Reluctant Cuckold
by
David McManus
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PUBLISHED BY:
Fanny Press on Smashwords
Reluctant Cuckold
Copyright © 2012 by David McManus
Published by Fanny Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information, visit www.fannypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Reluctant Cuckold
Copyright © 2012 by David McManus
ISBN: 978-1-60381-502-4 (Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-60381-503-1 (eBook)
Produced in the United States of America
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CHAPTER ONE
“There’s this rumor going around at work.”
That’s what my wife said.
That’s how it all began.
It was the halting way she said it that jarred me to attention.
Until then, it had been just an ordinary Tuesday night, talking casually over cocktails, about nothing in particular. I swiveled my chair away from the Yankees’ game on the bar TV and watched her sip her gin and tonic before saying, “So what’s the rumor, Ashley?”
“It’s nothing, really. But you know what a rumor mill it is where I work.”
“I guess I didn’t realize.”
“Well yes, and the guys can be even worse.”
I let her expound before asking, “So what is it this time? The rumor, I mean?”
“Well, you know the party we were at the other weekend?”
“The one at your friend’s from work? In the Village?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure, what about it?”
“Well there’s a rumor that Jim Murta and I hooked up there.”
“What?” I asked, miffed and incredulous.
“I know. It really pissed me off, and it is so high-school-ish. So, Craig didn’t say anything to you?”
“Craig?” I replied. “No, I haven’t talked to him, why?”
“Nothing. I just figured he’d probably said something to you.”
“I haven’t talked to him since I hung out with him that night. Who started the rumor? Was it Jim?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure it out. There’s this one notorious gossipmonger Ellen who was there, and I could see her starting the whole stupid thing.”
“So the rumor is that you and Jim Murta supposedly hooked up, meaning what? Hooked up, how?”
“You know, hooked up like we kissed or fooled around or something. I don’t know. Ellen’s the jealous, bitchy type. She probably has a thing for Jim, saw us talking for a minute, and goes off telling stories, y’know.”
“Yeah sure, so you were talking to him? You were talking to Jim at the party?”
“Yeah I talked to him, but I talked to a lot of people that night.”
“Of course; it’s a party,” I replied, “but I can discuss it with Craig if you want.”
“What? Why?”
“I was thinking, maybe I can help get to the bottom of it. Perhaps he knows who started it.”
“No that’s OK, I don’t want to make too much of it. It’s more annoying than anything else. I just wanted to tell you.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, “’cause it’s not a problem to call him.”
“No don’t, I’m fine, it’s no big deal. I can handle it, but I just wanted to let you know and appreciate you listening.”
“Sure, Ashley, anytime, I’m glad you told me. And if this nonsense continues or any other, please let me know, OK?”
“I will, but no one takes it seriously. Some new rumor will replace it next week, I’m sure.”
With that, she put her hand on my knee, asked what was going on in the Yankees’ game, and suggested we get another drink.
I told her that the Yankees would move into first with a win and she asked me if the pitcher was about to be pulled, and at some point it struck me, that her sudden interest in a baseball game was unusual.
****
As Ashley fell asleep beside me, I started thinking about what she’d said.
I knew Jim Murta, but only in a “hey, what’s up” kind of way. I’d met him maybe a half dozen times at a few of Ashley’s work parties and happy hours. He was just some junior salesman. I don’t remember Ashley ever mentioning his name.
I wondered who the hell was spreading this rumor about my wife. And what exactly was meant by “hooked up.” Had someone seen them talking a little too intimately? Or misread a hug as a kiss? Or was someone maliciously trying to smear my wife?
I had been with Ashley at that party.
Granted she’d been off talking to her friends, as I’d been with mine. We weren’t keeping tabs on each other, but that’s just how we are. Although the party had been ten days ago, it was still relatively fresh in my memory.
I began replaying that night in my head, starting from when we’d left our apartment.
I remembered the mild contention in our conversation during the cab ride down.
“But suppose there are Red Sox fans there tonight?” she was asking.
“So what if there are?” I replied. “Look, I know wearing a baseball cap can be frat boy college-y, and no, I’m not trying to look ten years younger. But the Yankees won big today and it’ll be a conversation starter at the party. It’s not like I’ll know many people.”
“You will too know people.”
“They’re your work friends,” I said. “C’mon, I’ve met them, what, a handful of times.”
“Well, Craig’s your friend. He’ll be there.”
“Yeah, Ashley, I know that, and I’m psyched to see him.”
“And, you know Tamara.”
“Oh sure,” I said, “Like she’s going be chewing my ear off. C’mon, please.”
“Please what?”
“You and I both know that Tamara could give two craps about anything I have to say. Which is fine. She doesn’t have to like me.”
“She likes you, Dave. You just need to engage her in things that interest her.”
“Sure,” I said, “I’ll talk foreign films or pastel drawings. Or whatever boyfriend of the week she’s dating.”
