Reluctant Cuckold (14 page)

“Mean reacting by being turned on and wanking?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh hell, don’t sweat it. It’s very common. I’ve talked to a lot of guys in this room. There’s tons who get off thinking about their wives with other men.”

“OK,” I typed.

“I’m going to put you on my contact list. I want to hear all about what happened, but I’ve got to go pick up my son.”

“OK,” I typed.

“I’ll look for you next time I’m on, and you can tell me.”

“Sure,” I replied.

“I’m Jack from Florida, 48.”

“I’m Dave, 34, NYC.”

“Nice to meet you Dave, we’ll chat soon.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Hang in there Dave. It’s OK, it’s normal, you’re human.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

I practically sprang out of my chair, relaxed, lighter, as if a load had been lifted from my shoulders. I wasn’t alone.

Hallelujah, I thought, someone else had gone through a similar experience and reacted in a similar way.

And his marriage had survived it. Hell, according to him, it was now stronger. Talking with Jack had given me hope, a little beam of light—like the moon breaking through the clouds the other night with Ashley.

I thought about Jack’s story. He had endured his own personal cluster fuck. Not just a one-night stand, but a whole week-long affair. He had her words in emails swirling in his head. And he had children, or at least one son. If he had to pick him up somewhere, his son was probably in his teens. What a fucked up thing for any son to learn—that while he and his dad were at home, his mom had been running naked through a cruise ship after being fucked by the entertainment director.

Jack probably had few people, if anyone, he could talk to. But I was an anonymous stranger, sincerely asking, and his openness had forged a bond.

I checked in with Ashley to see if I could help with her presentation or listen to her deliver it.

“I’d love to give it a run-through,” she said, “in an hour or so.”

“Sure,” I said, and she gave me a kiss.

I shut the door and listened to Ashley’s soothing voice as she recited her speech in the other room.

I thought about the emails Jack had read. I imagined finding one of Ashley’s. She wouldn’t be so graphic to a friend. It would be more akin to a diary entry: “Jim Murta was such a fantastic fuck. I think about his cock all the time. He was so manly and forceful, nothing at all like I’m used to with my dud husband Dave. Jim’s cock is the kind a girl dreams about. When he first pulled it out, I was hypnotized—in complete awe.

“When Tamara sent Dave upstairs, I was so hoping Jim would pick me. I was so horny. I was like ‘Dave who?’ I wanted to feel that big cock pumping inside my pussy.

“And oh my God, did Jim feel good, balls deep inside me. And I mean balls deep. He was slapping it up into me so thick and hard. The kind of fucking a girl like me deserves.

“I knew I’d have to go back to the party, but I didn’t care. He was giving me a cloud-nine orgasm, and I was like, ‘just cum the fuck inside me.’

“Just fucking do it Jim, to hell with my husband, I want to feel your sperm inside me. And my God, did that man cum.”

And then I came myself.

“How’s the presentation going?” I asked.

Ashley had changed into the Yankee pajamas I had given her as a stocking stuffer last Christmas.

“Well,” she replied, “maybe it’s time for the painting to be taken away from me. I think I’ve re-worked it enough.”

“Ready to run it past me?” I asked.

“Yeah, here’s the PowerPoint. I’ll snap my fingers when it’s time to turn the page.”

“You got it,” I said.

“Good morning everyone, I’m Ashley Martens, director of marketing. And with the monsoon-like rain outside today, it’s fitting that we’re talking about a product that is essentially an umbrella—in this case, a security umbrella.”

Ashley broke from the script to tell me, “There’s supposed to be a heavy downpour tomorrow.”

“And if the weatherman’s wrong?” I asked.

“There will be plenty of time for questions afterwards,” she said. Rolling her eyes at me and smiling, she continued, “And while the weathermen were wrong about today—what else is new—that doesn’t mean we don’t need umbrellas.”

She went on, without missing a beat, and I just listened. I made sure to pay attention so I could offer feedback, but it wasn’t easy. I kept hearing the soothing cadence of her voice and staring at her big tits in that Yankees top—so upright, without a bra.

When she finished, I really had no suggestions. The intro was a bit cutesy/cheesy, but the substance had flow and structure; she kept it interesting. I wasn’t going to offer criticism for the sake of having something to say.

I meant it when I said, “That was great, babe! You’re going to hit it out of the park for sure.”

Ashley could see that I meant it but still had to ask the requisite, “Really?”

“Really, Ash, I wouldn’t change a thing. You were clear, got across the relevant points, and infused it with humor and personality.”

She made her way over to the couch and onto my lap and said, “Thank you.”

I initiated making out. I kissed her hard, feeling up her breasts through her top. I thought of suggesting going to the bedroom but let it flow naturally. When she lifted off her top, I knew I was in business. I had her pajamas bottoms off and soon I was going down on her, right there on the couch.

It was spontaneous, organic, natural, and Ashley was into it. I licked up and down, sliding my tongue inside her pussy. She started to moan and I focused hard on keeping it up. She took my hand and said, “That’s it, Dave, yes! I’m going to cum.”

She squirmed, cried out, “Yes, yes, oh my God” and held my hand tightly.

She helped me with my jeans and, lying there on the couch, I slid inside her.

Just hold out there, I told myself.

But it felt so incredible, amazing, and I couldn’t prevent thoughts of Jim Murta from creeping in.

She was starting to rhythm with me, saying “Oh yeah.”

But five or six pumps later, I couldn’t stop myself from cumming.

