Your Wife's Old Flame is Going to Visit; Uh, oh! What Shall I do or Don't do?
This is your wife's "ex"
This is your wife and "Brad Steele," in their college days
Your wife and "Brad" on a horseback-riding outing
A brief biography
of "Brad Steele," your wife's ex-lover, fiancé.
Warning: if you are facing a situation like this, your wife's "super-stud," ex-lover and fiancé, coming to visit her, not you, to catch-up on old times, then either continue to read or if you are the insecure type, just turn to another story to save you some worry-lines.
"Brad Steele," would have to be the most near-perfect man who ever walked the earth. "Steele," was born in terrific shape. He has never joined or entered a gym or health club. "Steele," has biceps and "12-pack abs," that any professional wrestler would kill to have. And they came with his birth. He has never worked-out, lifted weights, jogged, or lived on health foods.
"Brad Steele," stands a firm six-foot, three inches tall, and weighs a perfect 188 hard, taunt pounds. He doesn't know what the term "diet" means. He eats what he wants and as much as he wants and loses weight. He was also born with a full-head of perfect blond hair, like those surfer boys from Malibu.
And with his icy-blue eyes, and that cute dimple on his left cheek (facial), he is a "man that intimidates" men just by showing-up in clubs, restaurants, or the doctor's office, not to see the physician, but get his huge payment for those television ads he did for the doctor whose business was needing "a shot in the arm."
"Steele," lettered in all sports in grade school, high school and college. He was recruited by every major college when he was a senior in high school playing quarterback on his All-State football team that he led to four-straight state championships almost single-handedly.
"Steele," could have had an easy, lucrative acting career in Hollywood, but opted to do charity work for The Peace Corps in third-world countries to as he put it, "do something for the world who has been so good to me."
And he is the shadow that has been making you nervous and edgy as a turkey at Thanksgiving over the years when your lovely, sensual wife told you one night after you had "the" worst day of your life at work, "Oh, hunny. you remember my ex, 'Brad Steele'"?
Before you could answer, she said with a happy look, "Well he is in town to shoot some television ads or something, and asked if he could stop by tomorrow night for a visit--and what could I say but 'yes'" Then she walks away with "that" certain walk that once got your attention.
It has finally hit you
"Brad Steele," heart-throb, sex god, winner of "Best Male Pin-up of All Time," in girly magazine, and the man born with the perfect body . . .is actually coming to your home, to visit with your wife of ten years, to catch-up on old times.
Interesting. As you push-back the lukewarm Swanson's Hungry Man dinner, thoughts begin to surface.
- "Why hasn't my wife mentioned "Brad Steele," in the past ten years?"
- "What was the reason she said they broke-up?"
- "No wonder she is to excited and moving like a teenager."
- "How desperate she must be--married to me, but thinking about "Brad."
But with "Brad Steele's" visit notwithstanding, you creep to your bedroom, mentally-abused by your neurotic excuse-of-a-boss and your wife, "Susie," who looks like a young girl of 22, and earning huge tips as "Bambi," the best pole dancer at a joint called, "Charlie Choo's," across town.
"Yepp," you sigh to yourself watching "Susie," sleep as soundly as a baby deer, "she was definitely dwelling on "Brad Steele," tonight. Then you, exhausted as if you had poured asphalt in the hot Arizona sun, fall off to sleep and the thought of "Brad Steele," disappears for the moment.
Your wife talking to "Brad Steele," at a frat party
The next morning
You awake suddenly, scared, then you realize that today is Saturday. You silently thank God that you do not have to face, "Bob Belk," your narrow-minded, short-sighted boss today. It is just 7 a.m., you can catch another needed-nap and maybe enjoy a few dreams about your naughty wife and how she put you in more positions (last night) than a yoga instructor on speed.
Then you hear the sensuous giggle of "Susie." She must be in the kitchen preparing you a feast for how well you held-up last night in satisfying her sexual hunger.
After you stumble to the kitchen, your thighs and ribs aching like a plague you caught in some desolate Amazon jungle, you see "Susie," dressed only in her slacks and blouse, a slight departure from her usual flashy wardrobe.
"Susie," you ask. "Why aren't you dressed in some flashing get-up?"
"Oh, that," she giggles. "I thought I would save time by putting on these Italian lamb chops with Montana baby potatoes and carrots for tonight--they have to slow-cook all day."
"Tonight? Oh, that "Steele" fellla is coming. Right," you respond not showing your envy.
"Well, I guess I will have my coffee and a bite of breakfast and just read the sports section of the paper," you say stretching and yawning--still not showing how you deeply-resent your wife's "ex" having the nerve to show his moisturized-face in your home.
"Ohhh, honey. I forgot your coffee and breakfast. I am sorreeee," "Susie," coos looking through her gorgeous brunette hair. How could you possibly be angry at a woman like this.
To show that you are still a secure man, you make your own coffee and grab a few cookies out of the pantry for your breakfast.
You just can't help it. You give-in to weakness and ask, "So this banquet you are fixing in your bra and panties are for 'Brad Steele"?