“OK, fine,” Ashley said, “don’t bother getting to know her.”
“Look, I’m just saying, she sees me as some corporate finance guy. In her mind, she’s too cool for me. I told her once I liked some Coldplay song and she rolled her eyes like that made me a dork.”
“I think you’re just overly sensitive,” Ashley said. “Tamara likes you and she doesn’t think you’re a dork, but wearing that Yankee cap tonight—”
“Fine,” I said, taking it off, “put it in your purse. I won’t wear it, okay?”
“Good.”
“Happy, now?” I said, smiling. “I put on jeans, changed my shirt and now you’ve stripped me of beloved Yankee cap.”
“So much better,” Ashley said. “Now we just tousle your hair a little, and there, you’re good to go. Trust me.”
“OK,” I said, “I trust your fashion sense. I just thought this party was ultra casual. Didn’t you say there’d be a keg?”
“Yeah, the party’s casual, but it’s also Saturday night in Manhattan.”
****
Two girls who lived there—work friends of Ashley’s—gave us the tour when we arrived.
Walking into their sunken living room, I saw the circular staircase and realized it was a duplex.
Then I saw all the people already outside on the terrace.
“This place is huge,” I whispered to Ashley as I put the beer I’d brought in the fridge. “Your two friends are only a couple years out of college, right?”
“Yeah, they lucked out” she said. “It sure beats the closet studio I had after I graduated.”
“They can’t be making much more than entry level salaries. How do they freaking afford this place?”
“Well, it is big, but it’s kind of run-down. This kitchen is like out of the ’70s, and these walls are crying out for some serious Benjamin Moore.”
“I hear you, but the rent’s got to be—”
“Well, they have a third roommate who’s away, and they also have rich fathers.”
“OK, got it,” I said.
I didn’t proceed further. Ashley could say that about me. I made good money, but if not for my father, we wouldn’t have been able to afford our apartment.
****
Ashley got a big welcome when we walked outside.
We had just returned from a week-long vacation at my parents’ condo, and her friends were complimenting her on her dark tan.
I knew about half of the people there—work friends of Ashley’s I’d met before.
It was a young crowd. Not the kind of party the higher-ups would be invited to. Ashley had recently been promoted to marketing director, but these were Ashley’s peeps—her peers, her friends.
I made the rounds, saying hello as she said, “You remember my husband, David.”
Everyone was friendly enough.
After I gave one of her friends a hug, I stepped back and said, “I love the Yankee cap you’re wearing. Nice hat, isn’t it Ashley?”
“It looks good on her,” she replied, giving me a playful punch in my side.
****
I remembered moving toward the railing and running into Tamara.
She was looking her usual gorgeous self, with her long blond layered hair and large breasts practically bursting out of her dress.
Ashley was finishing up another conversation, and Tamara asked me about our vacation.
“Yeah,” I said, “it was great, very relaxing.”
“So I hear you had a Baywatch moment.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Ashley told you. We were swimming in the ocean when we saw this fin surface about thirty feet away. Suddenly, the theme from Jaws was playing in my head.”
Tamara smiled and asked, “Did you channel your inner David Hasselhoff?”
“I can’t really say that. It was more like I channeled my get-us-both-to-shore-and-pronto instinct. Ashley thought it was a porpoise, but I wasn’t taking any chances. But yeah, that’s what it turned out to be.”
“I’m surprised Ashley didn’t want to go and play with it.”
“Oh she did,” I said, laughing. “She was bummed when it didn’t return.”
“You were on the Gulf side, right?”
“Yeah, we were in Naples. Ever been?”
“Naples, Italy, yes. Naples, Florida, no.”
“Naples, Italy,” I said. “We were there on our honeymoon.”
“I know.”
“So Ashley showed me some of your photography the other night, and I have to say I really liked—”
But now Ashley had finished her conversation and turned to Tamara. “What’s up, Miss BFF, did you miss me this week?”
“You know it, girl. Lunch just wasn’t the same without you.”
****
I turned to look at the view of lower Manhattan and saw a few young salesmen who work with Ashley standing nearby.
Jim Murta had been one of them—the guy in Ashley’s rumor.
I asked if any of them had seen the Yankees’ game, and that got the conversation rolling. Then it turned to area restaurants. Having been to virtually every one they mentioned, I offered my opinion, making sure not to dominate the conversation.
Even though these guys were only probably five years younger, I felt like the seasoned adult, the guy who had been around the block a lot more.
I knew their type. We have them where I work. Guys who use swagger as a way of compensating for experience. I didn’t begrudge them that. I was established in my career. These guys were still just trying to get noticed
A few of them began speculating if a hot summer intern was going to show with her friends. When I heard the girl was nineteen, I said, “I like pretty young interns as much as the next guy, but remember there’s an alcohol issue.”
When I heard the boos start, I smiled and said, “I’m just saying.”
“So, Dave,” one of them said, “you’re like Mr. Hedge Fund Guy, right?”
