At least, that's what I quietly accepted, before Toure Tissale moved in the one bedroom apartment that Cliff and I built above our garage. When Cliff and I first married, we couldn't get enough of being together. He wasn't the best lover in the world, but he tried to keep me happy and I did the same. Whatever the case, we fucked enough to make three children.

We committed our lives to raising them together and Cliff did everything a husband and father should, until they were out on their own, but within weeks after our youngest daughter, Jordan, moved to Atlanta with her husband, Cliff turned into… well… a fuckin' mule… bi-polar jackass is more accurate.

He rarely had anything positive to say about… anything. Even when I asked him a question or tried to make general conversation, he "short talked" me. He complained about everything, from the food I cooked, to the way I looked. Never mind that he never cooked a meal in his life and his daily wardrobe had deteriorated to a few pairs of hole-riddled, pit bull gray or black sweat pants, semi-transparent oil-stained tees with holes and runs, and a chewed-up pair of burgundy leather slip-ons. Nothing seemed to please him until the day we got The Dish.

Cliff bought a satellite dish that could receive every sporting event and news cast from around the world, twenty-four/seven. He completely stopped helping me around the house, he neglected the yard, and he didn't want to make one decision that didn't involve the TV. He barely moved from in front of it, except to eat, take a shit, or go play games on the computer. He rarely bathed

All marriages go through phases. There are times when a couple feels like one, and there are other times when both partners feel like giving up, because they have little in common, outside of children and bills. After twenty years, I figured that this was just another one of our phases, but three years later, I knew it was something more serious… maybe final.

One late Summer afternoon, as I stood watching the ragged remains of a tumble weed, some balled-up receipts and a fast food bag, spiral in our driveway by the garage, I gathered my nerves and unplugged the TV and computer while Cliff was taking his bi-weekly shower. I decided to ask him if he wanted a divorce. "We haven't really been… like a couple in a long time, Cliff. Do you think it's worth working things out, or do you think we should just let go and try to make sure we're both comfortable?"

Cliff shunned me with an icy silence. Before acknowledging my question, he noisily pushed and shoved our furniture around to find the cords to reconnect his holy shrine. Once the television was on and he was happily munching on a giant Hershey bar and the last corner of a sleeve of crinkled bar-b-q flavored Lays potato chips, he turned to me and said, "Do what you need to do, Mo, just leave me the fuck alone. I've been a good father and good husband. I've given you everything, and now I'm gon' do exactly what I want, for the rest of my life, and I suggest you do the same. If you have a problem with that, you can leave, but I ain't goin' nowhere. Got that?"

I started to take a rocky hike down Drama Road, but I opted for my regular retreat in the sunroom on the roof of our house. There's something soothing about being in a room with windows instead of walls. When things started falling apart, I often found myself up there; a cup of something soothing in hand, listening to hard jazz, and watching the moon and stars ambush the last colors of day. The solitude and the wide open view always helped clear my mind and smooth my heart. Outside of spotting an occasional raccoon or blue jay stealing Niche's dog food, I was alone. I couldn't see our neighbors and, more importantly, they couldn't see me so, I was free to do as I pleased.

On a good night, I'd read, sketch, or tend the hundred orchids that lined the shelves of the Northern windows, from the floor to the ceiling. On a great night, I'd sometimes lose myself in a wild fantasy and masturbate myself into a cum coma. Sometimes, I'd wake up and go to bed in, what used to be, the kids room. Sometimes, I'd just sleep buck naked in my chair, with my feet perched on top of my cedar "toy" chest. No matter what I did, when I finished, I always boomeranged back to the same pitiful thought, "Maybe this is all that's left, after you've had and done so much. Maybe the only thing left to do, is to get sick and die, Mozette."

The weight of this solemn wondering this always brought tears. One evening, about three months ago, every time I wiped one, two more appeared. I tossed my vibrator in the big stainless steel sink and flopped back down in my chair. I blew out the large tray of pale green sage scented candles and stared out into the summer night sky.

The aroma of my hot apple cider and the scent of our neighbors' fireplaces brought back the tender memories of more loving times, when our daughters were young. I remembered how they begged Cliff to read to them each night and how he always complied and never complained.

I remembered how we stripped buck naked and "pop-locked" to Prince… Erotic City… across the living room floor, when we returned from moving Jordan moved into Rincon Hall at CSUN. That was the last time we really made love.

