Reluctant Cuckold (20 page)

“Well, I’m really flattered,” Ashley replied. “Let me think about that one.”

“Sure,” Jay said. “Well, you have my card now, my cell’s on the back. And you guys are around in three weeks, right?”

“What?” I said.

“That’s when Jay’s having his big fiftieth shindig,” Ashley said.

“Oh,” I replied

“We just need to make sure we’re in town,” Ashley replied.

“Yeah, we still have to figure it out,” I said, “anyway, that was my boss who called. I need to get him some reports tonight, so we’re gonna have to clean up and train on back to the city.”

“You sure?” Jay asked. “It’s only four-thirty, the party’s just started.”

“I wish we could stay, but I need to get back to my boss ASAP.”

When the Marshmans began packing up, I asked them in private for a ride to the station. Ashley and I changed back into our clothes and threw our swimsuits and towels into the wash.

Just as we all were leaving, Jay offered to take us instead, but I had already put our bags in the Marshmans’ car.

“We’re good,” I said, and Mrs. Marshman added that it was on their way home.

“Well, it was great meeting you again,” Ashley said as she gave Jay a hug goodbye.

“Nice seeing you,” I said, shaking his hand.

“You too, Dave,” he said patting me on my back, “don’t miss the party, you both will enjoy it.”

“Yeah,” I said, “if we’re in town, sure, sounds cool.”

On the train home, Ashley said, “Well, that was fun. We got a little party vibe going there, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, “they seemed into it.”

“And Jay seems like a definite character for that town.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “he is.”

“It was interesting to hear about his take on architects. I didn’t realize the contention between the architect and the guy who actually builds it. Though it sounds like he’s got a good partner now.”

“Yeah,” I said before casually asking, “Did I hear he gave you his number?”

“Yeah, when you were inside, he gave me his business card.”

“He wants you to call him,” I asked, “for what? For his fiftieth birthday party?”

“I don’t know, or to tell him I’ve reconsidered trying out for a motorcycle modeling gig. Why, do you not want to go the party?”

“Not really. My parents have told me some things about that guy.”

“Like what?”

“That he’s kind of unstable. You know he’s divorced?”

“Yeah, he mentioned that. Not long ago. Last summer?”

“Yeah, I heard he was abusive. My mom didn’t go into details, but there was like a stalking or menacing thing going on.”

“Really?”

“That’s what I heard. It was covered up, I think, but pretty ugly. Sounded like bad news.”

“Hmm,” Ashley replied, “good to know.”

“Well,” I said, “and trekking out to the suburbs for a fiftieth birthday, I don’t know how much of a good time that would be anyway.”

“I hear you,” she replied.

Then she put her head on my shoulder and within a few minutes fell asleep. The sun and the drinks had tired me out as well. But I cradled her chin so it wouldn’t slip, and kept my shoulder steady so as not to wake her.

What I had said about Jay was a total lie. I didn’t know why he got divorced or if the guy was stable or not. But I knew I didn’t like the guy and didn’t like that he had given Ashley his card.

Ashley seemed to believe me, but I wondered why she replied, “Good to know.”

Why was it “good to know?” Had it given her pause, like I intended it? Why hadn’t she thrown his card in the garbage before we even got on the train?

If Jay had overheard the libel I was saying about him, he’d want to kick my ass for sure. But what business did he have giving my wife his number while I was away? He was a guest at my parents’ home, hitting on my wife right the fuck in front of me.

Ashley had another presentation to prepare for when she came home Monday night. This one was for a bigger client and carried more weight, and she was giving herself two nights to prepare.

I went into our office and back into the chat rooms. This time the “My Wife” room was full, so I scrolled up to “Cuckold Husbands” to simply check it out.

I didn’t write anything in the public scroll, but soon had private messages saying, “Hello David—NYC here too” and “Are you a cuck?”

Then I received a message from a guy, asking, “Fellow cuckold?”

“No,” I replied, “I was just seeing what the room is about. I talked to a guy a few nights ago who suggested I check out the room, just a curiosity thing.”

“What did you talk to him about?” he asked. “Why did he suggest you check out this room?”

“Well, my wife recently cheated,” I replied, “and it’s done a number on my head. I don’t know why he recommended it.”

“So, your wife had sex with another man?”

“Yes,” I replied, “a one-time thing at a party.”

“Well, technically, you are a cuckold, because you’re a husband whose wife was unfaithful. But most cuckolds here are into the lifestyle and have a clear and established cuckold relationship. So, you don’t have an open cuckold relationship with your wife?”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“That you’ve accepted your wife having sex with other guys, while you stay home or listen or watch.”

“No, nothing like that whatsoever,” I replied, “like I said, my wife cheated recently. One time. It was a bit of a head-fuck. I was simply curious about what this room was about.”

“What are you curious about?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “the guy said how his fiancée cheating had led him to being a cuckold, and I guess I was wondering what leads someone down this path.”

“Oh,” he answered, “the nature/nurture question. Like how big is the universe or how was it created. That’s a bit above my pay grade. As for me I felt I was born with a submissive side, but then again, it was sculpted by experiences.”

“How so?” I replied.

“It’s a bit to go into.”

“I’d like to hear, if you have time. I’m David, 34, NYC.”

“OK, David from NYC, I’ll give you my perspective if you like. I’m Mitch, 37, from Ohio.”

“Nice to meet you Mitch,” I typed, “I’d certainly appreciate hearing what happened.”

