Reluctant Cuckold (2 page)

“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.

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.”