Reluctant Cuckold (34 page)

“We’ll figure out the details on Monday,” he said as another round arrived. “I’ll be some old friend of yours—you said you’re on Facebook, right?”

“Yeah, but hardly ever on.”

“Me, either,” Mike said, “but confirm my friend request tonight. I’m going to be an old friend who reconnected with you.”

“OK,” I said, “and then what?”

“Then we figure it out from there,” Mike said.

“But you’re talking about meeting up with Ashley and me?”

“Yes, to help you get a better sense of where her head is at. Your talk didn’t really get you there. You’re too close to this. I can provide some higher-level perspective. I think this will really help.”

“I don’t know, Mike.”

“Well, forget it for now, bro. Let’s focus on tonight. You went into a stressful situation and passed the test with flying colors. You went man-to-man with that a-hole and came out on top, the bigger, more established man.”

“Yeah, other than the photo, it went better than I thought,” I said.

“Of course it did. I told you it would. Fuck that guy, he’s the chump, you showed him how little he is to you tonight.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but Mike, I have to be honest, I’m not exactly comfortable with this Plan B.”

“Fuck Plan B right now,” Mike said, as he cheered me over a shot. “To manning up to Jim Murta tonight. Jim Murta is a little fucking bitch. To Dave fucking Martens.”

I woke up at six and couldn’t get back to sleep. I looked over at Ashley, her face so serenely angelic.

I was hard. I wished I could wake her, but I didn’t want the “What the hell time is it” rejection. I thought of jerking off under the cover, or getting up and masturbating as I sat on a chair, looking at her. Both were too obvious risks, and so I made my way to the bathroom.

I thought about that photo Tamara had now—Ashley smiling between me and Mr. Fucked My Wife, Jim Fucking Murta.

What conniving satisfaction Tamara must have felt.

I imagined the comments that would inevitably ensue when Tamara posted them.

“Oh my God, did you see that?”

“I know, isn’t that hilarious.”

“You could see how awkward he looked posing with the guy who fucked his wife.”

“Oh, he looks like such a chump. If he knows what happened, what a pussy he is. And if he doesn’t, what an idiot.”

“He looks like he knows, given his uncomfortable expression. I bet he’s just a pussy.”

I imagined guys at her work looking at the photo from their home computers. I imagined them jerking off looking at Ashley, thinking, “Go fuck yourself, Dave Martens.”

I thought of what they might be thinking …

“You got punked, bitch—what kind of man poses with the guy who fucked his wife? And look at Ashley, with her big tits bubbling out underneath that dress, allowing Jim to put his arms around her.”

“Oh yeah, Dave, I’m looking right at you, you fucking pussy, and I’m not the only one, other guys at work are thinking the same thing. Oh yeah, he fucking nailed your wife and now you’re fucking posing with him. Gobble gobble that humble pie, Dave. We’re all fucking laughing at you now!”

“Yeah, Ashley, that’s it, show your husband how much you don’t give a fuck. You rode Jim’s cock and now you got your husband to pose with him.”

“Do you feel like a chump now? This is another cherry on top—posing with the guy who balled and creamed your precious Ashley, bitch!”

I came hard, and hung my head.

Mark and Camilla picked us up at our apartment just after nine.

Mark had his dad’s BMW convertible and suggested I ride shotgun, so Ashley and Camilla could talk in the back. He had jam-type music playing and we didn’t talk much over the wind. I kind of zoned out, enjoying the ride.

We met two couples—friends of Mark’s—and they gave us the tour.

It was a three-bedroom beach house that Mark’s friend, Chip, had rented for the week.

The six of them had split the cost. Ashley and I were last minute invites, simply free-loading for the night.

“There’s couches for you guys to crash on,” Chip explained, “one in the living room and another downstairs.”

“That works,” Ashley said.

“Yeah, and there’s a Jacuzzi out here on the deck. Take that path and you’re on the beach in less than a minute.”

“This place rocks,” Ashley said. “Love the ocean view. Thanks so much for having us.”

“You bet,” Chip said. “What do you all say about bringing the cooler down and hitting the beach?”

After staking out a more secluded section, Chip handed out beers in plastic cups and I watched as the girls stripped off their t-shirts and shorts.

I’m sure the other guys were checking out Ashley through their sunglasses. Ashley was wearing a white bikini with blue polka dots, which accentuated her breasts. Camilla was wearing a bikini as well, and was thin and tan with more modest-sized breasts. The other two girls were wearing one-pieces and were OK looking, but not in any noteworthy way.

When Ashley and Camilla suggested we go swimming, Mark and I joined them. The ocean waves were crashing hard, the kind of waves that can take a girl’s top off. But we made it out to where it was above standing and Mark and I tossed a nerf football.

Then I joined up with Ashley and gave her a kiss, my arms around her wet hair. When I started to cop a feel of her breasts she said, “What are you doing?” in a ‘this-is-a-family-beach’ kind of way.

“I’m just kidding,” I said as a pseudo apology.

Drying off, Mark mentioned there was a lighthouse at the end of the island.

Back at the house, everyone was lazing around, watching some old Will Ferrell movie.

“Do you want my car keys?” Mark asked.

“What?” I said.

“You can take Ashley up and check out the lighthouse. It’s only ten miles north and a scenic ride.”

“You don’t want to go?”

“I think I may take a nap. Camilla and I got in late, plus the time difference.”

