She apologized and continued quickly away before he could catch up to her…if he was even coming after her. Her sobs were making her chest heave and...she held the flaps of her wool coat close to her body, crossways. Her thoughts were bombarding her with questions, statements, what could have led up to this madness. She was pissed, she was hurt and she was betrayed by her own husband. ‘How could he?! How could he?!’ Her brained forced the words at her constantly, ‘Fucking fucker! Fucking. For example, tits that hang way too low, or a monstrous hanging belly or an ass that resembles a sack of potatoes. These are all big turn offs in my book. Irish had none of these. But best of all Irish was a bigger sex addict than I was. She was a total fuckin’ nympho. Once while a party was going on at her place she tried to give me a hand job right in her kitchen! That’s not too wild so far except her mom was right around the corner! No! No! no! Not good! Lucky for us I had a buddy who lived. More

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