****
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.
“Sure, Mrs. Martens,” he said.
“Like in the next couple days?” she asked. “We had a monster bug visit us the other night.”
“I will put in the request first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
“Thanks, Jimmy,” I repeated lamely.
Ashley’s next beeline was in our apartment; she headed straight for the bathroom and then to bed.
I wasn’t tired, and went into the office.
****
I didn’t see Jack online. I went back to the “My Wife” room and asked if anyone’s wife cheated and how they reacted.
“My wife has a regular boyfriend,” a guy from Illinois, messaged me.
“You mean she’s seeing a guy on the side?” I asked.
“Yeah, she’s been seeing him for nine months now.”
“Does she know that you know?”
“Yeah, she doesn’t hide it. She’ll tell me when she’s going over to stay the night with him.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Completely serious.”
How do you feel about that?” I asked.
“I’m OK with it. I’ve kind of accepted that it’s my place or lot in life, and I like when she tells me the details.”
“It turns you on?” I typed.
“Yeah, and this arrangement is the only reason we’re still together.”
“How did it get to this point?” I asked. “I mean, to the point where she could be open and honest about seeing this guy?”
“Well, a few friends said she was marrying me for money. I had an inheritance when I was twenty-five. So, my wife was attracted to how I looked on paper—a mid-twenties guy who owned a big house, had some nice cars.”
“You knew that when you married her?”
“Not consciously. But, deep down I had some inkling that she was only attracted to the idea of me. Her dad left her when she was a kid, so she has father-abandonment issues. Her family was poor and I provided something she didn’t have—money and security.”
“Do you regret having married her?”
“Sometimes I wish I had a do-over but I was fucked up before I met her.”
“Fucked up, how? Coming into money?”
“No, I mean with women.”
“Oh OK, fucked up how?”
“Well, I never had much confidence with the opposite sex in general. But then, my senior year in college I fell head over heels for this girl and she loved me back. We were inseparable. The girl was the love of my life, you know?”
“Sure,” I typed, “I know what you mean.”
“I proposed to her Graduation Weekend and we were supposed to get married the following summer. That would have been eight years ago.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, she wanted to work in London for the summer and I had done a semester abroad there two years before, so I told her I’d go with her. That was the plan after graduation.”
“OK,” I typed, “so you went to London with her?”
“Yeah. I even found a flat where we could stay. I had a friend there, an assistant professor who I had become friends with when I studied abroad my junior year. He was like a big brother to me.”
“OK, so you stayed with him?”
“Yeah, he had a one-bedroom, so we slept on a bed in his living room.”
“OK, so how did that go?”
“At first it was great. My friend Aaron was a great tour guide, and my fiancée Tara had never traveled abroad and was thrilled and excited to explore the city.”
“Sure,” I typed, “I understand.”
“And the three of us got along really well. We’d drink wine off the balcony and stay up late, all of us talking, laughing, that kind of thing.”
“Sure,” I replied, “sounds fun.”
“It was. I was never happier in my life, being in London with the girl I was going to marry. But then one night, something happened that changed my life, changed who I was, really.”
“OK,” I typed, “I’d be interested in hearing if you don’t mind sharing.”
“Sure. This was my first girlfriend. I was shy around girls growing up. And Tara came from a pretty traditional family—she’s Catholic. So neither of us had sex before.”
“You were virgins?” I asked.
“Yes, we were. And we’d decided, or really she asked, that we wait until we were married. I said sure, I was OK with waiting.”
“Were you OK with waiting?”
“Yeah, I really was. Because I was in love and I’d waited twenty-two years to have sex, what’s another year?”
“Yeah, I get it,” I typed.
“So anyway, it was the fourteenth of July, and Aaron took us to a party at a French guy’s place, because it was Bastille Day, the French version of the fourth of July.”
“Sure,” I typed, “OK.”
“We drank a good bit there and then the three of us came back to our flat. Aaron kept the wine flowing and it was just talking and laughing. Then Aaron said he wanted to get another bottle and Tara said she’d go with him. I didn’t care, because they’d be back in ten minutes. Then I lay down on the couch. I wasn’t that drunk, but the wine had made me tired. So I briefly fell asleep. When I woke up, I heard Aaron tell her I was sleeping and I heard Tara say, ‘Let him sleep.’ ”
“OK,” I typed.
