A half hour later, this guy walked in.
“Are you David?”
I got up and gave him a hug.
He handed me my wallet and I reached for a twenty, but he waved me off.
“Please,” I said, “just for your time and effort. You biked all the way down here. C’mon, you did me such a freaking solid, please man, I’d really appreciate you taking this.”
Finally he said, “OK, I’ll donate it to charity.”
I sat back down with Ashley and told her about the encounter.
“What an incredibly nice guy,” I said. “I feel like writing a letter to the Post. New Yorkers get this reputation of being uncaring a-holes, and you get jaded about human nature at times, but there really are good people out there. And you know,” I added, “I bet you that guy really is going to donate it to charity.”
I was ecstatic. I could treat Ashley to a proper dinner. Our date had turned from disaster to magical and auspicious.
We stayed out past midnight on a work night. We shared a cab uptown. I gave her a quick kiss on her cheek as I dropped her off.
I was giddy and enthralled.
I had a skip in my step as I walked through the lobby.
I did a little jig back up in my apartment living room.
It was nice to think about that magical date as she slept on my shoulder.
I gave her a slight nudge and said, “Let’s move to the bed, babe, it’s late.”
****
The next morning at 7 a.m., Ashley was already dressed in full business presentation mode. As I lay there in bed, I silently marveled at her beauty, watching her shuffle between our bedroom and bathroom. In her trim little, fitted suit and blazer, getting ready in front of the mirror, she was in A-game mode.
I pictured her standing in front of a roomful of sales people, mostly men, who had probably all heard the story of that night at the party. I imagined them strolling in with their coffee, checking my wife out. They would stare at her tits as she talked, check out her ass as she leaned over to straighten the projector. They would be mentally undressing her, thinking of her now in a different light—no longer the wholesome, proper, untouchable, faithful married girl in the office. Now she was the married girl who got fucked by a junior salesman in a sleazy little bathroom.
Maybe they’d be thinking they had a chance of fucking her, too. After all, she got fucked with her husband there. If a junior salesman can close the deal, what would that say to others?
I asked Ashley if she was nervous, and she replied, “Yeah, right now I am, but that’s par for the course. I’ll be fine once I start talking and I’m a few sentences in.”
I was sure she was right. She’s a very, polished and natural public speaker.
But I knew Ashley had to realize what the guys would be thinking. They would be objectifying her. Thinking of her having sex. She would have to block that out and maintain the focus of a field goal kicker. But I admired the way she was brave-facing it.
****
Friday afternoon had me on another walk, thinking about that night at the party.
I thought the story must have come from either Jim Murta or Tamara—at least originally.
Who else would be privy to such specific details?
I had mostly ruled out the possibility that it was pre-planned. If Ashley had intended to have sex with Jim Murta, she would have chosen a far more discrete place. She would have anticipated the potential danger, consequences, and drama of such a public location.
I also couldn’t see Tamara setting this up beforehand. Tamara considered Ashley a BFF. She might not like me, but she wouldn’t deliberately put Ashley in a situation she might regret.
Instead it seemed spur of the moment, with one thing quickly and unexpectedly leading to the next.
Craig had told me Ashley and Tamara went into the bathroom together before inviting Jim Murta in.
Why did the two of them go into that bathroom together, I wondered. I understand going to the women’s room together—I’ve seen them do that. But this was an apartment bathroom with one toilet.
I knew Tamara smokes pot, and Ashley has joined her at times. That was a possibility. Or perhaps Tamara had told Jim prior to coming in that she’d give him the signal to enter the bathroom under a pretense of them all getting high.
I thought about the “pseudo mock lesbian show.” Craig said it involved kissing and some topless fondling in the bathtub. That sounded very Tamara-inspired, in a “let’s be provocative and surprise him” kind of way.
But I could also picture a guy like Jim Murta pushing the envelope, to see how far they would go. If they were kissing, perhaps he suggested they take their tops off.
Either way, my wife’s tits were on display for him.
Then, Good God, Tamara suggests he whip his cock out. I pictured him displaying a big hard-on as it came out of his pants. I thought of him standing, his hand stroking his cock, looking down at my topless wife.
Then Tamara had to go and drop that verbal nuclear bomb, “Which one of us do you want to fuck?”
Could she have been any less crass, bold, and blunt? Or realize my wife wasn’t to be offered up like some A or B coin toss?
I started getting wobbly, just thinking about it.
I had the afternoon at work to get through, and focused on that, walking back to the office.
****
Ashley and I were meeting another couple that night for dinner. We sat at the bar, waiting for them to arrive.
