After a quick kiss and a smile which went all the way to her eyes she put her head back down on my chest. That was quite possibly the worst part in all of this. Why couldn’t she just cut my arm off before raising up. Damn! Pins and ten thousand needles all the way out to the fingertips. How is it women know exactly where to put their head to shut off all the blood to your arm? It has to be some gene on the X chromosome. I’ve never met a woman who didn’t put her head exactly there, first try, insisting it was the only place “comfortable.” Her head was only off that pressure point for a few seconds. Just enough to let some blood start flowing before it was shut off again. Women complain men don’t like to cuddle and talk after sex. We simply don’t like all of the pain it involves. Female logic can’t comprehend that.
Think man! You need an exit plan here.
“So. How does a woman get a man who is well off and willing to complete her?” Melony asked softly.
“That’s easy” I responded.
“Really?” she said excitedly, raising her head to look into my eyes.
“Yep. They don’t exist.”
Slap went her hand on my chest. It was almost hard enough to take my mind off the arm complaining about this botched amputation going on.
“Don’t be an asshole!” she said with a bit of heat.
“I’m not. They don’t exist. What you are talking about is what all males call a ‘kept man.’ They exist to service the needs of a woman, some even desire to be house husbands. They do not, however, come with a big bank account. Your friend Billy would be a prime candidate for a kept man. He has absolutely no game and even fewer ambitions. You might be able to train him to be a proper house husband, once you get him house broken” I chuckled.
“Please” she said with a bit of disgust. “I change enough diapers as it is now.”
“There are said to be one or two trust fund babies, usually the third or farther down child in wealthy families without any more ambition than being an aristocrat. There is a long line of aristocrat women seeking to bed them down the isle, though, I must admit, you can definitely hold your own in that department.”
“Years ago” Melony interrupted, “when I first got pregnant, I could have easily fell into the roll of housewife. It seemed natural, but it wasn’t ever going to be a possibility. Baby daddy number one made sure that was clear to me. While the hours are grueling and the diaper changing monotonous, I really couldn’t quite my job. Cut back on the hours certainly, but stop being a CNA, I couldn’t. Some of those people, the ones which still have their wits about them, if not all of their bodily functions, really become your friends. I see some people who are just abandoned there. They have kids living less than twenty minutes away who only show up for Christmas. It’s sad to see so many just hoping the old farts will kick off while there is still some inheritance left.”
Melony continued “I’m sure most of the kids would try to sue me for saying that, but, that’s the way it looks. You don’t work seven days per week, twenty four hours per day. It’s under twenty minutes one way to spend an hour with them and they can only make it once per year? I’m more family to them than their own kids.”
Obviously building up momentum Melony went on “Still, you see the others. Showing up two or more days per week, every week. Some stopping by after work on their way home. Stay at home spouses stopping by with the grandchildren whenever the kids aren’t in school. That’s what everybody hopes for.”
Looking directly into my eyes with intensity she said “We have roughly 200 patients in that home. There are three, count them, three people who have that kind of family. The rest just got dumped off and basically forgotten until it comes time to read the will. You’re right. I couldn’t just be the 1950s good wife. I would still want to do my job at least three days per week.”
“There you have it then” I answered. “You have now consciously eliminated the pool of men you previously were seeking. What you really want is a man with a good job who is will help take care of the kids and let you work at least three days per week.”
“I already found him . . .” she uttered softly, trailing off, like one of those things someone thinks without realizing they are saying.
“Who!” I said louder than I should have, putting my hands up.
Slap on the chest again. Really stung that time. Definitely going to have a red hand print.
“Not you asshole!” she spat. “I married him.”
“Then what the fuck was this conversation about?” I said just as loudly. “And while we are on the topic of him, shouldn’t I be getting the Hell out of here?”