"Yes, 'Mr. Jealousy,' 'Brad' always liked his lamb chops cooked tenderly and I am doing that for him to show him our courtesy," "Susie," snaps,
For a 33-year old woman, she sure knows how to answer me, you think as you sit down to watch SportsCenter.
It is now Saturday evening
and there is a definite tension in the air. "Brad Steele," out of sheer respect, has called from the airport and is on his way to visit "Susie," who has spent three-hours in the bathroom showering, shaving her legs, and doing things an excited woman does when a "certain old flame" is coming back through her life for a visit.
You are hiding your nervousness like a pro. You should pat yourself on the back. Most men, lesser men than you, have lost their temper and left their wives who were once "Brad Steele's" lovers, your wife told you one night when she had drank too much wine.
Tick, tock. Time goes slowly.
Then there it is. That familiar, would-be marriage-dissolving knock on the door.
"Susie," literally runs a 440-dash to answer the door--and she has never looked sexier.
Now here are the things that you do NOT do when "Brad Steele" enters
- Act immature like a six-year-old who doesn't know how to share. Be a man. A confident man.
- Offer "Brad" your hand in friendship with a joy buzzer that stings and surprises this perfect man.
- Talk extra-masculine making your voice deeper than usual. This is a dead give-away that you are jealous and in contention with "Brad."
- Glare at "Brad" and say nothing. Remember, your wife chose you, not "Brad," for a mate. Or did she marry you on the rebound because "Brad" had to go to Calcutta for nine years to teach celibacy to the tribes of uneducated tribes who were having too many children to care for.
- Start bragging on what you do for a living and other trivial items that "Brad" is not interested in.
These five things are key to a successful evening with "Brad Steele," as your guest.
Dinner, for lack of an apt adjective, is a nightmare. "Susie," acts as if she is "Brad Steele's," personal maid as she cuts his meat, dips his vegetables and pours his wine for him. You have to get your own food like a shmuck. And what is worse, you are a shmuck for not getting a better job many years ago when "Susie," first mentioned this "Brad" character.
During dinner, it is just a one-on-one conversation between "Susie and "Brad." Neither offer a word of conversation to you. Not a bone. But you hold your emotions well.
There is mental image you have of a herd of filthy swine pouring themselves into the nauseous trough sucking, chewing, grunting, as they down the food poured for them by their master.
Then you open your eyes and laugh to yourself and think, this night will be over in a few hours and then I can relax.
"Susie," then pulls a fast-one. She invites "Brad," to join her in the bedroom (where she almost killed you with intercourse) to talk about those old college memories both have kept over the years.
You politely ask, "The bedroom? Why can't you just sit in here and talk?" your face is now red.
"Susie," while holding "Brad's" forearm with one hand, explains that Saturday night, tonight, is "the: night that you have wanted to watch The Patriots and Steelers and her and "Brad," do not want to disturb you.
So you grab a cold Bud and plop down in your recliner.
FACT: a normal NFL game lasts from three to four hours. Remember that fact.
You swig your beer while your radar-like ears are tuned-in to what your wife and "Brad" are doing in the bedroom. You hear her giggling and his manly laughing. Over and over. Then a silence. Then more sexy giggling and an occasional, "Ohhh, 'Brad,' you nasty boy," and sounds like a crew of mowers moving heavy furniture downstairs.
You have long since lost all interest in this crucial play-off game. You are trembling with jealousy and anger. But in the last twenty-minutes, they haven't said a word.
When your wife and "Brad" do exit the bedroom, here are five things you are to do:
- Act cordial and unaffected, but not too much, be a little jealous for "Susie's' sake. Women like that type of thing.
- Offer "Brad" a cold one or some Chex party mix.
- Give "Brad" your favorite recliner. You will sit in the floor.
- Smile a lot and keep from sniffing "Brad" and your wife's clothing for scents of them having hot sex.
- Get "Brad" to talking about is world travels.
The bedroom door finally opens. "Susie," and "Brad," both smiling like well-fed jungle apes walk to the living room arm in arm and giggling like two first-time boozers in junior high.
You start doing the 5 Things That You Need to Do to Show "Brad," you are civil.
"Well, folks. I gotta run. Thanks, 'Susie,' 'Jeb,' for a nice evening," "Brad" says as he rises from your recliner showing his manhood in his tight jeans.
"Awww, honey, do you just have to leave?" "Susie," asks right on cue.
Then a hard knock comes on the door. All three of you look surprised.
Being the cordial host, you volunteer to answer the door.
When you open the door a regular Tasmanian Devil-type of a Hispanic woman who looks like JayLo's double and more-angry than a bull on acid charging at the matador.
"So, there you are, you filthy pig! I should have known it. Turn my back for a minute, taking care of your six keeds, and you hunt down this skank of your whore-hopping days to get some. You are a sorry piece of filth, "Brad," now get home!" This upset woman roars to an humbled-"Brad," who walks out with his head hung low.
The door shuts.
You and "Susie" just look at each other and say not a word.
You both slowly walk in the direction of the bedroom simultaneously.