“Yeah,” I deadpanned, “I’m Mr. Hedge Fund Guy, Brian.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, “but I was watching a documentary on Bernie Madoff, and what exactly is a split strike conversion? It sounded cool.”
“It’s basically a collar,” I replied, then realized I was quickly boring them with details.
“Anyway,” I said, “it limits loss but also profits. The SEC should have known his returns were phantom. At the time, he gave honest, legitimate hedge funds a black eye.”
They had asked for stock tips—a question I hated.
Suddenly Ashley came up and said, “Are you talking shop? Are you all sufficiently bored now?”
“I was just explaining,” I said, “I’m no Nostradamus. Taking my advice would be like listening to some old timer on what horse is gonna win the Belmont.”
“Yeah,” Ashley said, “go with the old-timer on the ponies.”
I appreciated the conversational rescue.
At the keg we met up with my friend Craig. He and I were friends from college. I’d referred him to Ashley when she told me they were looking for higher-level IT people.
He was a big Yankees’ fan as well. And when we started in on the thrashing they had just given the Red Sox, Ashley said that was her cue.
I didn’t mind. It was how we were at parties like this. We’d mingle together, and once in a conversational groove, we’d do our own thing, which I liked about our relationship.
A few of Craig’s IT guys joined us, and soon we’d formed a group by a corner railing, talking sports as the sun set behind us. They all reported to Craig, so he and I were doing more of the talking, like we were holding court. As the scene became more crowded, I saw Ashley go inside with Tamara. I was perfectly content with the little nook we had, and liked the ambience as the terrace lights turned on.
****
I remembered going in to piss.
Ashley was sitting on the kitchen counter talking to Tamara, while another girl pointed me to the bathroom. It struck me when I went in, that Ashley was right about the place. Yeah, it was large, but also older, a little ratty. The bathroom needed renovation as well.
When I returned to the terrace, Craig had introduced me to two British guys who had just arrived, friends of one of his IT boys. We debated American football versus soccer, but in a joking kind of way. One of the Brits was passing around a bottle of Yaegermeister, and I took a swig.
One of the girls who lived there came by and asked us if we were having a good time. She was not amused when I said, “I love your terrace. You should really think about getting a couple basketball hoops installed on both ends. If someone throws an air ball, oh well, it just falls eleven stories to the sidewalk below.”
The indoor part of the party had moved to the second floor when I walked in to take another piss. After waiting a while, I wound up knocking on the bathroom door and shaking the lock. Tamara’s voice from inside said, “Dave?”
“Tamara?”
“Dave, there’s another bathroom upstairs. Use that one.”
I was just psyched to learn of a free bathroom. I liked their spiral staircase. And the upstairs bathroom was considerably nicer.
I heard a lot of talk and laughter from the bedrooms down the hall when I came out. I figured Ashley had migrated up there because it sounded like a girls-from-her-job scene.
Lying in bed now, I wondered if the rumor had come from Ashley in one of those bedrooms.
****
Back down on the terrace, I hung out with Craig and his IT team. At some point a guy approached us, saying he was a neighbor from downstairs. “Who’s up for bungee jumping?” he asked
“What do you mean, mate?” one of the Brits asked.
“I’ve got some cords in my apartment,” the guy slurred back. “I’ve got a friend across the street. We’re gonna throw a line to the roof there and secure it real good. Then you just make your way on out to the middle and I’ll secure the cables. I do this all the time. It’s such a rush jumping down over Avenue A, like you’re about to hit a cab and shit, before the bungee pulls you back up.”
The Brits told him he was crazy and there was no way they were doing that.
“Bring your cables,” I said, calling his bluff, “I’ll go first.”
“I’m fucking serious dude,” he said.
“So am I, dude,” I said, “and maybe you can make one of them cords a little too long for the jump. I like a little risk and danger. We can play a little bungee roulette.”
When he just stared at me, I said, “Maybe you could use another beer, my friend.”
When Ashley eventually walked back out, I told her, “I’ve made some new friends tonight. This is Pete and this is Guy, just over from the UK. And this guy here has been nice enough to offer us free bungee jumping rides right over Avenue A if you want to stick around while he gets his equipment.”
Ashley was gracious and polite before asking if I was about ready to leave. She didn’t seem drunk or anything, and the terrace was starting to clear out as we said our usual goodbyes. I’m pretty sure we were asleep within minutes of arriving home.
CHAPTER TWO
The rumor continued to bother me in the shower the next morning.
Who in hell was talking trash about my wife? Had something happened that had been misconstrued? Was there an innocent explanation? Had Ashley been involved in some party game like Truth or Dare, and had Ashley been dared to give Jim Murta a quick peck? If so, then why wouldn’t Ashley have explained that? And “hooking up,” generally means more than just a peck.
Or was it like Ashley said. That is was just some jealous girl, talking shit.
I decided to call my friend Craig and didn’t think much when he didn’t return my call until late afternoon. When I mentioned the “rumor,” he said, “I take it you’ve heard?”
