Reluctant Cuckold (32 page)

“I understand your anxiety, but you’re not fucked, Dave. You’re going to be fine, believe me.”

“Everyone’s going to look at me like, ‘That’s him, that’s Ashley’s chump husband.’ ”

“I doubt they will, Dave, and any lowlife gawker who thinks that way isn’t worth sweating over. Just put your game face on, go on charm offensive, make a showing and that’s it.”

“It’s just so humble pie humiliating.”

“It’s only a couple of hours of your life, and don’t treat it like humble pie. Treat it like ‘fuck you.’ ”

“Fuck you?”

“Yes, fuck you,” Mike replied. “That’s right, you gossiping fucks, I’m not intimidated, I’m here. I could give a fuck what any of you think. I’ve got a killer job making kick-ass money and that hot girl over there is my wife. She comes home to me, and I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you petty people think.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it’s more having to see the guy and shake his hand.”

“Shake his hand if you have to, but dismiss him like the fucking peasant he is. He’s a junior salesman, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So remember that—the emphasis on junior. He had one random Haley’s Comet night getting lucky with your wife, and he was so immature as to blab. He’ll never have a chance again at what you have every night. Think ‘bravado,’ my friend.”

“OK, I hear what you’re saying.”

“Dave, you’re above their little petty peanut gallery. Fuck them! Don’t give two craps for two seconds about what they think. Just act like the strong, confident husband. Two hours later, you’ll be out of there. You can handle that, can’t you?”

“When you put it that way, Mike, yeah, maybe I can.”

“Sure you can. Hey, what are you doing tomorrow after work?”

“I don’t know, why?”

“I have a meeting on the west side that’ll be over by six-thirty. What do you say we meet up in your hood and get a drink and talk about this? I feel like we’re friends now, and it would be cool to actually meet you and have a drink in person, and talk more about this happy hour crap you have to deal with.”

“Yeah, I guess I could meet for a beer.”

“How does seven work? Yankees-Orioles are playing. You have a local place that’s cool?”

“Yeah, sure,” I typed. “There’s a place on Amsterdam.”

“What’s your cell, Dave? I’ll text you tomorrow when I’m out of my meeting.”

I gave him my number and sent him a link to the bar.

I was nervous waiting for Mike, drinking a beer.

He’d become a confidant, a counselor, the one person I could really talk to. Yet we’d never even talked on the phone. But we recognized each other instantly when he walked in, and he smiled broadly and gave me a hug.

“It’s good to finally meet you bro,” he said, as he sat down beside me

Mike was a tall guy, with a somewhat unkempt look, with his tie loosened, a Yankee cap on.

“This is a chill place,” he said. “I like the TVs. Has the game started?”

“No score,” I replied, “bottom of the first.”

“To a new friend,” he said, as he clicked my beer.

We small-talked for a good half-hour about the Yankees before Mike suggested we do a shot, and what did I want a shot of? “I’m buying,” he added.

“So, you feeling any better about this happy hour?”

“I’m just going to do what you said,” I replied, “cop a fuck-you attitude and just deal.”

“Hold on bro. I don’t mean to be all fuck-you to people,” Mike said, “just to anyone who might snicker—and I doubt anyone will. Just act like you’re above any junior high school chatter. Exude Dave Martens confidence. Be gracious, magnanimous, like you’re there for your wife, and you’re above it all.”

“Yeah, I didn’t mean I’d be flipping the bird to people.”

Mike laughed.

“I just meant,” I continued, “like if I have to see that Jim Murta guy, I’m going to say hello and move on.”

“OK, hold on,” Mike said.

“What?”

“This little prick ratted out what happened and embarrassed your wife, right?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“And you feel weird or awkward about meeting him?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Dave, I am telling you, you have nothing to feel awkward about. He does.”

“How do you mean?”

“This little punk told his friends—like he was a fucking twelve-year-old. And he knows his kiss-and-tell gossip damaged the reputation of a director he works with. He knows you have every right to want to kick his motherfucker punk ass.”

“I’m not going to fight the guy, Mike.”

“Yeah, I know, but he doesn’t know that. You think he’s going to be comfortable seeing you? You don’t think it’s going to be awkward for him? Make it awkward for him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Be confident when you arrive, exude motherfucking confidence, and take your time before meeting him. When you do, walk over to him deliberately. You’re just going to shake his hand, but for all he knows you’re going to clock him one right in the face.”

“OK,” I said.

“Be cool and calm, but walk over deliberately, and make him think you might just punch him out.”

“There’s no way I’m going to punch him.”

“You’re not getting what I’m saying. Make him think anything is possible. You might punch him or you might just shake his hand. But give him no satisfaction—zero. The guy means nothing to you.”

“OK, I get it,” I replied.

“You’re David fucking Martens,” Mike said. “Remember that! You have a kick-ass powerful job and a hot wife, and you’re miles above the petty bullshit. This Jim Murta dickhead ain’t going to be with your wife ever again. She sleeps in your bed every night. Shake his hand and smile, and when you do, be thinking, ‘Go fuck yourself loser.’ ”

“That’s fucking good, Mike.”

“Well if that’s not enough. I’ll show up there if you want.”

“What?” I said.

“I will kick this little prick’s ass for you.”

“Are you serious?”

“What, you don’t think I could?”

“I’m just not looking for that.”

“I understand Dave. I just don’t like the position you’ve been put in, and I’d wingman you or anything else you wanted Friday night, because like I said, I consider you a friend.”

“I appreciate that, Mike.”