After I came back from the men’s room, the bartender was chatting up Ashley. I quickly took my seat next to her, and the guy went to serve another customer, but it made me uneasy.
I’d seen my wife hit on before, lots of times. It had never bothered me. My friends had made cracks about wanting a crack at Ashley, and I’d always laughed it off, as “in your dreams.”
Two months after getting married, Ashley and I were having dinner at a restaurant in Florida. When I left for the men’s room, some guy from another table went over to her and gave her his number. Ashley showed me the napkin when I returned in a “can you believe this guy” kind of way.
****
I was just glad when I spotted our friends coming through the door. We were having dinner with the Morrisons. Kim could be OK after a couple drinks, but her husband Jim was a bore who fancied himself an intellectual—the absolute last guy who should have the name Jim Morrison.
Dinner proved to be more painfully boring than I imagined. Ashley playfully kicked me in the leg twice during the most excruciating parts. She has a knack for catching me when I’m conversationally zoning.
During the cab ride home, Ashley said, “Well, that was a big fat dud, huh?”
“Um, that would be a yes.”
“I don’t know why Kim was so quiet tonight. I thought you were going to lose it when Jim went on and on about that movie.”
“Well it was freaking ridiculous,” I said, “I mean, I know he’s Mr. Irish heritage boy, but he spent thirty literal minutes describing the plot of that movie. And he’d back-track, and re-explain stuff and give pointless details about the architecture. Like the architecture is a freaking Hollywood set. I wouldn’t subject people to a ten-minute story. But if I did, it would be a real life experience story. Not retelling the plot of a movie that sounded freaking totally dumb and boring in the first place.”
Ashley smiled and said, “You had this ‘give-me-a-gun so I can blow my brains out now’ expression at one point that was priceless.”
“Hey,” I said, “if anyone ever recommends that movie to me, I swear to God, I’m going to tell them to royally go fuck themselves.”
Ashley burst out laughing and leaned into me.
It felt good having her beside me, and she fell asleep in the cab.
I rightly assumed sex was not in the cards that night.
And within minutes of arriving home, I was conking out myself.
CHAPTER FOUR
Saturday morning and we were off
to visit my parents in Westchester.
We had made the earlier train, so we decided to surprise them by walking from the station and just showing up at their front door. The walk would take twenty minutes—tops. We started up a sleepy suburban street, the kind you imagine block parties and kids on bicycles. Just past the first house, it started to drizzle. We had no umbrellas, and started walking faster. Another minute later, the drizzle turned to rain. Ashley and I took cover under a tree on someone’s front lawn. I called my parents but got voicemail.
I went on my iPhone and weather.com’d our location. It was showing green precipitation heading through the area for the next few hours. I looked behind at an old lady, peering out, wondering what we were doing standing in her front yard, under a tree.
Ashley said, “This tree is too small and it’s dripping. What do you say we run to that big one, two houses up?”
“You can run in those shoes?” I asked.
“I can sure try; let’s go for it.”
Now we were standing by another family’s front lawn. Only this time there was a dog by the glass front door. It wasn’t barking, but was definitely eyeing us as if we were intruders on his land.
Then Ashley sprinted to another tree, calling to me, “Come here, this one’s better.” I hugged her close beside that tree, not caring how potentially ridiculous we looked. “We might be here for a while,” she said, “and those people in their spiffy cars can’t appreciate this.”
“Appreciate what?” I asked.
“The rain. I’m not saying I like it, but we’re bonding with caveman peeps. I’m sure this happened to them all the time. Granted we don’t have saber tooth tigers hiding behind some rock, but it’s kind of fun, isn’t it?”
“I hear you,” I said and gave her a kiss.
The rain let up briefly and we ran two houses farther. When that tree didn’t work, we ran to the next house.
I was no longer thinking of calling my parents or trying to explain to a cab company, how we were under a tree in some family’s front yard. We continued sprinting to different trees until we were in my parents’ driveway.
“Wow,” Ashley said, “I’m so going to need to use your parents’ dryer.”
“You got it,” I said.
“But it was kind of cool, you know. It made me think of trees in a whole new way. When you’re a kid, they’re things to climb and when you’re an adult, they’re pretty things to look at. But them trees were gangster today. They had our backs. They were our friends—we gave them purpose. I’ll always think of this walk to your parents now, based on the best trees to hide under.”
“Something new for Google maps” I said, “you know, the ‘in case you’re in the pouring rain and hoofing it’ feature.”
****
“No worries, it was an adventure,” Ashley said as my mom asked why we didn’t call for a ride.
We sat with my parents in the kitchen, drinking coffee, as the rain began to really pour.