I was peeved by his response. Like, why hadn’t he picked up the phone and called me?
I told him I was going to be in his area and suggested we meet for a beer after work. “I’m buying,” I added.
It took me saying, “C’mon, one quick beer. Come on, man,” before he replied, “OK.”
We met at an Irish pub, four blocks from where he and Ashley worked. It was by his subway stop, far enough away and sufficiently nondescript to avoid running into any of his and Ashley’s co-workers.
I ordered a pint of Harp. When he finally arrived, I smiled and gave him a hug. After some brief small talk about work and sports, I told him how my wife had informed me about the rumor. “So you know what I’m referring to?”
“Yeah,” he replied tersely, before asking, “what did she say?”
“That there was a rumor at work about her and Jim Murta at that party the other weekend. That they ‘hooked up’ or something.”
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s what I heard.”
“So what’s the story?” I said.
Craig shifted uncomfortably. He was making me nervous
“Craig, c’mon, you’re my boy, talk to me, what did you hear?“
“That he was with her at the party.”
“With her?” I asked. “What does that mean? What are you telling me? They made out?” When he hesitated, I laughed and added, “What? Did they have sex or something?”
“Yes, that’s what I heard.”
I looked at Craig. His eyes weren’t making contact with mine.
“They had sex?”
Craig hesitated before saying, “Yes.”
I looked around the bar. The other men were older, no one I recognized, and no one looking our way.
I lowered my voice and said, “So you’re telling me the rumor is that they had sex? What, that he fucked her?”
“That’s what I heard, Dave.”
“At the party?”
“Yes.”
I was stunned.
It seemed crazy, incredible.
“Craig, you were with me at that party—”
“I know,” he said.
“Did you see anything? Know of anything?”
“No, I didn’t know anything until I heard about it at work that Monday.”
“So Jim was telling people this?”
“I heard it from others. I don’t know who started it. Everyone was talking about it.”
“Did you hear where this supposedly took place?” I said. “One of the bedrooms upstairs?”
“In the bathroom.”
“Which bathroom?”
“The bathroom,” Craig replied, “I don’t know, the bathroom inside when you come off the balcony.”
“So the two of them just went into the bathroom and fucked? Is that what you heard?”
It seemed insanely ludicrous.
“Well, Tamara was in there with them.”
I was startled. Hearing her name made my heart drop.
“Tamara?” I said.
“Yes.”
“OK, continue, and—?”
Craig looked exasperated, almost squirming in his chair.
“What did you hear, Craig?” I said finally “Please, I need to hear this. What is the rumor, exactly? So Tamara was in there?”
“Dave, I work there and it’s really none of my business.”
“Craig, we’ve been buddies since college. Please, bro, if there’s talk going around about my own wife… please, let me know the rumor.”
“OK,” he said, sighing, “I’ll tell you, Dave.”
I silently braced myself
“It was basically this,” he said. “At some point, I don’t know when, Ashley and Tamara went into the bathroom together.”
“OK, and—?”
“Well, Tamara then invited Jim into the bathroom. I heard they put on a little lesbian show.”
“Lesbian show? Meaning what?”
“It was supposedly just an act. It was like a mock pseudo kind of show type thing. They kissed and got topless in the tub.”
“Mock pseudo?” I said. “Ashley and Tamara? Who was the show for? It was for Jim?”
“Yes.”
“OK and then?”
“Well, then Tamara told him to take it out and stroke himself.”
“ What? Take it out? You mean, his dick?”
“Yes.”
“He stroked his dick in front of them?”
“That’s what I heard, yes.”
“OK so my wife was topless in the bathtub and Jim Murta was stroking his dick, looking at her?”
“Tamara was also in the tub with her.”
“OK, all right, and then?”
“And then Tamara asked him.... Tamara asked him which one of them he wanted.”
“Wanted?”
“Supposedly Tamara said, ‘Which one of us do you want to fuck?’ ”
Tamara’s comment made my stomach sink.
I could picture her saying something like that. But I continued, “OK and—?”
“And he chose, uh—”
“He chose my wife? He chose Ashley?”
He didn’t reply at first and then nodded, “Yes.”
“And then he had sex with her?”
“Yes.”
I tried to keep my emotions in check and focus. I wanted to get it straight, make sure I was hearing this all correctly.
“OK, so the rumor was that Ashley and Tamara went into the bathroom during the party—the one off the kitchen downstairs—and Tamara invited Jim Murta in. They did some lesbian show, and Tamara told him to take out his dick and stroke it for them.”
Craig nodded, “Yes.”
“And then Tamara asked Jim ‘Which one of us do you want to fuck?’ And Jim chose my wife. And then Jim had sex with Ashley right there at the party—I mean in the bathroom—as the party was going on?”
“Yes, that’s what I heard.”
“Did you hear where in the bathroom?”
“What?” Craig asked.
