It’s a unique scenario, even for me. I’m forty-seven days from wheels up, and I’ve found a woman who only speaks Spanish and plays a game I haven’t seen since the Canadian left the site.
When we first started chatting, she laid out the site requirements. She told me, “If you come down here to Phoenix, you have to decide if you want me as your wife or not.” Now, look. I’m a man of experience. I’ve seen every kind of “grooming” there is. I knew I had other options—the massage friend, the poly girl downtown—but I wanted to see if I could pick this specific lock. I’m driving to Phoenix, I’m renting the Marriott, I’m putting in the hours. I’m expecting a massive return on that investment.
She kept insisting that if we were “husband and wife,” there were no limitations. No boundaries. No “No.” It’s the most beautiful, corny, and brilliantly transparent piece of psychological engineering I’ve ever encountered. And God, I love it.
See, women like this—traditional, light-skinned, light-eyed sirens—they need the Justification. For a woman to unzip my pants on the shoulder of the road to Sedona, or to let me pound her against a hotel windowsill while the world spins outside, she needs a story to tell herself. She needs to feel “pure.” She needs the label of “Wife” so she doesn’t feel like a one-night stand or a rotisserie chicken being ransacked by the next guy in line.
Men are dogs. We don’t need a manual. You say, “Hey, I just met you, want to do this in the backseat?” and the dog says, “I’ll bring the towels.” But the woman needs the ritual. She’s grooming me, and I’m grooming her right back. Because if saying “I’m your husband” is the key that opens the door to 14 sessions in 48 hours, then hand me the tuxedo. I’ll play house all weekend if it means breaking the records.
During the week, while we’re apart, the phone is a constant stream of “Husband” and “Wife.” We’re playing house. We’re storytelling. We’re building a fake foundation for a very real physical explosion.
I’m currently racing back to Scottsdale to capitalize on this. I have less than forty-seven days left in this country, and I have a massive amount of sexual energy to liquidate before I hit the tarmac in Da Nang. I am taking full control. I am taking Ownership.
Next up? Christmas in Bisbee. Five days. Wednesday through Saturday. Nothing but lust, passion, and home-cooked dinners. I’m going to ravage her body until the terminology of “Husband” becomes a physical reality. Then New Year’s at my house—another four-day marathon. Lanterns in the sky, records falling like dominoes, and me, fully understanding every square inch of the geography of her body.
But as I sit here, a question haunts the back of my mind. Is she doing this with everyone?
Come March or April, when I’m a ghost in Vietnam, does she hop back on Bumble and find the next “husband”? Does she look at some guy with those beautiful eyes and say, “Are you going to be my husband?” just so she can justify getting her back broken for three weekends straight? Am I just the latest guy to “marry” her for a month? Is she just a professional at the “Purity Ruse”?
The “Cat” perspective says she’s honest and sweet, and I’m just a “Dog” taking advantage. The “Charles” perspective says we’re both getting exactly what we need. She gets to feel “chosen,” and I get to wash the taste of Tucson and “Hoodwink” out of my system with a high-pressure hose of fresh, white-skinned passion.
The Final Walkthrough
It makes me happy. It really does. And that’s the saddest part of the whole project.
If I didn’t have that one-way ticket, I’d probably figure out a way to stay. I’d have her move in. But then I’d be fifty-seven, stuck in Tucson with a woman who doesn’t speak my language, living a life built on a sexual drive that will eventually cool down to room temperature. And then I’m just another man in a cage I built myself.
I already know the answer. I’m going to beat the hell out of this sexual energy. I’m going to drain every ounce of drive and every drop of lust. I’m going to enjoy the “Husband” role until New Year’s Eve, and then I’m going to start the demolition.
I’m selling the furniture. I’m cleaning the stains off the mattress I’m currently “marrying” her on. I’m giving away the clothes. I’m cashing the PTO check.
I’m going to leave Tucson with no erection needed. I’m going to leave it all on the field, from the windowsills of Scottsdale to the bedsheets of Bisbee. I’m going to enjoy the haunting while it lasts, and then I’m going to pull the plug on the whole goddamn machine.
Watch the sky, boys. The ghost of who I am is almost through the gate.
