George
He played my first husband for a fool
It’s a testament to my naivety that I believed my first husband was an appropriate marriage prospect. Granted, he was Jewish, and I had a lot of family pressure to marry within my faith, but I could have done a better job vetting my future husband. I thought he just liked to drink too much every once and a while, I didn’t get that meant every night. I knew he dabbled in cocaine, but everyone in New York City did as well. I just didn’t realize that it played such an important part of his life.
There were a lot of men who played my first husband for a fool, none more so than George. He knew how to get him to both pay for the coke he sold him and also to get him to beg him to come over to our apartment and fuck me.
I never fully realized what an idiot my first husband was until he told me what George did for a living. He actually believed some concocted story that the drug dealer he brought over to fuck me wasn’t really selling drugs for a living, he was making a fortune trading frozen concentrated orange juice futures. I actually burst out laughing when I heard that.
I’ve been around enough people who work on Wall Street to know that trading physical commodities is a fool’s game. And to trade something as esoteric as frozen concentrated orange juice while staying up until 2:00 am every morning snorting coke is just too much to believe. More often than not, what you see is what you get. If someone sells cocaine, he’s a drug dealer. He’s not a financial wizard.
Nevertheless, of the many men my first husband brought over to fuck me, George was one of my favorites. He was a tall, handsome man of Chinese descent with an incongruous southern accent. He obviously came from a good family, but he had taken a wrong turn at some point in his life. He dressed extremely well, far better than most commodity traders and he seemed to live a nocturnal life. New York is full of those types.
My first marriage was untenable from the start and I sort of went along with it until I didn’t. My husband had a sexual hang up, which only manifested itself after the wedding. All he thought about sexually was me being fucked by other men. Every friend he had became my lover and, when word got around that the sex was good and free, he became very popular at the Wall Street bars he hung out in after he got off work.
I got along very well with George because he was intelligent, evasive and really dirty when it came to sex. Since he had great quantities of cocaine at his disposal, he had a hold over my husband and could get him to agree to anything. George could be on a cocaine and booze bender and call up my husband at 4:00 am and get him to agree to let him bring a couple of friends over to fuck me.
As the hatred for my first husband grew in leaps and bounds, I was drawn to men who knew how to manipulate him. It was quite simple really, just a line of cocaine and a beer was all it took. And then the potential denial of another line and a beer and he became desperate.
I still keep track of George, just because he’s a character that interests me. I would never have dated him or even had sex with him under any other circumstances, but I still admired the way he used my first husband to get what he wanted.
There are happy endings even for people seemingly on a spiral down to utter ruin. Drug dealers seldom stop doing what they do until they end up either in prison or dead. Somehow George avoided that. He swapped the nocturnal lifestyle and became a lawyer in North Carolina. He married a respectable woman and had children and became a success. I am sure he is a member of the Rotary Club now.
My first husband? I’m not interested in hearing how he turned out, but I doubt it will end happily. As for me, those few years were not good for me, but I learned a lot and found out what I really wanted in life and went out and got it.
New York is not a particularly wholesome place and that’s the appeal of it. It’s like a summer camp for adults. The sheer size of it gives everyone a sense of anonymity. What you did last night doesn’t matter because chances are, you’ll never meet those people again. But I’m never going back there again. Every street in the city brings back another bad memory. The old axiom that you can never run away from your problems is absolute bullshit. You can, and I did.