“Where in the bathroom?”
“Over the sink,” Craig mumbled, looking away.
Then I looked away. I was stunned, unable to process the sheer idea of it.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,” Craig added.
“Oh hey, Craig, no, thank you. I appreciate you telling me.”
We sat in silence for a minute.
“So this rumor,” I asked, turning back to him, “do people think there’s truth to it? Office gossip is pretty typical there, right?”
“Typical?”
“Like it’s a big-time rumor mill over there?”
“I haven’t noticed that. I mean maybe it is, and people just don’t include me.”
“So, rumors like this aren’t typical?”
“I don’t know. After last year’s Christmas party, there was talk of a VP making out with his Assistant.”
“Do people believe it?”
“Yeah, there were several witnesses. And the VP got a dressing down about it.”
“I mean about this? About Jim and Ashley? Do people believe it?”
“Yeah, it seems that way.”
“A lot of people were talking about it?”
“It wasn’t like there was a crowd at the water cooler chatting about it. But sure, it definitely got around.”
“But did they think maybe Jim concocted it? Or Tamara?”
Craig looked at me oddly, like that was a reach.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Why would they?”
“So you believe it?”
Craig looked away and said, “I don’t know.”
“But people believe it’s true, that’s what you’re saying, right?”
“Dave, I don’t know. It seemed that way to me, but who am I to know for sure.”
I began zoning out until Craig gave me a nudge to get my attention.
“Oh, sorry, can I get you another?” I asked.
“No thanks, I need to get going. I’m meeting my girl for dinner.”
“Sure, I understand,” I said. “Well, thanks a lot for coming out and telling me this. I mean it. I really appreciate it.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said. “You’re not going to tell Ashley I told you this, right?”
“No.”
“I work with her, so it wouldn’t be cool, you understand?”
“Of course.”
We shook hands, and he patted my back as we said goodbye.
I swiveled back, but as I began zoning out, Craig tapped me on the shoulder. “You going to be OK, Dave?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to brave-face it.
“You sure?” he said with an expression of pity, like he clearly believed the story to be true.
“Yeah, I’m fine, really, I’m good,” I said, attempting a smile.
“OK,” he said, patting me again. “Let’s grab a beer soon.”
****
I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. It would be one thing if Ashley had just drunkenly kissed the guy. But I could never have imagined a rumor like this—that Jim Murta had fucked my wife in a bathroom, at a party where I was on the terrace outside.
It seemed so ludicrous and utterly implausible. Ashley wasn’t like that. It would be insanely out of character. We’d been together for over five years, been married over eighteen months. She wasn’t going to fuck her co-worker just because her friend gave him a choice.
The rumor should have been laughable. How could it have gained traction? No one should have believed it, not even for a minute.
And yet, according to Craig, people did believe it. His reluctance to tell me, and the way he said goodbye, suggested he believed it, too.
I walked out into the crowded, rush hour streets, heading home. I was having a mental back and forth. For a while, the “no possible way in hell” side won out. Then I started thinking about that night at the party, and had creeping recollections of what seemed like nothing at the time. I started thinking about going inside to piss. I could hear Tamara’s voice saying “Dave, there’s another bathroom upstairs. Use that one.”
I hadn’t seen Ashley for a while before that. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen her for perhaps an hour. My heart started racing and my pace quickened. The story Craig had told me seemed so outlandish and freakish, yet strangely peculiar—peculiarly detailed. It wasn’t the run-of-the-mill office story—in fact, the contrary.
“Which one of us do you want to fuck?”
Jesus Christ. That sounded exactly like something Tamara might say.
Suddenly, it seemed potentially possible that Ashley, Tamara and Jim had all been in that bathroom when I had knocked.
Part of me wanted to rationalize it. Perhaps they were in the bathroom smoking a joint. But if so, why wouldn’t Ashley simply tell me that, or at least try and account for the rumor? And how would a story like that come out of nowhere? Why was Craig so reluctant to tell me? Why had he seemed to believe it? Was there even more to the story?
I started thinking how Ashley never actually denied it. She referred to it as a rumor, sure, but by definition a rumor means it’s not confirmed to be true. It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.
One thought quickly led to the next. She seemed to have told me about the rumor only because she had assumed I’d hear it from Craig. Would she have even mentioned it otherwise? The rumor had been going on since the prior Monday, over a week before she told me. Did she not want to trouble me or dignify it? Or was she working potential damage control on the assumption I already knew? Why, I wondered, had she told me not to bother asking Craig about it?
If the incident hadn’t happened, and people were spreading lies, Ashley would have stormed into HR that very Monday. Granted it’s not some ultra-corporate firm, but that’s how she is. Her dad’s a lawyer, for Christ’s-sake.
I thought back to her demeanor as we were leaving the party. She seemed happy but sober as she said goodnight to her friends, like she always does on any other typical night out.
