have given it to Judith? Oh Jesus. Oh
Jesus. How long would I have been carrying it? It's been so long. I
should be sick. I should be dying. Maybe I'm just one of those people
who never get sick from it. No, it's not possible! I'd have known ages
ago. But what if? What if? What if she did get it from me somehow, and
what if she gets sick? Oh Jesus. If that happens, I need to take care
of her. If she'll let me. If I can stand to be around her. Oh my God.)

*****

It was midway through the fourth day that we got the results. 

It had been weeks, months, but really less than 100 hours. We'd both
stayed home, avoiding each other, jumping whenever the phone rang. Our
house was one big watched pot. I was about to call the doctor when we
got it, the big call. Judith took it. 

As I came into the den she was saying "Yes?" Then "yes" again, more
softly. Then she gave a tiny sigh and said, "Okay. Okay. I understand."
There was a pause while she listened, and I drifted closer and saw her
collapse into herself. "Yes." She sounded like she had lost a child.
(We really do have it. One of us or both of us. I didn't think it was
possible. Should I move out now? When will we start to get sick?)
Finally, "Yes. We'll be over. Thank you."

Judith put her head down into her hands and was still for the longest
time. She finally said "No!" to no one in particular. A meek, grieving
little `no.' Then, "Oh God."

"Tell me."

She looked up, her face glistening, here eyes red. She tried to smile,
but she couldn't keep her mouth right. I'd expected her to attack me
again.

"Tell me. We'll deal with it."

"It's just...I didn't know." She clapped a hand over her mouth, and just
the tiniest part of a cry made it past her fingers.

"What do you mean? Didn't know what?"

She was almost breathless when she spoke. She was crying before she
finished. "I didn't know the test could be wrong." 

Judith put both hands over her mouth. She covered her face so that only
her eyes showed. It grew so quiet in the room that my mind played a
trick on me and whispered that we should be hearing a dog bark
somewhere in the distance. While I waited for the dog, my wife pulled
her hands away from her mouth, not far but far enough to let her speak,
and she said, "I'm so sorry."

And me? I walked past her to the kitchen door, through the garage, to
the driveway, got into my car, and left.

*****

(Let her suffer. Let her grovel.) What she had done to me! I told a
group of guys at a bar. I don't even do bars, but it seemed like the
right place to be. I didn't want to tell anyone I knew, not yet, but I
didn't know those men. So I told them everything. 

"God damn, that's cold!"

"Hell, yeah," said another, "But now you've got the bitch by the short
hairs. Toss her out of the house, close out your accounts, and get a
lawyer. She's toast!"

"You think I should?"

"Fuckin' A!" said a small, meek-looking guy with a dapper mustache.
"Though I think some slapping around is in order. She'll never tell a
soul, I guarantee."

"The guy needs more than that," said the first one. "A baseball bat
will do wonders for him!"

"Here! Here!"

"I don't think..." They were talking too fast for me to get words in.

"You can't be a pussy about this!" said a gigantic, obese man in a
drab, gray business suit. You've got to be a man and take charge. Don't
get mad, get even!"

"Meaning?"

His voice dropped low and he leaned forward. So did several others. So
did the bartender.

"I know some guys who would gang-bang her for you. For a price. You'd
never have to get involved. No one could prove you ordered it, but
she'd get the message."

Mostly the guys just commiserated and went on about how bitches ruined
your life and how the law was unfair to men. The main theme was not to
be a pussy. I heard that about four times.

The bartender poured me a free drink. I remember it was a single-malt
scotch, neat, a double, from a bottle he pulled off the racks of
rich-colored bottles behind him. He had tattoos up both arms, and a
pony tail, like so many other losers. Didn't his probation require him
to stay away from bars? While he poured I wondered if that was his
standard way of dealing with `a man done wrong,' and if maybe he
expected I'd buy a round or leave a big tip.

The regulars were having a great time tossing around ways to put
bitches in their place. While they did that the bartender leaned across
the bar, close in to me. From that distance I could make out a thick,
pink scar at the corner of his forehead.

"You seem like a nice guy." I smelled cigarettes on his breath, a whole
carton of them.

"Thanks."

"So listen to me. Don't do anything crazy."

"What they said?" I nodded toward the barflies. "Those were just
fantasies."

"Not necessarily. Not all of them. Watch out for the ones who bring it
up again."

I looked over at them again but the bartender focused on me. He went
on. "Like I said, you seem like a nice guy. Just don't do anything
crazy." I wished he'd stop repeating himself. Then. "Your wife, she
went crazy one day. She went nasty on you. But it's over. Right? She's
sorry." He looked at me until I nodded. "So, before you do anything,
you should think about how you two were before. If what she did is
enough to end things cold turkey, then you already had bigger problems
than you're gonna get fixed in here. If not...?" He shrugged.

I stared at him. I was feeling the drinks, but they weren't helping.

"Are you a therapist?"

He smiled.

"Just a barkeep. One who's learned from his mistakes."

I bought a round for everyone and left a big tip.

*****
 
I decided to leave Judith. 

It wasn't just the scotch thinking for me. Oh I was drunk enough, but
that wasn't it. It was because of who she chose to sex. At first I'd
thought she picked George because I detest him, but it hit me I was
wrong. Not that it being George in particular wasn't a plus for her.
No, the real reason it was him was that he'd do it right away, no
questions asked. She wouldn't have to wait to get back at me. She got
the news, and after the shock she thought, "That bastard! I'll kill
him! I'll worse than kill him! I'll emasculate him!" Stick it to Matt
by having George stick it in her. It could have been a bum off the
street, as long as she could do it without waiting. 

(O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
She chortled in her joy.)