“You’re going to be fine, bro,” he said. “Don’t fucking sweat it. You’re not walking in and meeting the guy who fucked your wife, you’re walking in and meeting the guy who dissed your wife with his adolescent blabbing.”

“You’re right,” I replied.

“Dave, right now it’s about the happy hour and not giving anyone, including Jim Murta, satisfaction. But afterwards we should talk about the situation in general.”

“How so?”

“Just focus on Friday night, my man,” Mike said. “That’s the main thing right now.”

I texted Craig the next morning, telling him I was going to tomorrow’s happy hour.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Look forward to seeing you, Dave.”

I wanted to pick up the phone and ask him if Jim Murta would be showing, but I didn’t want him feeling awkward or have him thinking I was obsessed. Besides, he might not know and would only be speculating. And I wanted to approach the night as if seeing Jim Murta was no big deal. Plus, there was a chance he wouldn’t even be there. People go away for the weekend, particularly at the end of summer. There was a chance I could skate through this with minimal awkwardness.

Still, when I got home, I changed out of my suit and went into my office, where I pulled up the sky-blue bikini photo of Ashley.

I imagined Jim Murta talking to me.

“So you’re really not going to puss out this time, Dave? It sure will be fun to see you squirm as I look you straight in the eye and shake your hand. And others will get a kick out of that as well—seeing Ashley’s chump husband trying to stumble through small talk with me. I’ll be thinking of how hot your wife looked with her blowjob lips around my cock when you knocked.

“So I hear you know that Ashley’s forgiven me, that all’s now good between us. I sweet-talked your wife, and we kissed and made up—oh not literally, yet—but she was so horny for my big cock that night. It’s only a matter of time, bro, before she’s grinding her married pussy on it again.

“Maybe we’ll literally kiss and fully make up tomorrow. After a few drinks, maybe I’ll be making out with your wife in front of you, in front of everyone, as you just look away uncomfortably. Maybe I’ll be French-kissing her, just like I was doing at the party when I blew my sperm up in her, when I topped it off with that special cherry for you.

“I heard about the talks you’ve had with Ashley. Tamara told me everything, how you asked if I was ‘bigger.’ Maybe someday you’ll see my cock, Dave, as it goes inside your wife; then you’ll really see how much bigger, and you’ll get to see how a real man fucks Ashley. You’ll get to watch as your wife cums with my Jim Murta cock inside her. And this time, I’ll be giving her more than two, I’ll be giving her multiples. I’ll hold off seeding your wife until she’s fully satisfied. Not like your ‘Mr. Three Pumps and Done’—Tamara told me about that—too funny. You’ll get to see the kind of fuck from a real man’s cock she craves and needs.

“I might just be fucking your wife tomorrow, Dave, in the bar’s men’s room, and there’ll be nothing you can do about it. You won’t cock-block me any more than you did the last time, when your knocking on the bathroom door didn’t stop me. This time, the door will be open, and I’ll let you watch. I’ll tell you to stand back as I fuck your wife. I’ll give you the finger right to your face as I spew a big fat load of my seed inside your precious wife’s pussy. That’s how I’ll top it off, bitch, that’s the cherry on top I’ve got for you, telling you to go fuck yourself as I sperm up Ashley’s pussy, as you stand there, scared and fucking speechless.”

And then I came hard again.

I shook my head as I washed myself off. In twenty-four hours, I might be seeing this prick, Jim Murta, face-to-face.

Stop thinking this and man-the-fuck-up.

A few minutes later, Mike called. “How you feeling bro? You ready for tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I confirmed my IT friend will be there, at least.”

“Cool, you’ll have a wing man.”

“Yeah, and I’m just going to avoid potential awkward moments.”

“Like what?”

“I’m going to keep tabs on where Jim Murta is, so I’m never alone and cornered.”

“No, remember what I said last night. Say hello to people and make a point to go up to him—this is important, Dave—one, it will put him off-balance and two, you’ll get it over with. You’ll be able to relax the rest of the night.”

“No, you’re right,” I said, “I am going to do that. I just meant like I’m going to avoid shit like running into him in the bathroom. I’m just making an appearance, staying for an hour or so, and then I told Ashley I have an old friend I’m meeting. She was cool with that.”

“Are you actually meeting an old friend?”

“No, but she doesn’t know that.”

“Tell you what, Dave. I’m around tomorrow. After you’re done, call me and I’ll meet you at the bar from last night. You can relax and chill out. I’m going to be in Manhattan anyway.”

“Yeah?” I said.

“Yeah, I want to be there for you, man. I’ll be the old friend you’re meeting. You won’t even be lying. I’d hate to think of you stewing back at your apartment.”

“OK, Mike, I appreciate that. I’ll text you when I’m leaving, probably around seven-thirty or eight.”

“Cool, I’ll make my way uptown by then, and Dave?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure to make the first move. You approach Jim Murta, not the other way around. I know it’s not easy, but trust me, it’s important. I’m not saying to be overly obvious, but you don’t want to seem like you’re avoiding him. You say hello to whoever he’s with and you say hello to him like he’s no different, and then you quickly move on to everyone else. Hang with your IT friend. Whatever power this Jim Murta guy has will be drained.”

“OK, Mike, I got it.”

“Confidence, Dave, remember, you’re David fucking Martens and who the fuck are you, bitches.”

I was getting more uneasy as Friday afternoon progressed.

I would be thinking “three hours from now” as I hopped on a conference call.

The bar was ten blocks from my office. It was a sunny, mild evening, and I decided to walk. Mike texted me saying “Good luck, you can do this, bro.”