But I couldn’t get past the fact that Tamara was in that bathroom when I knocked. Or how I didn’t remember seeing my wife at the time, or Jim for that matter. And Tamara’s line, “Which one of us do you want to fuck?”
Heading up Central Park West, I began to wonder … suppose everything Craig had just told me really was true?
All I had to fall back on was, Ashley would never do something like that. She’s absolutely not that kind of girl. Letting a co-worker fuck her in a bathroom at a party with her own husband nearby was off-the-charts-crazy.
Yet none of the tea leaves or strange road signs pointed to “this didn’t happen.” Instead, all the data points were lining up, like weird mental planets in alignment. Impossibility suddenly seemed possible, or maybe probable, or even highly likely.
Holy shit, I thought.
I said the words to myself in my head: Ashley fucked Jim Murta in that bathroom that night. Jim Murta fucked my wife.
****
I walked into my apartment feeling dizzy, dazed, stupefied.
My marriage, the future, everything I had planned on, seemed suddenly hurled into jeopardy. I felt tears in my eyes. I don’t think I’ve cried since I was a kid. I was alone but grateful she wasn’t there. Ashley had texted me earlier, about some birthday party she was going to.
I looked around at the new gray Italia Charles sofa we had recently bought, the bathroom we’d had renovated in the spring, the new floral comforter for the summer, the funky lamp we had bought last month in Soho.
I looked at the smiling photos of friends and relatives she had put up on our fridge and her cutely written Post-it note reminders.
I looked at photos of us—smiling, arms around each other, on vacation, family holidays, on our wedding day, on our honeymoon.
I began thinking of my wife in that bathroom that night. Wondered how it was possible. If I were to pick anyone to have been in the bathroom, it would have been Tamara. Unlike Ashley’s more conservative and now-married friends from college, Tamara is bold, busty, single, flirty, vivacious, daring—and exudes sexuality.
Tamara was one of Ashley’s bridesmaids, and barely smiled in the photos that day.
I wondered why Jim had chosen Ashley. Perhaps it was that she’d seemed more untouchable, less attainable, a greater challenge. The fact she was married and that I was right outside. That she was higher ranked at work. I wondered if he’d been thinking that, what else he’d been thinking, how it all went down.
My thoughts were all runaway train, and I had to stabilize them. So I went into our home office and started cleaning. Ashley had been on me about it for a while. I had allowed the office to become more of a storage room. I spent the next hour hauling boxes down to the basement.
****
I was lying on the living room sofa when I heard Ashley unlock the door. I pretended to have dozed off, saying, “Oh, hi Ash.”
I was struck by how sweet and pretty she looked in just jeans and a Virginia Tech t-shirt.
“How was Lisa’s b-day shindig?”
“Good,” she said, leaning in to give me a kiss. “What’s up with Mr. Sleepy head? It’s not even eleven. Grueling day at work?”
“It was OK,” I said. “I had some number crunching tonight. I just fell asleep for a few minutes. So you had a good time?”
“Yeah. It was kind of subdued, actually. A few peeps canceled at the last minute, which was kind of lame, but we still had fun.”
“Cool.”
“So, check this out,” Ashley said, handing me a wrapped, brown roll of coins.
“What’s this?”
“The cab was twelve-fifty. I gave him a twenty and asked for five back. But Mr. Cabbie had no cash on him. Literally none. Can you believe that? All I had was twenties. So he gave me this. I was like, what the hell is that? What am I to do with a five dollar roll of nickels?”
She was laughing, and I laughed with her. “Did you say anything to him about it?”
“I asked him if he was serious. But he seemed embarrassed, so I didn’t give him a hard time. Besides, I was late.”
Ashley noticed the folded up cardboard by the kitchen counter. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Check it out,” I said, pointing to our home office room.
It was reassuring when she exclaimed, “Wow!”
“Looks great,” she said, coming back out. “Thank you so much for doing that, honey!”
“No thanks necessary,” I said. “I know I’ve been blowing it off for a while now.”
Ashley said she was going to get ready for bed, so I said I’d do the same.
****
I lay in bed, my mind racing.
Where was the logical explanation? And if this rumor was true, how could Ashley sleep so peacefully beside me? Had she been reassured by my not having heard the rumor? Did she assume I wouldn’t follow up with Craig after telling me not to? That I would remain forever in the dark? Was this a symptom of something seriously wrong in our marriage?
And yet she had acted as if everything was fine and normal when she arrived home. As though our conversation of the prior night had already been paved over. It wasn’t like she was proposing that we have a “serious talk.”
But now there was a growing possibility that I was all too oblivious that night. That I had been clueless while a crazy incident unfolded, starring my wife.
I couldn’t help but think that Ashley had been in that bathroom with Tamara when I knocked. Tamara addressed me by name. If Ashley had been in there, she definitely would have known that I was the one knocking outside.
And If Jim Murta were already inside, he would have known as well.
I began to assume all three of them had been in there when I knocked. That would explain why Tamara had been so quick to tell me to go upstairs.