God fucking damnit, I thought.

“My God, Ash,” I said, “you got me so turned on just watching you deliver that speech. God, I love you.”

Ashley held me tight as I lay on top of her, both of us naked on the couch, and patted me on the back.

I didn’t know how to interpret the pat. It was probably nothing. I knew I was paranoid. But it felt a little like, “It’s OK, Dave, I know you’re having trouble lasting lately.”

“You’re going to do just great on your presentation tomorrow,” I said as a way to divert attention.

“You really thought it was good?”

“I thought it was awesome.”

“Well, thanks for being such a good captive audience.”

We had dinner plans with Ashley’s friend Camilla, who was in from Chicago with her boyfriend, Mark.

Ashley was laughing and spirited, basking in the relief of her presentation being well received.

They were an entertaining couple and I was looking forward to a few drinks as we walked the East Village streets afterwards.

I liked the bar Camilla chose, having been there before. But once inside, I said, “Good grief, are you freaking kidding me?”

Mark looked at me and asked “What?”

“It seems Friday night is Karaoke night at this place,” I said.

Before I could say, “I know some other good places right around the corner,” Camilla was exclaiming, “Oh, fun!”

“You sing karaoke, Mark?” Ashley asked.

“Sure, I’ve been known to on occasion.”

Fucking thanks a lot, Mark, I thought.

“What do you say, Dave,” Ashley said, “something different. How about it?”

“Sure,” I said, feeling checkmated.

A few minutes later we were sitting at a table in the front.

This sucks
, I thought.

It wasn’t just the cheesy campiness of Karaoke that I didn’t care for. If I could just hang out with my drink and watch, I wouldn’t have minded. But the only time I’ve sung karaoke was drunk with my buddies, doing “Roadhouse Blues” at some random Jersey shore bar.

When Mark began looking through the song list, I knew what I was in for—I could hear it. “It’s your turn, Dave, get on up there.”

The guy on the stage was the DJ, doing his best white-guy imitation of an old Usher song. Of course he performed it well; he’s the karaoke guy.

Ashley, Camilla and Mark put their song requests in, and I said I’d have to think about it.

Oh great
, I thought, as the first people who came up seemed like they could actually sing.

Then some really old guy took the stage. He was at least seventy years old and looked like Grandpa Munster from the old TV show. I was expecting him to do some snooze-fest song like “Mack the Knife.”

When the music for Coldplay’s “Viva La Vida” came on, and he stood there waiting for the vocal part to start, I felt bad for the guy. But as soon as he started with “I used to the rule the world” in a deep, yet soft, vulnerable voice, he had the audience’s full attention.

Even though it was a rock song from a modern time, the way he sang it echoed the past. He was making it his own.

The crowd roared when he finished, and he was so obviously moved that I was moved.

I imagined him widowed, heading back to an empty apartment, talking to his dog perhaps, saying, “I did good tonight, Rex. Maria would have been proud.”

About a half hour later, Ashley was on stage doing the Cranberries song, “Zombie.”

She had her fake Irish accent down and acted completely comfortable on stage. I did my own zombie-ing out when she started singing the line, “What’s in your head boy …”

She was commanding the audience’s attention and received a reception similar to the old guy’s.

A few songs later, it was Mark’s turn. He did Neil Young’s “Rocking in the Free World.”

Whatever he lacked in vocals, he made up for in energy.

When it was Camilla’s turn, she asked Ashley to join her. “Hollaback Girl” isn’t really a duet, but after Camilla chanted out the verse, Ashley backed her up on the chorus. Camilla’s a good-looking girl as well, and they were eye candy as they pranced around on stage.

“I’m not much of a singer,” I explained, when the inevitable goading began.

“Who cares?” Camilla offered ungenerously. “Neither am I. It’s about having fun. Pick something and just do it.”

Why is it so hard for people to understand that I didn’t want to get up on stage in front of a crowd when I can’t freaking sing?

“I’ve had a cold all week,” I explained. “I’d take away from all the good performers like you guys.”

They didn’t press it after that. Their thinking I was a big fat stick in the mud was better than my making a fool of myself.

Ashley then performed the Fiona Apple song, “Criminal.” With a few drinks in her, she was more theatrical.

I’d heard her sing that before, but it still got to me when she came to the line, “I’ve been careless with a delicate man.”

I could see guys checking her out, and she got huge applause when she finished. Right afterwards the Karaoke DJ guy asked her if she knew some rap duet. Of course she did. Of course she said sure, she would try it with him. When she sat back down after more applause, she was exhilarated. I couldn’t blame her or be upset. She has a great voice, which is why people applauded her freaking karaoke performance.

When I settled up and signed the bill, I felt lame for not even trying.

But I can’t sing. What’s so wrong with realizing that limitation?

As soon as we got in the cab, I offered, “You were brilliant tonight, I mean it, your singing was sensational.”

“Really?” she asked. “Thank you. And thanks for putting up with it. I know karaoke’s not your thing.”

“Well, thanks for not calling me out on my ‘having a cold’ excuse, but you know I can’t sing.”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s not like anyone takes it seriously.”

“I hear you,” I said, “but you guys set a pretty high bar, and I loved seeing you perform.”

“It was fun,” she said. “I haven’t been on stage in public for a while.”

I paid the cabbie and followed Ashley into our lobby. She made a beeline for our doorman. “Hi, Jimmy, can we get management to install screens in our apartment?” she asked.