“Time difference?” I said, “Central time is one freaking hour. What, does Daylight Savings Time knock you out as well?”

“Fuck you, man,” he said ribbing me in the chest.

“Hey, if you’re cool with it,” I said, “I’d love to check out the lighthouse.”

“Of course I’m cool with it. There’s some champagne in the fridge if you want to take a bottle. Just don’t get drunk and crash my dad’s car.”

“No worries there. That’s very cool of you, Mark.”

Ten minutes later, Ashley and I were off in Mark’s dad’s BMW.

“Is this ‘Stand by Me’?” Ashley said as the breeze had our hair flying.

“Yeah, it’s John Lennon, doing acoustic.”

“It’s really beautiful,” she replied.

I pulled over onto a side street.

“What are you doing?”

I hit replay on Pandora, and we made out as the song started up again.

The group was out on the deck drinking when we returned. Ashley put her bikini on and joined the other girls in the Jacuzzi.

I helped Mark squeeze watermelon for watermelon margaritas. Then Chip’s old college buddy friend came up the stairs. He was the last guest to arrive.

“I’m Miguel,” he said, as he shook my hand.

“I’m Dave, is that a turkey you have in that tray?”

“It is,” he said. “Ever have deep-fried turkey?”

“Uh, that would be a no.”

“Well then, you’re in for a treat, my friend.”

I turned around and saw Ashley walking over to introduce herself. Why was she the only girl who felt compelled to get out of the Jacuzzi to greet him, I wondered. Soon she was inquiring about what flavoring the turkey was covered in, what he injected it with, and how you actually went about deep-frying turkey. He rattled off the details as Ashley stood there listening intently in her wet, polka dotted bikini.

The turkey was a hit, and for someone who doesn’t enjoy Thanksgiving dinners, it was probably the best tasting turkey I’d ever had.

Mark’s margaritas were also a hit—so much so, that a half hour later, he was asking me if I’d join him in getting another watermelon and another bottle of tequila in town.

Ashley and Camilla were talking to Miguel in their swimsuits about cook-out/tailgate meals, and I felt a little uneasy leaving. But Mark had lent me his convertible, and had invited me to a Yankees game, so I couldn’t say, “No I want to stay here.”

We’d already had a few drinks, so he called for a cab to take us. Only the cab driver refused to wait once we got there—he had another fare he was late for. He handed us the card for Surf City Taxi and pulled away.

“Unfucking believable,” Mark said as he got off the phone, “twenty to thirty minutes—do you want to just hoof it?”

“Mark, it’s got to be at least a mile, and we have a freaking watermelon to lug.”

So we waited. Fifteen minutes later, the cab company was now telling us thirty minutes more.

“I can’t stand waiting. Fuck the watermelon. Let’s just bring the tequila and walk back.”

“Are you sure you know the way?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’ve got it on my iPhone—1.3 miles.”

“OK,” I said.

Mark asked a few people walking into the store if they wanted a watermelon—“and could you drive us to North Fifteenth?” Finally he just gave it to a couple with kids and we set off on foot.

On the walk home, Mark opened the Cuervo and asked if I’d join him in a “social.” We took two swigs each and walked down Long Beach Boulevard.

“I’m sorry about this,” Mark said, “I fucked up. I thought this would be quick.”

“Don’t sweat it man, it was an adventure,” I said. It was something Ashley would say.

“Well more like a misadventure, but I’m glad for the company.”

“You bet.”

“So I think Camilla’s getting slightly more open to moving.”

“Oh yeah?” I replied.

“At least she’s saying things like, ‘Well, if we move’ and towns she’d be open to that are a quick train ride to the city.”

“Well yeah, that sounds like progress, right?”

“Yeah, it is,” Mark replied, “and I’m hoping that having fun relaxing this week will get her thinking Jersey’s not so bad.”

I reluctantly agreed to join him in one more social chug as we approached the house.

The two couples were sitting around on the deck talking when we returned.

“Where’s Camilla?” Mark asked.

“Or Ashley?” I said.

“They walked down to the beach with Miguel.”

“To swim?”

“Not sure,” Chip replied, “maybe just to check out the beach.”

“How long ago?” I asked.

“Maybe twenty minutes.”

I turned to Mark and said, “I could see Ashley wanting to swim.”

“Yeah,” he replied, “and Camilla was in her swimsuit. Let’s put our suits on and go down there.”

“Yup,” I replied, “I’m right with you.”

Ashley and I had swum in the ocean at night plenty of times before. Sometimes after drinking. The next day, I always knew that was stupid. The Jersey shore can have rip tides. I hurried into my suit and met Mark back on the deck.

We started down the sandy path when we saw Camilla walking back up to us in her bikini.

“I was just coming out looking for you” Mark said, “Did you go swimming?”

“No, we just brought our drinks down and admired the ocean. The moon’s illuminating it.”

“Where’s Ashley?” I asked.

“She and Miguel went to check out some ten million dollar house about ten houses down, but I’m barefoot.”

“Well, we couldn’t get a cab back to save our life,” Mark replied, as he turned around and the three of us began walking back to the house, up the stairs, onto the deck.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to go find Ashley but I felt weird asking Camilla to point me in the direction of this ten million dollar house that Ashley and Miguel had ventured off to.

“Did Ashley bring her cell?” I asked.

“No, isn’t that hers on the top of her purse?”

“Oh yeah, that’s hers.”

Motherfucker
, I thought, taking a piss.