“So for some reason I pretended I was asleep and listened to them talking and laughing and having more wine in the kitchen. Then it got kind of quiet. The lights were turned off. I was just lying there listening with my eyes wide open.”
“What did you think was going on?”
“I didn’t know. Maybe I thought she’d say something to him about me, something she wouldn’t want me to hear, because she assumed I was sleeping.”
“Did she?”
“No, once the lights were off, I could hear him say, ‘Come over here, Tara, lie on the bed with me for a bit.’ And I heard her say, ‘I shouldn’t’ and ‘That’s not a good idea.’ But he persisted with ‘C’mon, I’m not going to bite. Just for a minute.’ ”
“OK,” I replied, “did she lie down with him?”
“Yes, after a couple minutes I heard her say, ‘Okay, but just for a minute.’ And so now my heart was pounding and I was bug-eyed looking up at the ceiling, just listening. And then I heard whispering and muffled laughter. I could hear her say ‘I don’t know’. But then I heard kissing and sucking sounds, and I knew Aaron was making out with my fiancée. Still, I just lay there, listening. About ten minutes later, I heard him say, ‘Don’t worry’ and she was saying ‘I don’t know.’ But then there was a lot of heavy breathing, and my heart was in my throat. It was like a dream. And I lay there, motionless.”
“OK,” I typed.
“There was a lot of whispering that I couldn’t make out. That lasted about five minutes; then I heard more kissing and sucking sounds. Five minutes later I heard her cry out, ‘Oh God,’ and the bed started to creak. I knew what was happening. Aaron was fucking my virgin fiancée.”
“Jeez, how did you feel?”
“My heart was beating a mile a minute, I was freaking. I was in
shock. I didn’t know what to think.”
“OK.”
“The creaking grew louder and now the bed was really starting to bounce. I couldn’t believe it. But I was also sprouting an erection.”
“So it turned you on?”
“Yeah, but I was going mental. It felt otherworldly. And I just listened. Aaron wasn’t even trying to be quiet. I mean, the bed was creaking loudly. And I listened to Tara moan and skin slapping against skin. I heard her cry out, ‘Oh God, oh God’ and she may have had her first orgasm then. He said ‘Mmmm’ like he was cumming, and the creaking slowed down to quiet and whispering.”
“Yikes man, that’s crazy,” I typed. “Did you just lie there on the couch?”
“Yeah, and then about a half hour later, he went into his bedroom and Tara came over and asked if I wanted to move to the bed. So I said sure. And she didn’t say anything. She just went to sleep. I spent the night awake in a daze, scared and crying.”
“Did you confront her or him?”
“No, I never brought it up. I wanted to pretend like it didn’t happen. I didn’t know what it all meant. That week we all had dinner together like it was normal, but she seemed different, more distant. By the end of the week she told me she was breaking off the engagement, that she didn’t want to marry me.”
“Did she say why?”
“She said she had given it a lot of thought and she didn’t love me anymore. She had lost what had attracted her to me. For a few days I begged her to reconsider, but she would just say it’s over, and that she was going to move out, unless I wanted to leave London. ‘Maybe you should just leave,’ she said.”
“Wow,” I typed.
“Yeah, so a few days later, I was flying back to the U.S., leaving her behind. I was miserable. I don’t think I ever fully got over it. A month later she wrote me a letter. I hoped she was going to say she had reconsidered, but it basically said how she realized we were different people, how she wanted to explore life, how just a few weeks in London had changed her perspective.”
“I’m sorry,” I typed. “So she never mentioned having sex and you didn’t, either?”
“No, it never came up.”
“You ever talk to the guy, your friend from London?”
“When I said I was leaving, he said that with Tara breaking up with me, leaving was a good idea. He hugged me goodbye at the airport and we never spoke again. I did learn from another friend that Tara was still living with him two months later, so I assume he continued having sex with her.”
“Damn,” I typed, “that’s harsh.”
“I know. I never even got to fuck her. Not even once. The girl I was head over heels in love with.”
“That is tough,” I typed, “do you still think about that night?”
“Oh sure, something like that never leaves you. I’ll still take out pictures of the three of us from those first few weeks and I’ll jack off thinking of that night. Pretty strange, right?”
“I can understand it,” I replied, “I can relate to the masturbating.”