The whole time she was doing it with George, she was thinking how she'd
spring it on me. She should have seen my barkeep. He'd have told her
not to do anything crazy, and he would have been right.

When I got home Judith was waiting for me. At first I wouldn't say
anything to her, and she followed me around the house like a lonely
puppy, asking to talk. While I got down my suitcase she said, "Please,
Matt."

"There's nothing to talk about. I just need some space. I need to be
away from you, and from here."

"Don't leave."

"How can I stay here after that?"

"Please! I was desperate. I thought you had killed me. What else could
I think?"

"Oh, that maybe there was a tiny, leetle mistake?"

"I know, honey. I know, but I was insane! I wasn't thinking straight.
Please try to see what I was going through. Please. Out of nowhere, I
thought you had given me AIDS. I went out of my mind!"

"Not so out of your mind that you couldn't arrange a fuck session with
George Mathis within a couple of hours!"

"Please!"

"I bet all that good sex made you feel a lot better for a while."

Judith jerked. She stiffened, as though to get some dignity.

"I didn't come, if that's what you mean."

"Well. So all you got out of sucking George and being fucked by him was
punishing me. That's so much better."

And she collapsed again.

"That's not what I meant."

"What are you going to do the next time you think I've been bad, go
hire a hit man? Maybe have someone go over me with a baseball bat?"

"Please! Matt. I'm so sorry. I'm so ashamed. If I could undo it I
would. Please give me another chance."

"I don't want that. I don't want to go back to what we had. It wasn't
that good for either of us."

"Matt..."

"Wait! There's more. I don't want to have something to hold over you. I
don't like either of us like this, and after a while you wouldn't like
it either. You'd have to be oh-so-nice about everything because you
sexed Mr. Dickhead. It would kill you and it would kill us."

"Not if you really forgave me."

"Maybe. But I don't know that I can. I don't know that I want to. The
very first things you decided when you thought you were sick were to
hurt me and to fuck someone else. They tell me a lot about you, and
about us, and none of it is any good." 

"Matt. Please. If you love me - if you ever loved me - please let me
try. Try to understand. I wasn't myself! Give me a chance to make
amends. I love you, and I'm sorry, and I'll never hurt you again."

("And what have we got on the other side?" Sam Spade asked Brigid
O'Shaughnessy, before he handed her to the police. "All we've got is
that maybe you love me and maybe I love you.")

"Judy. Shit. I'm sorry too. But I don't know what I feel toward you. I
know it isn't good. And I do want to hurt you. Oh shit!"

I dumped out the suitcase and began repacking.

"Here. Let me help."

"Back off! Damn it! I don't think you even really believe what you're
saying. I don't think you like me all that much, and I don't think you
particularly like being married to me."

"Matt..."

"Well, you're healthy. You don't need a nurse. So you can be healthy
and alone, and decide what you really want. I'll do the same thing."

*****

That was the situation when I left. It's been months, now. We're apart.
There are a lot of things I like about living alone, but my apartment
is awfully sterile. Judith? She's seeing a counselor and she says it's
helping her, but I don't think I'd do that. 

It's been an experience though. You folks who have gone through it know
what I mean. I've learned some things. Like what it is to have the rug
pulled out from under you. Like how to act as though everything's fine
when you're quivering inside. Like what woman-hating jerks some guys
are. I wonder what they would do in a real situation, as opposed to
their power fantasies? Me, I'm trying to following the bartender's
advice. The font of wisdom. Don't do anything crazy. Hell, I haven't
even filed for divorce. 

All this because her test was wrong. A one-percent chance of a false
reading. If it had been right, we'd have kept on the same direction we
were going, smooth sailing or rough, happy or tired with each other,
whatever. If she'd been slower to screw George, so that we saw the doc
before anything happened and got the results straightened out, things
would be more or less the same. More or less. Or if it had been, say, a
cholesterol test.

It's been the worst experience of my life, worse even than when my
brother died.

Still, Judith and I see each other from time to time. Her counselor
suggested it. I pick her up and we go to neutral territory to talk.
"Dates," she calls them and, frankly, once the uncertainty wore off and
we could get away from talking about "it," they've been fine. She
dresses up for them, and she wears makeup and perfume. I'd forgotten
how lovely she could be. We end up talking about everything. It's much
nicer being with her than when we were together. I've had fantasies
about having sex with her, sex like it was in the early years only, of
course, even better.

A couple of weeks ago Judith found a leak under the bathroom sink, so I
spent a Saturday buying supplies and fixing it myself, because it's
still my house too and, frankly, money is tight right now. She made a
roast and insisted I stay to eat. I didn't want to be rude.

Most recently, just last night, we had dinner and on the spur of the
moment went to a movie at an old, neighborhood theatre. It was Judith's
favorite chick flick, "Sleepless in Seattle." Afterward, she took my
hand while we walked, just strolling under the Bradford pear trees that
line the sidewalks, talking through the still of the evening. I didn't
let go. She has nice hands. We used to hold hands all the time. Yes, I
know, It sounds like I'm being a pussy. At her door--it used to be "our"
door--Judith gave me a sweet good-night kiss, and a hug, and she asked
if I wanted to come in for coffee. You know where that invitation was
heading. I told her I didn't think it would be a good idea, but Big Ben
was standing before the hug was over, and I'm sure she could feel it.
So I went home again, to be alone again. 

Yes, I know she's trying to win me back. I'm not as much of a mope as
you think. We're both still alone, and neither of us is happy that way,
but I still almost explode sometimes at how vicious she was.

So it's ironic, isn't it, that I like her more now than I did before. I
enjoy being with her. She's more thoughtful and more...interesting. I
wonder when we lost that quality, being interesting to each other? So
yes, I like being with her. Next time I may accept her offer.

End.


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