From that day on, Cliff spiraled downward as my lover and covered up his lack of desire with a myriad single-ply excuses, to avoid doing anything outside of watching television. Nothing I tried seemed to turn him on. I even went so far as to start exercising again, to get back into shape for him. He did say, "You look great, Mo," peeking over his battered bifocals, watching me dress, but when I said, "I'm hungry for you, Cliff," he acted like he didn't hear me. If it hadn't been for my extensive erotica collection and my trusty right hand, I'da lost my whole fuckin' mind.

When I first turned to pleasing myself, I used to tip-toe up stairs, lock myself in the linen closet and massage my pussy until I came. I used to suppress my breathing and try not to make any movement or sound when I came, just so Cliff wouldn't know. But, as Cliff grew colder, I became bolder. I bought a mid-sized dildo, to fill me as I wandered from fantasy to fantasy, pleasing myself to orgasm. For a while, this seemed to knock the edge off, but as I approached my mid-forties, I began to desire something more intense and different. When I asked Cliff to join my sexual adventure, it was like talking to a complete stranger, in fact, Mr. Fuck-Er'where told me, "I'm sorry, Mo, sex ain't as important to me as it used to be." "So, what am I supposed to do?" I asked, knowing the answer. "Do whatever you been doing," he winked sarcastically, diddling the play button on his beloved remote.

I was livid when he gave me a Hitachi Magic Wand, with all the attachments, for my fortieth birthday, but it was lust at first cum, when I finally plugged in that puppy. The first time I plugged I it in, it sounded like a low flying bomber, but after a few dildo accessorized "Scream out, Shake, and Shiver" orgasms, I got to the point, where I didn't care if Cliff heard Mr. Hitachi or not. Mr. Hitachi kept me satisfied for a few years, but… a vibrator's a vibrator, a dildo's a dildo, and dick is dick. Here I was, in the peak of my sexuality and Cliff was treating me like a ghost.

In a last ditch effort, I bought tons of scandalously sheer and peek-a-boo lingerie. I threw out all my flowered floor length granny house coats and in their place, I wore Daisy dukes, skin tight jeans, bright sexy bra tops, and matching boots and heels. I lost my last fifteen pounds and hired a personal trainer. I worked my way back down to a tight size ten.

I knew it was all for nothing, the day I modeled my perfectly fitting wedding gown for Cliff and slowly raised its hem, to a song we fucked like wild animals to, on our honeymoon. He looked up into the impeccably shaved heart, arranged in perfectly parted Afro-twists, above my magenta rouged pussy lips, lathered with raspberry gel, only an inch from his lips and said, "What's for dinner, Mo?" I said, "There's some meatloaf, string beans and mashed potatoes in the refrigerator, from Monday, baby," without a blink, "Let me go heat it up for you."

If I heated that shit up, Santa Claus fucked the Tooth Fairy, while I swam the English Channel, doing the backstroke. I staggered upstairs to my sanctuary with a napkin full of Oreos, a double shot of eggnog, and a whiskey snifter of Amaretto. Have you ever cum, from a plug-in vibrator with a mouth full of Christmas Cheer and your favorite cookies, sitting in your favorite chair? It's fuckin' transcendental!

After carefully folding my wedding gown back into its box, I popped in two whole Oreos and flopped down into my sage green suede overstuffed recliner, determined to make the most of my disappointment. I minced the first two cookies into manageable bits, let 'em melt into a gooey mess, and swallowed. They say people who crave sugar, are really craving more sweetness in their lives. I contemplated that thought until the third gulp of eggnog and Amaretto dribbled into my brain folds. In the middle of the sugary sting, the thickening fog of eggnog, and the flare of heat between my legs, I heard faint footsteps taking the stairs of the garage by twos. I knew it was our mysterious tenant from the Ivory Coast.

Cliff took his deposit and gave him the key at the end of May, but neither of us had seen him since. The only reason I knew he lived there was because he paid his rent every month on time, and Sheree, our next door neighbor, said he scared the dog shit out of her, when he darted into our driveway, one night, coming back from his late night run. She said, "Girrrrl, He's an eleven and he's buffed from crown to cuff. He wasn't joggin', that motha fucka was r-r-r-runnin'. He started talkin' with that French accent and I had stripped down to my draws, before I realized he was just offering me an apology." Sheree was right.