“It was like that night happened in slow motion, with me listening in agony. I introduced Tara to a guy who was supposed to be my friend. And then he goes and pops her virgin cherry on the bed we slept in, with me on the couch a few feet away.”
“It must have been a triumph,” I typed, “taking her cherry with her fiancée nearby—no offense.”
“For Aaron?”
“Yeah, your London friend.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it was. And like I said, it never left me. I took it into my marriage.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“It just sent me off with a cuckold mindset.”
“Cuckold?” I said.
“Yeah, I’m a cuckold to my wife.”
“Meaning what?”
“You know what a cuckold is, don’t you?”
I knew the term from Shakespeare but wasn’t sure what he meant by it.
“Not sure,” I replied.
“I let my wife have lovers and I basically just sit home and accept my place in the relationship. Only I don’t even get the benefits other cuckolds get.”
“Meaning what, you can’t have sex with other women?”
“No, I mean, I don’t get to watch or listen.”
“Watch or listen to what? Your wife having sex? You wish you could?”
“Yeah, sure, but all I get are the details when she throws me a bone.”
“And hearing the details turns you on?”
“Yeah, I jack off thinking about them.”
“What’s your sex life with her?”
“The last time I had sex with her was six months ago, on my birthday. But she lets me jack off looking at her sometimes as she tells me details.”
“Damn,” I typed, “have you ever thought of leaving her?”
“No, I love her, and maybe someday with another boyfriend she’ll let me listen.”
“Another boyfriend?”
“Her current boyfriend doesn’t know I know. But some guys are into letting the husband listen. So that’s why I say ‘someday.’ ”
“Do you think she would ever leave you to marry her boyfriend?”
“She has a very cushy lifestyle being married to me. She has her cake and eats it, too.”
“Do you ever feel humiliated by it?”
“Sure, that’s a natural feeling, especially for cuckolds. Ever check out the cuckold chat room?”
“No,” I typed, “I’ve seen a room called ‘cuckold husband’ scrolling through rooms, but didn’t know what it was.”
“Well there’s a lot of guys there who have a similar relationship dynamic. But a lot of guys get to watch. I wish I had that situation, you know?”
“I guess,” I typed.
“So what’s going on with you and your wife?” he asked.
“It’s a long story,” I replied, not wanting to get into it with him, “and I have to get to bed. Can we talk later?”
“Sure,” he wrote.
“Take care, man,” I replied.
****
That is so fucked up, I thought.
His supposed friend pops his fiancée’s cherry in the bed they slept in, while he listened. And then a week later his fiancée’s telling him to pack his bags, it’s over, take the next flight home. No wedding, no ever having sex with this girl you loved—no nothing.
No wonder it profoundly affected him.
What a Jim Murta that British bloke had pulled on him. He must’ve relished putting his cock in that virgin pussy with her poor-sap fiancé on the couch nearby. Another man, his presumed friend, had popped his fiancée’s cherry, and he listened, paralyzed, while it happened.
It got me thinking. I wondered what I would have done if I’d heard something in that upstairs bathroom that night when I went upstairs to take a piss.
I imagined hearing sounds from the vent, coming up from the bathroom below. I’d realize someone was having sex downstairs, and put my ear to that vent—thinking it must be Tamara. I might have relished that.
Oh yeah, I’d think, you dirty little slut, let’s hear it, Tamara, let’s hear you get good and hard fucked girl.
I’d hear the balls slapping and the moaning and think, Oh yeah, I’ve got a front row audio seat to your dirty little bathroom fuck, so let’s hear it baby—your secret’s safe with me.
But suddenly the moaning, the voice would sound all too familiar. I’d press my head closer, and hear “Oh God” again.
No, it can’t be, I’d say to myself.
Then I pictured hearing Tamara’s voice, saying “Oh yeah, Ashley, that’s it, ride it girl!”
I imagined that “Holy fuck” realization moment. The love of my life, my wife, was being fucked as I listened through the bathroom vent upstairs.
Maybe then I would have barreled down the stairs, banged on the door and yelled, “Open the motherfucking door, Goddamnit!”
Or maybe I’d have been paralyzed, in shock. Or even popped a bone
r, crouched, listening in surreal disbelief.
Sitting in the bathroom now, masturbating, I would pay good money for an audio of what I would have heard that night.
Reluctant Cuckold Page 12