“You know,” my mom said, “that house on Greenleaf has been lowered in price and would make a charming starter home.”
Ashley gave me a look, like “you’re gonna field this one champ, right?”
I just smiled at my mom and said, “We’re enjoying city life for now.”
We had talked to my parents about moving to suburbia before we were married. There had been an original two-year plan when we bought our Manhattan apartment. Or more appropriately, when my dad made the down payment. Starting a family was the plan. But we didn’t feel rushed. Ashley had just turned thirty last spring, and I wouldn’t be thirty-five until January.
Ashley had expressed concerns about moving to the suburbs too soon. She liked having her circle of friends nearby. As it was, we could both walk home from work. Plus, we had city conveniences as soon as we walked out the door.
My dad shuffled Ashley into the living room after coffee. “We just got the piano tuned,” he said, gesturing her toward it.
“Mmm, sounds tempting, but I don’t want to be anti-social.”
“Oh please, go ahead,” my mom said, “we would love to hear you.”
“Well, if you insist.”
Ashley started with some classical numbers. Beethoven was one I recognized. Her hands danced around the keys in a fury. Then she asked for requests. My parents had her playing “Moon River” and some Beatles songs. Her performance had me reminiscing about the first time Ashley came to the house. She had met my parents once in the city, but then she came out for Christmas Eve. I think that’s when my parents fell in love with her. She had talked passionately about her job and career aspirations. And then moved on to literary figures, understanding all my dad’s obscure references, from Plato to Gina Lollobrigida.
Ashley’s grandmother was from Brazil, and her grandfather was from Hungary. An odd mix that gave her that slightly exotic look. She brought my mom some very pricey, aged wine from Hungary and my dad a Brazil soccer jersey for the World Cup that summer. My dad is a big fan of England, but he wore that Brazil jersey during the tournament—at least the two times we showed up.
On New Year’s Eve, I told Ashley I loved her. I had never been the first in a relationship to say “I love you.” That line had always come first from prior girls I dated, and I typically had a “good grief” kind of reaction.
But I wanted to be the first to say it to Ashley, because I meant it, and I wanted the declaration to be unprompted. She didn’t tell me she loved me back. It took another month for that. But I didn’t care. I had told her I loved her first. That was important to me.
****
After her piano playing, Ashley and my mom went shopping and my dad talked business, the economy, interest rates, stocks, etc.
It was because of my dad that I was in finance. He had opened doors for me and I always respected what he had to say.
Nonetheless, given all the crazy thoughts that continued traversing my brain, I struggled to pay full attention and engage.
The sun suddenly came out after my mom and Ashley returned. Ashley had brought her suit on that chance, and soon we were sitting next to the pool. Ashley was a little wary, looking over at my neighbors’ house. Last year, she had seen their seventh grade son jerking off from the fence while watching her sunbathe. My parents had been out of town that weekend, and I was determined to confront him or tell his parents.
She pleaded with me, “Don’t, we don’t know it for sure and he’s just a little kid.”
So I didn’t. But Ashley didn’t spend any more time by the pool that weekend—at least not in a swimsuit.
****
On the train back, I was thinking of making love to Ashley, just having sweet sex with my wife. It had been five days. I had a hard-on the whole ride.
I had always believed we had a pretty good sex life. It wasn’t crazy, in the thralls of passion sex like in the movies, but it was always loving, tender, and bonding.
We were hardly the most adventurous couple in bed, but I always felt we were in sync; we clicked and it worked.
When I came out of the bathroom, having just gotten ready for bed, Ashley was sleeping above the covers.
My dumb luck, I thought.
Opportunity lost.
Still, it had been a really special day.
****
Sunday was considerably stranger.
Ashley headed out to Connecticut to see a college friend. I comforted in the seeming normality of things. It was like the conversation about the rumor had never taken place.
Had I not talked with Craig and heard the details, I might well have mentally slid it under the rug as well.
I pulled out a photo album from last year. There was a picture of Ashley in a white bikini in Florida, her boobs on display, sipping a margarita by the pool. Ashley’s smile looked so wholesome and innocent, her complexion so smooth and youthful that it still gets her routinely carded.
I was imagining what Jim Murta had been thinking as he looked at her in that bathroom. That’s when I s
uddenly sprouted an erection—a major what-the-fuck-moment. And it didn’t go away. I had never masturbated in front of Ashley, and here was Jim Murta jerking his cock in front of my wife. Had he been a few feet away or was she watching him stroke it up close? Suddenly I had my dick out and was stroking myself. How did he answer Tamara’s “which one of us do you want to fuck question”? Had he said, “I want Ashley”—or had he signaled his choice by pointing his cock at my wife?
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