Reluctant Cuckold (18 page)

“Sounds fun,” I said.

“Oh, it was a blast, I was bummed to wake up. But now it just doesn’t seem to work so well, does it? What do you say, Dave, are my feet off the ground yet?”

“No,” I replied, “but keep trying, you’ll get the hang of it.”

I’m sure to Ashley her dream meant nothing, and who knows what dreams really mean anyway.

But when she was at the gym, I Googled, “Flying dreams” and “meaning.” Many dreamers describe the ability to fly in their dreams as an exhilarating, joyful, and liberating experience. If you are flying with ease and are enjoying the scene and landscape below, then it suggests you are on top of a situation. You have risen above something. It may also mean that you have gained new perspective. Flying dreams and the ability to control your flight represent your own personal sense of power.

What the fuck
, I thought.

Had fucking Jim Murta in that bathroom been exhilarating? Did she feel liberated, knowing I accepted it? Did she feel more powerful in our relationship? Did she understand the incredible power she had given that prick that night? Had it been exhilarating to be the center of attention in her dream, flying above everyone in her bikini—or maybe even naked—her tits bouncing for everyone to see?

Where was I in her dream?

Ashley called me an hour later, on her way home from the gym, asking, “Aren’t your parents away this weekend?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “are you thinking a pool day?”

“Well, it’s hot already and I just heard it’s going up to 95.”

“I’d be game,” I said, “but my mom told me she’d given a few pool passes to a couple neighbors before she left. So if you don’t mind a few potential freeloaders—”

“I don’t mind. We can make some bloodies at your house.”

“Sure, you got it, Ash.”

No one was there when we arrived. Ashley skimmed the few insects and leaves from the pool while I did the vacuuming.

“Looks better than a pool at a posh hotel,” she said when we finished.

“Yeah, and hotel pools don’t have diving boards—or even deep ends these days.”

“Or a lush floral, rock garden behind it, right?”

I gave her a long kiss before she went back in to make the bloodies. But Ashley had forgotten to bring celery salt.

What seemed like a simple thing turned into me going to three different supermarkets.

Ashley was already outside on a recliner when I returned. She was wearing that sky-blue bikini from the photo in Florida—the one I had just masturbated to yesterday. The next-door neighbor kid from last summer would be all over the view I had of her from the kitchen.

The neighbors showed as Ashley was pouring us a second Bloody Mary. They were two older couples in their mid-fifties I’d met before.

“Hi David, I’m sorry, your mom said—” one of the wives began.

“Not at all, Mrs. Seever, I’m the one pool-hopping,” I replied. “My wife and I heard the forecast, and we just had to flee the city.”

I introduced the Seevers and Marshmans to Ashley. They had met her before and said so; the Seevers had attended our wedding. But I’m sure she looked a bit different now, in nothing but her blue bikini.

“We’ve got a pitcher of bloodies,” Ashley said, “what do you say, Jane?”

“It sounds like we came to the right place,” she said.

When the Marshmans said they’d have one, Ashley turned to Mr. Seevers, asking, “Bill, is it ‘yeas’ all around or what?”

“Don’t need to twist my arm,” he said, “sounds good.”

Ashley went to work, running around in her bikini, asking all of them how it tasted … “more mix, more vodka, more spicy?”

“It’s great Ashley,” Jane said. “C’mon, have a seat.”

Ashley began chatting up the wives, so I moved my chair in and talked up their husbands. Neither of them followed baseball, so we talked business, the economy, interest rates … the over-priced home at the end of the street on the market for over a year.

Perhaps Ashley’s conversation had gotten boring as well, because she was encouraging the two ladies into the pool. Once that was accomplished, Ashley began pitching us men.

“The pool thermometer says eighty-one,” she said, “and your wives are waiting for you.”

“Well maybe now you really will have to twist my arm,” Mr. Seevers replied.

“OK, Greg,” Ashley said, walking up to him pretending to reach for his arm.

“I’m going, I’m going,” he said and took off his shirt.

Mr. Marshman hesitated. He was a heavy guy and seemed self-conscious. But I could relate to his checkmate feeling. In a short time, he was in the pool.

Ashley brought out plastic cups and served everyone from the edge of the pool. She was on such display. I watched Mr. Marshman look over at his wife, deep in conversation, before copping another view of Ashley as she set up the iPod deck. She joined us in the pool as Bono sang, “It’s a beautiful day.”

About an hour and another bloody later, another neighbor arrived.

Mrs. Seever had told me Jay might show, but also how “with his schedule, you never know.” I had hoped he’d be a no-show. The half-dozen times I’d met Jay in as many years, I’d never cared for him. My parents liked him, or my mom anyway. He built a sunroom on the house a few years ago.

Jay was a blue-collar type living in a white-collar town. Despite owning his own construction business, he had the requisite chip on his shoulder—or at least that’s how it seemed to me—when he walked through the gate with his “I take no bullshit” expression.

But Jay smiled broadly when the neighbors greeted him, saying, “I didn’t know I was coming over to a party.”

“You just made the party official, Jay,” Mrs. Marshman said.

Ashley got out of the pool and introduced herself.

“Hi, Ashley,” I watched him say, “we met at a cook-out last summer. July-Fourth weekend, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Good memory,” Ashley replied, “I thought you looked familiar.”

“Yeah, you had recently gotten married,” he added, “to Dave—how you doing Dave?”

“I’m good. How’re you, Jay?” I said from the pool.