I had a sickening, gut feeling that the rumor Craig had recounted had been unfolding at that very moment. Had I knocked before or after Tamara asked, “Which one of us do you want to fuck?” That one line kept echoing through my brain, sounding so authentically Tamara.
And then there was the sheer audaciousness of that comment. She could simply have asked, “Which of us do you want?” Or, even “Do you want to have sex with one of us?” But that was too subtle.
Instead Tamara had to go with “fuck.” Saying it to a guy who had been stroking himself, looking at the both of them.
Why would Ashley go along with such a thing? Wasn’t that the moment when she should have pulled the ripcord and left? Ashley wasn’t easily peer pressured—not even by Tamara.
I thought back to my knock on the door. Was Ashley already fucking him, or had Ashley heard my voice, known I was outside, and still went on to fuck him?
Good God, I thought, it’s 4 a.m.
CHAPTER THREE
I took a walk in Bryant Park the following day.
I couldn’t get past my growing belief that the story Craig had told me was true. But I needed to mentally step back from wondering about the minutia of that night.
I wasn’t the first husband in the world to learn his wife had cheated. Quite the contrary, it was an age-old story. Hell, I even had a friend who had experienced this.
Two years ago, my friend Greg learned his wife was having an affair with her boss. What a kick in the balls that must have been at the time, I thought.
He had told me he thought about divorcing her. Then they went to counseling. He didn’t talk much about it after a while. But eventually they reconciled. As far as I could tell, things were very good with them now.
I remembered his friends questioning his decision to take her back. Hell, admittedly I was one of them. Some guys were pretty harsh about it, telling him to “dump that bitch.”
But apparently he thought their marriage was worth saving. None of us were in his shoes.
I compared my situation to his. Mine was different. His wife was having a full-blown affair that she had hidden for six months, maybe even a year.
With Ashley, it was a one-night, completely out-of-nowhere event. And if Tamara hadn’t propelled it forward, it would probably never have happened.
Still, the fact that it did, or probably did happen, meant something.
I could only mentally whitewash so much.
I thought of calling my older brother. But I knew what Sean would say. He’d be clearly on the “dump that bitch” side of the fence.
It’s all black and white with him. I could imagine him saying, “She cheated, that’s it, toss all her stuff onto the street and change the locks tonight.”
I imagined my friends giving me a similar response.
And that would be after just hearing she’d cheated. If they knew it was at a party I was at, where I had even knocked on the door, I’d be hearing the “dump that bitch now” refrain in unison.
But I knew in my heart that not losing Ashley was my number-one priority. I loved her too much and had invested too much.
And none of my friends or family knew what had happened.
Yes, Craig did, but he wasn’t part of my regular social circle. So long as I didn’t talk about it, it would remain a secret.
Whatever issues this had exposed, Ashley and I could work through them in private. There was no way I going to just throw our marriage away now.
I was going to become more engaged. When she talked about work or friends or what was going on in her life, I wasn’t going to be half-there, distracted or dismissive. She was going to have my full attention.
****
Ashley was still at the gym when I arrived home from stopping off at the supermarket.
I had uncorked a bottle of wine and was cooking a pasta dish.
I’m not much of a chef, but my mom taught me the basics growing up. I have about a dozen meals I’m confident about, and this was a particular favorite with Ashley.
She walked in saying, “mmm, something smells good —yum!”
When she came out of the shower, I had dinner on the table and we toasted each other.
We talked freely, as if everything was fine. I discussed work politics I was negotiating through, and my parents’ recent trip to Australia. She mentioned a Lennon documentary about John and Yoko’s time living in the city.
We polished off the first bottle and broke into the second.
“There’s something else,” I told her, pulling out a Netflix envelope. “Your movie arrived a few days early.”
Ashley widened her eyes, affecting a child’s expression, and said “Yay!”
It was a children’s Disney-type movie that had gotten four star reviews. She had wanted to take her eight-year-old cousin to it the last time she was in town. But something had happened. Either they had gotten the times wrong or she or her cousin didn’t want the 3-D version.
She would normally watch something like that on her laptop using her ear buds. But I surprised her by offering to watch it on TV with her.
So she grabbed a small blanket and lay beside me. It wasn’t even half over when Ashley fell asleep on my shoulder.
Stroking her hair, I lowered the TV sound and thought of the first time I’d met her, five summers ago, at a Columbia alumni party at an Upper West Side bar. Five blocks from where we now lived.
She wore a stylish, black, cocktail-type dress, and she captured my eye the moment I spotted her.
She was a classic, dark-haired beauty. I was struck by her excellent posture and the grace and ease of her movements.
Her smile was warm and girl-next-door American. Her slightly Asian looking eyes gave her an exotic quality. Her legs were thin and tanned. And her breasts, though revealing almost no cleavage, stood out magnificently in that dress—full, firm and natural.
