Should I go to my ex-wife’s wedding?
Dear Dale:
I’m divorced. The wife and I were always fighting so we called it quits. It was nasty at first but we kept in touch because of the kids. You got to do what’s right for the kids. Funny enough, we’re friends now. We meet for coffee and have a laugh. Like dating but without the sex. Thing is, she’s getting married again and wants me to come. So do the kids. What do you think? Should I go?
Signed,
Seems weird to me
Dear SWTM:
Absolutely. At the very least it’ll make her new husband uncomfortable.
(Serves him right for banging your ex-wife.)
I should know. I did the same.
It all started one afternoon when I was sitting at a bar chatting up a hooker and my boss called to ask why I wasn’t at work.
Now, normally, I wouldn’t answer — I don’t like to give him the satisfaction — but I was in the mood to tell him off so I did.
Fuck you, I said. I’m a city worker. I don’t have to do anything.
(It’s true. It even says so in the contract.)
I know that, he replied. I’m not stupid. Just calling to tell you Sheila’s getting married.
(Our ex-wives are good friends. They bonded over their mutual hatred of us.)
Which was news to me. Especially since, deep down, I always thought we’d get back together someday, that we had something special, something that could survive a short stint in prison and me banging her sister.
(Talk about naive.)
At first, I was angry — how dare she do that to me? — and briefly considered doing an O.J.: showing up in the middle of the night and killing them both.
But even I knew that was wrong. I understand killing someone for honor — if they dis you in class, steal your shoes or unfriend you on Facebook — but love is a prickly thing. There’s no telling where the heart will go.
Besides, who am I to criticize? I’ve banged so many married women I could provide a divorce lawyer with a fleet of Ferraris.
But since I still cared about her, I felt it my duty to check the guy out, see if he was a nice guy and if I should have my biker buddies beat the shit out of him.
So I looked into it. A few minutes of social media stalking was all I needed to ascertain the identity of her fiancée. Turns out he’s some nerd with a bowtie who works as a vice-principal at an elementary school.
(How the hell she met scum like that I’ll never know.)
Does volunteer work too — for refugees, sick people and the abused: teaches illiterates to read, counsels cancer patients and talks desperate people out of killing themselves.
Red flags, each and every one of them. Because no one can be that good.
Guy like that, he must be hiding something. A secret vice, like serial killing or smoking. And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me he must be a child molester.
(Why else would anyone want to work in a school?)
So I decided to take action. Called him up, told him who I was and said we needed to talk. He agreed to meet me.
(Big mistake.)
We met at a coffee shop, exchanged a few pleasantries and I assured him I bore him no ill and wished him and Sheila a long and happy life together.
(The fool bought it.)
I continued along that line, feeding him a bunch of feel-good bullshit, which he eagerly lapped up, all the while waiting for him to go to the can — at which point I spiked his drink with acid, waited for the drug to take effect and then, when he was good and ripped, took him to Slee Zees, my favorite strip club.
My plan was to record him surrounded by strippers, his face buried in the tits of one and his cock splitting the lips of another, and send the video to Sheila.
She’d know it was me of course because that’s my standard trick — I do it to my Christian brother at least once a year — but I figured it wouldn’t matter since, whatever the reason, his cock had been in the mouth of another.
But things didn’t work out the way I planned. He was confused at first. Kept asking why the women weren’t wearing clothes and was worried they might catch a cold — like he had never been to a strip club before.
(Is that possible? I mean, for anyone over twelve?)
But then the penny dropped, he realized where he was and starting asking the strippers if they had been abused as a child.
(Of course they had. Just try finding a woman in the sex industry who hasn’t.)
Which scared them off. All except for one, who recognized him as a former teacher. Stopped shaking her tits and started talking about what a great guy he was and how once, when she was at her lowest ebb, she called the suicide prevention line and it was him who talked her out of it. And then she started to cry, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks as she sobbed loudly, and, despite all the acid he’d done, he was Mr. Calm Cool and Collected and he comforted her, taking her in his arms and telling her everything would be okay.
Which was a real downer for the rest of us. Because nothing kills a hard-on like watching a stripper cry.
(Believe me, I know. It’s happened to me hundreds of times.)
A strange feeling, both sad and joyous, almost religious — like that time I met Jesus after taking a dump in an elevator — came over me and I wondered if maybe, just maybe, what I was doing was wrong so I did something unusual, something I’d never done before: I left the strip club before closing.
I grabbed the guy and took him to an all-night donut shop, where I told him my life story: how I had been abandoned by my dad, neglected by my mom, adopted by bikers, abducted by the Amish and molested by the bearded lady. How I had fucked up my life with drugs and alcohol and ruined the one good relationship I had by sleeping with my wife’s sister.
(That part he already knew.)
And through it all he listened, never interrupting or judging, just taking it all in and we bonded as only acid buddies can do.
So much so, he invited me to his wedding.
Needless to say, Sheila was dead-set against it but, somehow or another, he talked her into it, convinced as he was that he had seen some good in me and that all I needed was a bit of positive encouragement to turn my life around.
(Acid can really fuck with your head.)
I skipped the ceremony — it’s before noon after all and who needs that lovey-dovey shit? — but I was right on time and only half-pissed for the reception.
Took Twyla as my plus-one. She’s my favorite stripper from Slee Zees. On payday, I stuff so many bills in her panties they look like an unchanged diaper.
(She’s also a part-time prostitute. Largely because of a horrendous coke habit. There’s a reason her nickname is Dyson.)
Told her it was an important event and asked her to dress up nice and boy, did she ever: extra-large eyelashes, huge gold hoop earrings and makeup a clown would pass on… she went all out. And the dress! A sexy black one-piece with a neckline barely above her nipples and a hem so high you could see her panties when she bent over — if, that is, she were wearing any.
