“Jesus,” he swore to himself before self consciously looking up, smiling slightly and mouthing sorry  towards the ceiling.

 "How do I get myself into these situations!  

The ultimate adultery, sex with a bride of Christ !

" Ah well", he thought, "with all those brides Christ is a bigamist anyway,                 So Sod Him  ! " 

 John Rielly is fast approaching his 50th birthday and about to go through his 3rd divorce. Thinking his life, and in particular his sex life is over, he could not have been more wrong. Fates conspire to leave him dazzled and amazed. He had always thought whatever could go wrong in his life usually did but what a result he had in store. Every man's dream come true. And he still was only 50.... Adventures and misunderstandings will keep you smiling.   All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.  Terry Mason  www.terrymasonauthor.com  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.  The Life of Riely: John Riely that is / Terry Mason. -- 1st ed.     For Jayne.  My inspiration, my reality, my editor  and not least, my wife.     Thank you for all your understanding, love and patience.  Other books by Terry Mason :-  Bill Stickers Is Innocent        

 He was stuck!  No two ways about it.  Up shit creek without a paddle!  What, he wondered, could life possibly have in store for him next?  His third marriage was falling apart. His ex wives and children looked on him only as someone to provide money and transport, and his sex life that had been so great until such a short time ago, was now non-existent.  Even his surname, provided by a drunken and belligerent Irish great grandfather while registering a birth, had had to be controversial. Rielly rather than Reilly as anyone else would have spelled it. Setting in motion the lives of his future descendants on a hereditary, contrary track.  Having reached the ripe young age of forty-nine and having already outlived several of his acquaintances, the only thing he had going for him he concluded, was his job!  As co-owner, 49% of a printing business, he had a good salary and was his own boss. Which in reality meant, he worked three times as hard as everyone else and for twice the number of hours. He had always meant to cut back his working week, at present he probably averaged sixty hours plus, but somehow he just never got round to it.  Joanne, his present wife, was twenty four years younger than himself and, in fact, a few months younger than his oldest son. He had met her purely by accident when delivering some last minute printing to a local fitness studio. The delivery van having already left, the address being on his way home, and with him being between wives, living alone, he had in truth no desire to rush back to the empty place that he then called home.    She was an aerobics instructor, very pretty, very fit, and they had chatted as she signed for the order. Although he had thought she would refuse, age difference and all that, he had asked her if she fancied a drink. Six months later she had become wife number three. Now, eighteen months after that, it looked like she would soon become ex-wife number three !  The next ex Mrs. John Rielly!  “You are a prat you know,” Bill Francis, his partner, always did come straight to the point. At fifty five he considered himself the senior of the two in almost everything. “Why didn’t you just live with her?”  They were sitting in the almost empty bar of the Red Lion, a small local pub with aspirations of being a wine bar.  “You screw them for a couple of years, then, they screw you for the rest of your life.” He looked quite pleased with that comment and for a moment John thought he was going to write it down.-The Thoughts of Partner Bill.  “You’re supposed to be cheering me up, remember?”  “But Christ John! I mean, it would cost you less to hire a live in call girl for God’s sake.”  He was right of course. Sex! That had always been his downfall. He had always thought there had to be so much more than he was enjoying. Writers and film makers idealised it. But at the end of the day, to him, it had never lived up to his expectations. Which is why, he supposed, he kept on looking. And why now, at forty nine years of age, he had reverted once more to having orgasms with Brigitte Bardot. The problem was that Brigitte nor anyone else for that matter, was ever there.  “Well, is she moving out?” Bill had obviously already asked the question once and had had to repeat it. “Is she?”  “I don’t think so. I think she expects me to.” He knew what response this would bring and prepared himself for the tirade.  “For God’s sake don’t do that!” Bill’s exasperation had been played out in similar fashion on each of his previous marriage break ups. “This time listen to me.”  “I will.” Capitulation was always the best way when Bill was in full flow.  “I hope you mean it this time. Didn’t I tell you with the last one. Don’t Move Out!  She’s got you by the short and curlies if you do.” He brushed fussily at the shoulders of his Armani suit. He had always had dandruff in what remained of his hair. For some reason John often thought of him as a thin Fryer Tuck, with dandruff ! “At least there’s no kids this time.”  That was one good thing. He had had a vasectomy several years before. She had wanted him to have it reversed, but he hadn’t got around to it. Like so much else in his life.  “Do you want another drink?” Bill picked up the empty glasses and without waiting for a reply, made his way to the empty counter where the spotty, pony tail haired-barman in his gaudy Hawaiian shirt was seemingly surprised to see him.  Of course he would move out, if that was what she wanted. The problem was, he always felt it was his fault. He wasn’t the person he had hoped to be when he married her. It was the least he could do. And it was only a flat; she deserved that, besides which they owed almost as much as it was worth anyway.  He had meant it to be different this time. In the beginning he had even managed to be home most nights by six-thirty. How had it all managed to slip back into the same old thing? And she was gorgeous. They had honeymooned in the Canaries. She had gone naked on the beach and even with all those other naked women about, she had been the focus of all male eyes each time she walked, that firm beautiful skin shimmering so provocatively beneath the layer of suntan oil, down to the water to, cool off. In the process, causing quite a number of the viewing males to make the same trip for the same reason.  