“What are you drinking?” Ashley asked as the water dripped off her. “We’ve got Bloody Marys or there’s beer or soda or—”

“A beer sounds good,” Jay said, “what kind do you have?”

“Hmm, that’s a really good question,” Ashley said, before turning to me, like I was going to rattle off the beer list.

When I didn’t immediately answer, she replied “Just come inside with me, and decide what you like.”

And I just watched as this older construction guy followed my bikini-clad wife into my parents’ kitchen.

Can you stop being a hostess for one friggin’ second, Ashley? I thought. Can you not see how a guy like that might misinterpret your Ashley Martens’ welcome wagon?

I thought of the whole golly-gee way she got out of the pool and greeted him.

“Hi, I’m Ashley, and these are my big tits. You can see my nipples in my bikini. Can I get you something? Some alcohol to drink? And going inside, I can give you a close-up view of my petite, toned ass.”

Being on a beach with Ashley never bothered me. Sure, I noticed guys checking her out. I had a “can’t blame them” attitude—but they’d get nothing more than a look. But then I thought of Ashley’s friends. Sure, Tamara pushed the envelope, but many of them wore one-pieces or bottoms with miniskirts. How is a bikini much different than bra and panties? It’s just two small pieces of cloth away from being naked. Didn’t Ashley know she was giving this construction guy a hard-on or an image he might jerk off to later?

When they came back out, Ashley was chatting him up about a house he’d built last year, and he was making her laugh by describing the owner’s idiosyncrasies. “The guy was a real clown,” Jay said, “a fool with money.” Then he took off his t-shirt and stood by the side of the pool drinking his Budweiser.

”Wow,” Ashley said, “You are really ripped.”

“Thanks, not bad for a guy about to turn fifty.”

“Fifty?” Ashley said. “Not bad at all.”

“Well I’ll be fifty August twenty-second. You guys should come to the party they’re throwing for me.”

“We’d love to,” Ashley said, turning to me, like, “right?”

I wasn’t sure if she was serious or yes-manning him.

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

Ashley encouraged Jay to join her in getting into the pool and the three of us sipped our drinks in the shallow end.

“I like your tat,” Ashley told him, looking to me for comment.

It was a tattoo of an angry bald eagle with the inscription, ‘Live to ride, ride to live.’ ”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” I said, thinking what-the-fuck-ever.

“Harley Davidson,” Jay said, “You ride, Dave?”

“Motorcycles? No, I never have,” I replied.

“Never?” he said. “You should try it sometime. There’s nothing like it. Have you, Ashley?”

“Oh sure,” Ashley said, “I love ripping it up with a good pasta rocket.”

“Oh yeah, you like the Italian bikes, do you? I have a black Ducati in my garage.”

“I’m just kidding,” Ashley replied. “It was just a fun thing to say. I’ve been a passenger a few times but I was too scared to try it myself.”

“So you’ve ridden, but just as a passenger?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’m sure you made a cute little fender bunny.”

Jay shot me a look—to note my reaction—then turned back to Ashley. I was still processing his comment.

“Thanks,” Ashley said, smiling, “but I was glad when it was time to take the helmet off.”

I was a bit self-conscious when we got out of the pool.

Ashley was sitting in her bikini, her big tits on parade, and Jay was shirtless in a nearby chair, looking tan and muscled.

The rest of the men put their shirts back on quickly, and their wives wore towels.

I’m typically not shy about going shirtless—I’m a thin guy—but at that moment, I felt pale and under-muscled. So I lay on the recliner, closed my eyes, and let the sun dry me off.

What the fuck, I thought, who is this character?

He’s inviting my wife to his fiftieth birthday party and telling her she’d make a “cute little fender bunny”? And she’s admiring how ripped he is? What’s next? Is she going to ask him to rub suntan lotion on her back?

If he knew about what Ashley had done with Jim Murta—how easily he’d taken Ashley—Jay would consider my wife a fuck-prospect. Maybe he already did.

Maybe he was getting a vibe. Perhaps he could sense that Ashley was capable of bold, risky cheating; after all, she’d done it once before.

Could she be attracted to this guy? This one-track Mr. blue-collar construction worker asshole? He was old enough to be her father. She might have complimented him just to be social and friendly. She might find the idea of a fifty-year-old guy scamming on her revolting. Or then again, she might be intrigued by his looks, confidence, and experience. I couldn’t get a read.

I put my sunglasses on and lay there thinking.

I pictured Ashley saying she was going inside to use the bathroom. A few minutes later Jay would casually make his way inside himself.

I pictured him waiting for Ashley by the bathroom door. She would know he wasn’t simply waiting to take a piss. His eyes would say exactly why he was there.

Ashley would give him a look, like, “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

And that’s when Jay would strike, leading her back into the bathroom, passionately kissing my wife against the wall.

I suddenly popped a boner.

I told everyone I had to make a work phone call, and that I had to go inside for a few minutes.

I was in the upstairs bathroom, watching through the trees as Ashley and Jay talked by the pool below. If he thought there was an opening, Jay would no doubt take it. He wouldn’t care about this being his neighbors’ house or that he was hitting on his neighbors’ son’s wife.

He probably thinks I’m some elitist, privileged wimp who doesn’t deserve my wife.

I yanked off my swim trunks and sat on the sink. I began to imagine Jay and Ashley upstairs in the bathroom I was in now. I would be outside, vaguely wondering what was taking Ashley so long as I tried to entertain the guests by the pool below.

They would be making out against the bathroom wall.

“Do you feel what’s rubbing against you, Ashley?