They put us at the back, at the losers’ table, with the alcoholic uncles and the disabled kids. Had a spastic guy next to me who kept drooling onto the table. That and try to make conversation but, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what he was saying so I just kept nodding and moved my plate to the side.
I was on my best behavior. Didn’t throw a punch at anyone, no matter how much they annoyed me.
(Not even the spastic guy.)
Despite that, I kept getting dirty looks from Sheila’s family — especially her brother, the former semi-pro football player who tackled me at my wedding. The minister had asked if I took Sheila to be my lawfully-wedded wife and instead of saying “I do,” I had shouted “No!” and made a run for it. At which point, he plowed into me, sending me crashing into a pile of presents. I was pretty put out at the time but I guess that’s what you get for doing acid too early in the day. Should’ve saved it for the wedding night.
The meal was A-1: prime turkey loaf with mashed potatoes and a vegetable of indeterminate origin. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the alcohol: although the other tables all got wine, we, the designed drunks, were served grape juice. Which rubbed me a bit raw: just because the other drunks at the table have admitted to having a problem doesn’t mean I have.
Fortunately, I always carry a flask of vodka with me.
(You never know when you’re going to need a pick-me-up in the middle of a workday.)
And a fair bit of coke as well. So, once the meal was over, Twyla and I stepped out to indulge. We were standing in the parking lot, doing lines off the hood of a car, when we saw a kid. Maybe it was the wedding but I suddenly felt the desire to do something nice for him.
Sorry, I said. Did you want some of this?
For some reason, he declined. Which was maybe just as well, given Twyla’s voracious appetite for the stuff. That and the fact that, having neglected to buy a present, I was hoping to make up for it by offering Sheila and my new best buddy a toot or two.
The speeches were the usual boring shit, all about how much everyone loves one other and what special people they all are. But it made me think that, as the ex-husband, I had a duty to get up and say a few words. So I did.
Maybe it was just a coincidence but the temperature of the room dropped suddenly and the closer I got to the head table, the quieter things became. Sheila’s face turned ashen; her brother glared at me; and her parents looked like they were going to throw up. Only her husband seemed unperturbed.
I began by introducing myself and saying how, despite the messiness of our divorce, I really appreciated being invited and wished Don and Sheila a long and happy life together. I assured everyone that Sheila was a saint and put the fault for the failure of our marriage solely on myself. I acknowledged that I was an unrepentant alcoholic and drug addict, confessing that I had just done a line off the hood of someone’s car and hoped they didn’t mind. I also admitted to cheating on Sheila on numerous occasions and that, as bad as I felt about it, if we were still married, would probably do it again, given half a chance. I also told them about her sister and how I had banged her in our bed, something that Sheila seemed to take exception to. I told her sister that I had no desire to diminish what had happened between us, that she shouldn’t worry, the sex was bang-on, some of the best I’ve ever had, but had to admit that knowing she was Sheila’s sister gave it an extra oomph and so, could not be totally sure exactly where it ranked amongst the hundreds of women I’ve banged in my life. I did say, however, that I thought it a bit unfair she had received forgiveness and I had not. Whatever the case, I didn’t want anyone to think that I had sought sexual solace from her because Sheila wasn’t up to snuff. On contrary, I assured them that Sheila was a tigress in bed, capable of doing things with her tongue that would make Gene Simmons envious.
It was at that point that her brother blindsided me, sending me flying face-first into the cake. But I wasn’t there long. Someone, her brother most likely, grabbed my legs and pulled me across the dance floor and towards the door, a long strawberry streak marking my path to the exit.
(First, he tackles me to prevent me from leaving a wedding. Now, he tackles me to kick me out. Make up your mind, will you?)
Outside we discovered Twyla giving the maid of honor’s husband a blowjob in his car. Can’t say I was impressed. Felt it reflected badly on me.
(It’s a bit embarrassing when the woman you bring to a wedding as your plus-one is caught giving a blowjob to a total stranger in the parking lot.)
His wife wasn’t too happy about it either. Kept screaming and hitting him and calling Twyla a whore.
That’s not true, I said. She’s a stripper, not a whore.
(Although, to be honest, she’s both. Especially when the coke runs out.)
Sheila’s family were no less amused, especially her sister. I suggested hooking up later but, for some reason, she passed.
(Maybe it was all that cake on my face. It’s not a good look.)
Concerned about Twyla’s safety, I grabbed her by the arm and we hightailed it, going straight to The Drunken Skunk for a beer and a few more lines.
Needless to say, I wasn’t invited to the gift-opening. Not that I cared. It’s usually dull as dishwater. All those people sitting around, oohing and awing at pointless presents no one ever uses: juicers, waffle irons and dish towels.
But I was hurt by Don’s refusal to meet me after. I called him a few times and invited him out for a drink but he was always busy. Eventually, I took the hint.
I don’t blame him. I understand how it is: he did it for Sheila’s sake. A lot of guys are like that. They try to preserve their marriage by spending time with their wife, being nice to her and not fucking around.
(Some guys are just born pussy-whipped.)
But it was still a disappointment. Because friendship is important to me and an acid buddy is a friend for life.
(I even feel that way about the assholes I’ve punched out.)
Or so I thought. Truth is, eventually, a woman comes along and things change. To quote an old song: “Wedding bells are breaking up that old gang of mine.”
So sure, go to your ex-wife’s wedding. Have a drink and enjoy the meal. You can even flirt with the bridesmaids if you want. Just don’t make the mistake of giving a speech. You’ll be glad you didn’t. Because weddings are a time for hope not honesty and some things, no matter how well-intentioned, are just best left unsaid. Hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Dale
Hi. If you’ve made it this far, you probably liked the story. So why not check out some others at my Medium page? https://medium.com/dear-dale