He had kept his shorts on. The competition from the young muscular men, attracted not only by the beach but also to his wife of such a short time, displaying more in their relaxed state than he did when excited, convincing him his decision was the right one. Collagen injections ! He had later told her to explain their increased size. He had twice been mistaken for her father. On each occasion some young tanned Adonis striking up a conversation with him, only to be, introduced to your daughter. She had laughed fit to burst. Making comments like, no substitute for experience and many a good tune played on an old instrument. But even then he thought he saw the glimmer of desire in her eyes for that young, hard flesh.  Yet it hadn’t been her that had brought things to this impasse.  Sex!  Him again! And as always, he got caught, again!   Joanne had seemed more outraged that he could go for someone so much older than she was and who was ugly!  He had apologised of course. Tried to put things right. But it had all changed. She started staying late at the gym, and when after ringing several times and learning that she had in fact left several hours earlier he had tackled her about it, she had merely said, what’s good for the goose ... and headed for the shower. Locking the bathroom door behind her, something she had never done before.  He even found himself checking the laundry basket for tell tale signs in her underwear. Holding it to his nose and trying to sense something other than the heady and sexually exciting smell of his young and potentially now ex lover.  Even so their marriage could still possibly be saved. He just wasn’t sure it was worth the effort.  “Sorry about that,” Bill put another pint on the table. “Got talking to young what’s his name over there.”  “That’s OK. No problem,” but at the same time realising that Bill had probably been telling the young barman all about his marriage problems. He could almost hear Bill saying, now let that be a lesson to you young man.  “Sorry, what?” He had drifted into his own thoughts again.  “I said, so what are you going to do?”  Whenever Bill had got to this stage of the proceedings in the past, he had not waited for an answer, but merely expanded on what he thought should happen. The question, and Bill’s sudden silence, had taken him completely by surprise.  The silence hung like a weight between them, seemingly pulling their heads down towards the table, each turning slightly as if awaiting a whispered reply.  “........ I don’t know.”           It was nine-thirty when he eventually got home. Joanne was sitting, watching television, a tray on her lap.  He said “Hello,” she nodded. She was sitting eating, her mouth full of noodles.  He went into the kitchen and looked around. He opened the microwave and looked under the grill, nothing. She had obviously not bothered to bring any Chinese for him.  “Smells good,” he walked back into the lounge.  “Umm,” she had yet more noodles in her mouth.  “Hung Soo?” They had laughed at the restaurant name in the past but now, on his lips, it became an accusation.  “Um.”  “I don’t suppose you thought to get me any! I’m only the one who works all day.” She tried to speak but her mouth being full .... “Don’t worry. Not that you would! I can look after myself.” She had finished swallowing now.  “You Dickhead!” The words more from disappointment than anger.  “An item you no doubt know a lot about!” No one could ever accuse him of thinking before he spoke.  “I wasn’t the one caught with my knickers down screwing the hired help!” She spat back angrily.  It was true.  He had lost.  There was nothing he could say.  She stormed past him into the kitchen, banged down her tray and marched past him once again heading for the spare bedroom. As she entered she turned and in an icy voice said, “next time check the oven before you start shouting....     Dickhead!” And she slammed the bedroom door.  He went into the kitchen and looked in the oven. There, with a low heat to keep it warm, he found his favourite Chinese meal all neatly arranged on his favourite plate.  “Shit!” Finding you are wrong and being a complete jerk, he decided, was par for the course for the married male.  He sat, alone, in the kitchen eating.  Never let a row get in the way of your appetite, his father used to say. And God knows he had had years of practice and now his son was again following in his footsteps.           Next morning he awoke to the sound of running water.  She had slept in the spare room but had had to come through his bedroom to use the shower.  He got up and tried the shower room door expecting it to be locked.  It opened.  He went in.  With the noise from the water she had not heard him enter. She was standing in the shower washing her hair.  He watched her. It almost took his breath away. She really was beautiful.  Through the patterned glass shower screen he watched shampoo lather running down the warm, pink skin of her shoulders.  Over her breasts, each with its rosebud perfect nipple.  Down her flat, firm, stomach with its dimple small belly button.  Into the lovingly tended, beautifully trimmed and shaped, patch of silky black pubic hair and, after hesitating slightly as if not wishing to leave that wondrous place, continue its journey down those superbly sculpted legs.  Over those feet whose toes he had loved so much to suck and that had, not so long ago, acted like extra hands as she used them to caress him.  Before finally proceeding, like his life, down the plug hole.  He felt himself responding to this visual sensual display. Undoing the waist string of his pyjama trousers, his only item of clothing, he let them slip to the floor.  He stood, stomach pulled in as best he could, back straight and erect in more ways than one and waited for her to get out of the shower.  The water stopped.  The cubical opened.  Reaching for a towel she looked directly into his eyes.  Slowly, she moved her gaze down his body. From his face down to his chest, his stomach, and eventually to his erection.  A smile came to her lips.  He smiled. Maybe things would be all right after all. The magical self deception of the moment hung before his imagination only to be dispelled with the cold, razor-edged finality that only a cheated woman can.  She shook her head, wrapped herself in a towel and stated flatly, “I want a divorce.”  What he had taken for a smile now showed itself as a sneer. She then walked past him and back to the spare room. “Dickhead,” was again the last thing he heard as she closed the bedroom door.  Looking down he realised that his erection had retreated even before he had.   

 Copyright. Terry Mason. All rights reserv

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