I’d always been drawn to big breasts. And thin, tight, compact brunettes. In my early teens, I watched reruns of Dallas and lusted over Victoria Principal. Ashley reminded me of her.
At 5’4” and barely one hundred pounds, I found her unbelievably hot. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
I was determined to at least introduce myself. I asked my few friends there, but no one knew her. One said she looked like she was still a freshman.
Finally I walked over and asked the three girls in her group how they were doing. I didn’t claim to have organized the event, but I tried to create the impression that I was important—a significant alumnus.
I asked their graduation class and surmised they were around twenty-five.
I mentioned that I worked at a hedge fund in midtown, propped up my position there, but that was a conversational bust.
So I went from boasting to humility.
“You know,” I said, “I nearly dropped out after my first month.” They all gave me a look that invited me to continue talking and explaining myself. “Well,” I began, “I had broken my arm just before and arrived a week late. Cliques had already formed. My roommate was a football player who was never around. “But mostly,” I continued, “my econ professor asked me after class why the school would admit a dunce like me. Told me I would be lucky to last past the semester. For the first time in my life, I started thinking I was dumb. You know, where you’ve been told you’re smart throughout high school, and then there you are in New York City. It can be a cold and lonely place when you’re a seventeen–year-old kid on his own for the first time.”
“I know what you mean,” Ashley said, stepping conversationally forward. “I had never experienced city life. It took a long time for Manhattan to grow on me. I didn’t grow up on Zuckerman’s farm or anything, but the pace and crowds and noise had me mega-homesick. And I’d studied piano since I was six. I planned to major in music. I thought I could go professional. But when you’re not in that top one-half of one percent, all you get is rejection for anything serious.”
“Zuckerman’s Farm?” I asked.
“It’s nothing, just a silly reference from Charlotte’s Web.”
Soon we were talking one-on-one and I couldn’t believe it when she said she was single and agreed to a first date.
It became coincidental that she would refer to that book. I later introduced her to a friend when we were first dating who told me, “Ashley has such a soothing voice. I would love for her to read me Charlotte’s Web, and just before drifting off to sleep, I’d blow a load in her face.”
I wasn’t offended, I laughed. I had no idea the relationship would continue. I told him he lived in a fantasy world but agreed that Ashley spoke in a uniquely calming way.
****
As for my first actual date with Ashley, I was mighty nervous, and impressing her was the priority.
It was an August evening, and I was in my work suit, taking a cab down to Tribeca Grill. Ashley was working in that neighborhood at the time. I had never been to the restaurant, but it had gotten high marks on Zagat’s.
As I shut the cab door, I checked my pants, the breast pockets of my jacket and then my back pockets. I suddenly realized I had left my wallet in the backseat of the cab. I waved frantically, trying to get the cabbie’s attention in his rearview as I watched the cab speed uptown.
I’d never lost my wallet before. I always check the seats when leaving a cab. But I had been distracted with a work call.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. I had no money, not even a couple bucks for coffee. I was going to make a terrible first impression.
I called my parents. My driver’s license still listed their address. My dad told me to start canceling credit cards. But I was already late.
I spotted Ashley waiting for me outside. She looked angelic and curvy in her fitted business suit.
I greeted her as normally as possible, giving her a hug. Then I said, “This is going to sound really strange, but my wallet is in the backseat of a cab, probably at Times Square by now.”
She looked at me puzzled, and I added, “I just lost my wallet. I left it in the cab. My money, all my credit cards are in it.”
At first she regarded me as if my excuse were of the “dog ate my homework” variety, but my expression of sincere angst soon convinced her otherwise.
“It’s OK” she said, “I can get it.”
It was a huge gesture and I was so grateful for the offer. But Tribeca Grill was five-dollar-signs expensive, and I suspected she wasn’t making much money. Besides, I didn’t want her paying.
“How about we just grab a drink somewhere, so I can figure out what to do?”
As we walked, I told her about a surfer-type friend of mine from California. How he would always talk about karma. I wasn’t much a believer myself. “But” I said, “I found a wallet once before, in a cab actually, and I called the girl when I got into work. She came and picked it up. It had over 200 bucks, and that’s how I gave it to her. Where’s this thing called karma now, when I need it?”
Ashley bought me a beer and herself a glass of wine. I was trying hard to make small talk, despite being distracted.
When my cell rang, and I didn’t recognize the number, I quickly picked up and heard, “Hi, is this David Martens?”
“You found my wallet?” I asked.
He had indeed! He’d called information and gotten my number from my parents.
“Thank you so much man, you don’t know how much I appreciate this.”
I asked where I could meet him. He told me he was going to a movie at the Angelica. I told him I’d meet him there. He asked where I was. I asked the bartender for the name and location of the place we were at.
“Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll just bike down on my way there.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, “I can meet you anywhere.”
“No, I’ll just bike down there.”
I couldn’t believe it. Incredible relief rushed over me. The whole mood of the evening had suddenly changed.
I could talk to Ashley now, in high spirits, undistracted.
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.