His deep plum silhouette was framed by the warm apricot light of his doorway. He was medium height, about five foot nine or ten but he stood erect, shoulders penned back, like a tall man. When he stooped to remove his tennis shoes, he glanced back, in my direction and then walked inside and shut the door. As nosy as I am, I was determined to complete the voyage of self-pleasure I'd begun and started back in on my masturbation project.

I dropped my head back into the chair back cushion and drowned all distractions, until the only sounds I heard were the rhythmic smacks of my fingers, rapidly rolling my swollen clit between my fingers, in my sweet sticky nectar, like a tiny bead. When I felt all my muscles begin to tense, I put the last two Oreos in my mouth, turned up the last shot of Amaretto, spread my thighs wide so wide that the evening chill sliced into my wetness with sweet surprise. Just when I was about to cum, I swallowed the decadent mush of Oreo and Amaretto and dove into my hottest fantasy… The identical Justin Slayer triplets, with identical long fat dicks… one in my mouth, one stroking my pussy, like the animated Soul Train, and the third, sliding in and out of my ass in slow motion. There was no holding back.

My final outcry was so wild and loud that it even surprised me, but even more surprising than this, was folding forward in the last throes of one of my strongest cums and looking directly into the smiling eyes of our mysterious tenant. I froze… mouth open… hands lodged up my pussy and between my thighs. Even though it was dark, there was just enough light from the moon and the stars to see his long pink tongue, curl in to a long upward arc, and lash like a maniacal metronome, across his even white teeth. He did it so long that the blood started gushing back to my pussy. Even in darkness, I could see the moonlight bouncing off the delicate slopes and crevices, carved in his abdomen. His upper arms were thick and defined and his shoulders were broad. His sweat pants could barely contain the bulge of his runner's thighs. Sheree was absolutely right, he was a visual feast.

For the longest time, Toure stood still in his window. I sat frozen in my chair, boldly enjoying the excitement of being watched by a stranger, from a window twenty feet away. Suddenly, I pulled my chair closer to the window, hung my gapped legs over the plush arms and started giving myself wind down massage, my voyeur wouldn't forget. He knelt, pressed his thick lips against his window, and pretended he was licking and sucking me.

He clearly had skills. I could almost "feel" him, from twenty feet away. I tossed my head back but kept my eyes glued to him watching me, and massaged my little stone, until I felt myself building to another orgasm. As good as it felt and as difficult as it was to stop, I stopped.

I stood up, pulled back the lips of my vagina and pressed it into the cool glass, but my voyeur was gone. I felt like a fool, until his head popped up from under my window sill. He knelt and started pretending to "eat" me, from outside the window. I started grinding my clit against the window pane. It was slightly warm from the nearness of his mouth. Seeing him, lick and suck, and watching him sensually rub and stroke himself inside his sweats, made me cum violently against the glass. I didn't want to the sensation to end, but my knees started to give way. I fell back into my chair and chased the last delicious vibrations of my cum. When my eyes finally opened, he was gone.

I spent the better part of the morning polishing the sunroom windows. The following night, my heart hammered, from the time I took my shower, until I started walking upstairs. I was sopping wet, by the time I sat in my chair. It took all my discipline to keep from comforting my ravenous pussy, but I forced myself to wait for him. Finally I heard Toure jogging from the front gate, back to the garage. When he got to the base of his stairs, he glanced over his shoulder, up at my window. I let my pink chenille robe flop open and I waved down to him. His penis immediately began to swell. He shoved his fist into his sweats and continued climbing his stairs until he was on the top landing.

Suddenly, he yanked down the elastic waist band of his sweatpants, to form an outrageous "V" that unleashed his dick. Actually, it wasn't very long; five or six inches at best, but it was the thickest dick I had ever seen. It resembled a plump dark brown potato. Just seeing it, made me swell inside. He slowly backed into the door of his apartment. After a few minutes, he came back outside, cut off his porch light and sat nude, from the waist down, with his muscular thighs spread wide apart. He emptied, what appeared to be a small bottle of lotion into his palm and started to seductively stroke his dick and balls, while staring directly into my eyes. Without even thinking, I followed suit.

From time to time, our eyes met, but for the most part, either I was watching him or he was watching me. I started to simmer with excitement when his strokes quickened, and became wild and forceful. He started grimacing and grinding the air, in a sexy ass dance, as he strolled across the bridge, over to my side. He stood directly in front of my window, still buttering his beautiful black potato.