symptomology
Symptomology
Sam Spade would shake some sense into her, maybe give her a smack to draw out the confession. “See here dame, I know what your playing at. I’ve got the evidence and the evidence don’t lie.” She, crumbling before this unshakable stoic masculinity, seeing the error in her ways, would turn weepy and beg forgiveness.
My relationship spins with coriolis affect around the toilet bowl of marriage. We were doing so well until she insisted on the chore list.
Now that I’m regularly washing the laundry, I notice things …. like: for three months, she’s worn nothing but the good undies. Ladies, you know what I mean: transparent lace g-strings and silk thongs, low-riding pastel boy shorts with matching cammies that leave a three inch swath of flesh exposed around her abdomen and lower back. I’m not going to give details about what these’re like before washing, but I will say it is evidential.
While I’m putting away her sweaters on the top shelf of her closet, I jostle the stack of bulky cardigans already there. Out from the pile falls a perfumed, pink, quilted, silk pouch. In the pouch, ready for travel, are her best pieces of lingerie: The gold silk cami and easy-access girl shorts, the $75 burgundy corsette, the black lycra stretch bustier, fish net thigh stockings, more g-strings, a couple of silk cords, a blind-fold.
The guest sheets are stained on a regular basis. We haven’t had guests in months. I found a journal in the guest room with “shh, hush, don’t tell, ooooh, aaaah , oooh” on the cover. It contains one journal entry about smoking pot with and then and giving head to her uncircumsized lover. I don’t smoke pot and let’s just say that with me, my parents followed the covenant.
Sam Spade would shake some sense into her, maybe give her a smack to draw out the confession. “See here dame, I know what your playing at. I’ve got the evidence and the evidence don’t lie.” She, crumbling before this unshakable stoic masculinity, seeing the error in her ways, would turn weepy and beg forgiveness.
My relationship spins with coriolis affect around the toilet bowl of marriage. We were doing so well until she insisted on the chore list.
Now that I’m regularly washing the laundry, I notice things …. like: for three months, she’s worn nothing but the good undies. Ladies, you know what I mean: transparent lace g-strings and silk thongs, low-riding pastel boy shorts with matching cammies that leave a three inch swath of flesh exposed around her abdomen and lower back. I’m not going to give details about what these’re like before washing, but I will say it is evidential.
While I’m putting away her sweaters on the top shelf of her closet, I jostle the stack of bulky cardigans already there. Out from the pile falls a perfumed, pink, quilted, silk pouch. In the pouch, ready for travel, are her best pieces of lingerie: The gold silk cami and easy-access girl shorts, the $75 burgundy corsette, the black lycra stretch bustier, fish net thigh stockings, more g-strings, a couple of silk cords, a blind-fold.
The guest sheets are stained on a regular basis. We haven’t had guests in months. I found a journal in the guest room with “shh, hush, don’t tell, ooooh, aaaah , oooh” on the cover. It contains one journal entry about smoking pot with and then and giving head to her uncircumsized lover. I don’t smoke pot and let’s just say that with me, my parents followed the covenant.