“Well as I said,” he wrote, “I think I was born this way, but experience does shape a person, doesn’t it?”

“Sure, of course,” I replied.

“Well, did you ever hear your parents having sex?”

“Uh no, not really man.”

“Never at all?”

“I guess a couple times. But any memory of that would be vague. Before I fully knew what sex was. Just unusual noises from their bedroom, and I knew to shut my door and turn the TV on, or something.”

“So you didn’t listen?”

“Not at all,” I replied.

“Well, my parents divorced when I was in kindergarten. Or my dad left my mom, to be more precise. Anyway, in what might be called my formative years, she would bring men home.”

“OK,” I typed, “and?”

“Well, I was curious. I would listen.”

“And your reaction?”

“I don’t remember my reaction. I just remember listening outside the door. When she brought a man home, her bedroom was off limits. It wasn’t every night. She wasn’t a whore. But when she did, I knew the drill, I’d go to my bedroom and then sneak out and listen outside her door.”

“That must’ve had some impact, especially as a kid.”

“I’m sure it did. But exactly what it did, like I said, it’s above my pay grade.”

“I hear you,” I replied, “but that’s what you think led you to this?”

“You tell me,” he wrote, “When you were in high school, did you have a prom? Did you ever take a girl to the prom?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “the girl I was dating my senior year.”

“Did you get laid that night? Or were you already having regular sex with her?”

“No,” I said, “we made out, some foreplay, but I didn’t have sex until I got to college.”

“Yeah, I didn’t have sex till I went to college, either, but I had been going with this girl, and there was a lot of anticipation leading up to the prom. That was going to be the night I was going to have sex. We hadn’t been together too long, but she’d had sex before, and I had felt her up, and what’s the expression? I had gotten to ‘third base’ with her.”

“OK,” I replied, “what’s third base again? You had fingered her? Or she had blown you?”

“Fingered her, not a blowjob. I had never cum with her. And I didn’t know what I was doing when I fingered her. She didn’t orgasm. I was just happy to get there.”

“Sure,” I typed.

“Well, we went to this house party afterwards. They had a keg. The parents were out of town.”

“Sure, I’ve been to those kind of parties.”

“Well, I hadn’t,” he wrote, “that is, I never drank much. Nor did she. We didn’t get crazy drunk or anything, but a few beers back then had an effect.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Well, this football jock showed an interest in my date. He’d just broken up with his girlfriend. He was this studly guy and they were doing beer bongs—you know what that is?”

“I think so,” I replied, “we called them funnels. Where you chug a beer through a tube?”

“Yes, that’s it. Well, he wanted me to do one. I had the bad luck of being in the kitchen watching these guys do them. Now the spotlight was on me.”

“Sure, I know what that’s like.”

“Ever do a beer bong?”

“In college, sure, freshman year, a few times.”

“Did you fuck it up or did it go smoothly?”

“It’s a beer bong,” I replied, “just open your mouth and drain the thing, right?”

“Well I didn’t,” he said, “I spat it out and the whole thing spilled all over the floor. And the guy whose house it was got pissed and yelled at me. The other jocks laughed as I was handed a cloth to clean up the floor. I look back at it now, thinking give me a break. How was I to know? But at the time, it was as if I had made a total fool of myself.”

“Sure,” I said, “I can see that.”

“Well, about ten minutes later, I was still the ‘who invited this guy’ guy, and this jock pointed to my girl to do it, the beer bong, I mean. Well, I don’t think she ever had done one either, because she was very reluctant. But peer pressure got to her, and she did it easily, no problem. The jocks high-fived her.”

“OK,” I typed.

“I’ll never forget my date in her prom dress, sucking from this tube like it was nothing.”

“OK, and?”

“And pretty soon this jock was laying the rap on my girl. He was a popular stud type. He could have lots of girls and did. But that night, prom night, he was interested in mine. The girl I had rented a tuxedo for. The girl I had gotten a limo for. Or my step-dad had. My step-dad—that made it worse, actually.”

“What made it worse? Did you not like your step-dad?”

“He was OK, I guess. I mean we didn’t relate, but he probably meant well. He was a gym teacher and former army officer. The kind of dad who wakes you up on weekends by blaring big band music and yelling stuff into your bedroom, like ‘Hit the deck!’ ”

“You an only child?” I asked.

“No, I have two sisters, but several years older. My mom married him when I started high school, so they were already out of the house. Anyway, that’s not really my point.”

“Sure, I understand, what’s the more primary point?”.

“Well, this jock was putting the moves on my date, and I felt awkward and lame. And he would look over at me, knowing what he was doing. I just watched as he took my date upstairs. It was like I wasn’t even there. He took her up to one of the bedrooms.”

“What did you do? Go upstairs?”

“No, what was I to do? I wasn’t cool in high school. I was always the ‘what’s he doing here’ guy. And it was obvious when he came back downstairs with my date, that he had fucked her. And then I called for the limo and dropped her back home. After that we broke up.”

“You mentioned your step-dad and how that made it worse,” I said. “What made it worse?”

“Well,” he replied, “he loaned me three hundred dollars for that prom. So I spent the summer mowing the lawn to pay off that debt. My step-dad was big on stuff like that—a man pays his debts. So I spent the whole summer mowing the lawn to work off what? To work off going to a prom where someone else fucked my date.”

“I got you,” I said, “so that was the pivotal moment that led you to this?”