Other Men's Wives

by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  I'm in Suite 1622 of the Aristocrat Hotel, sipping a glass of Scotch on the rocks and looking out a large window facing serene Lake Erie. When I made the reservation on Monday, I told the clerk that I specifically wanted this suite. Yes, it has an exquisite view of the lake. Yes, it's in a secluded wing of the building. Yes, it's on the most expensive floor. And yes, the room has a minibar stocked with the best beer, wine, and small shot bottles of hard liquor. It also has a satellite TV with twenty-four-hour adult movies and lickety-split, round-the-clock room service.

  But none of that's why I wanted this space. According to the receipts Mason gathered, Suite 1622 of this hotel is where Harry and Sierra met most often. So his favorite spot for doing Sierra is my preferred spot to sex Inez.

  The timing is perfect. Yesterday morning, Tuesday, Harry called ecstatic that his son Claude had finally contacted him. Best of all, Claude said he was attending classes down at the University of Cincinnati. Harry immediately called Inez and notified his employees and business partners that he was heading south for two days to love and hug his son, then fuss him out for having kept his old man in suspense. He won't be back until Saturday, the day of the victory banquet, which leaves Inez in Cleveland, alone, angry, and wondering.

  She's ripe for the picking. After speaking with her almost every day for the past few weeks, dropping hints about getting closer to the truth concerning Harry and his phantom girlfriend, I let Inez live in silence through Monday and most of Tuesday. She imagined things about Harry's infidelity that were more destructive than anything I could've conjured. We finally talked late Tuesday night. Inez was hoping for the best but starving to hear the worst, and I didn't disappoint.

  “I'm not sure you're ready for this,” I'd said. “Maybe we should wait.”

  “No!” Inez had demanded. “Whatever it is, just give it to me.”

  I stalled with an excuse she reluctantly bought, then told Inez when and where to meet me. “Why down at the Aristocrat?” she wanted to know.

  “Sierra's lawyer got the court to order me out of the house until we get things settled about who'll get it.”

  “That's too bad.”

  “Not as bad as what I have to show you.”

  Inez's anxiety poured like syrup through the phone. Her angst added to Harry's shock will make sumptuous nectar.

  There's a knock on the door. I don't answer right away. Every second of Inez's suspense works for me in wearing her down. There's another knock. I sip my Scotch and watch as a speedboat off in the distance knifes through Lake Erie's aqua-blue waters. There's a third knock, faster and more emphatic, maybe even desperate.

  I chuckle, finish off the Scotch, and answer the door. And, surprise, surprise, it's Inez. She's always been attractive, but she's a traffic-stopper today. Her hair hangs simply and straight down just past her earlobes. She's wearing a salmon jacket and matching mid-thigh-length skirt, an off-white blouse, and a sharp pair of salmon-colored Fendi open-toed shoes. Her gold bracelet, earrings, necklace, ankle bracelet, and toe rings add nice adorning touches.

  She smiles nervously. “Hi, Denmark; I came as soon as I got off work at the Port Authority.”

  “Thanks, Inez. Come on in.”

  I step aside and watch her swish by. “Would you like a drink?” I ask, closing the door.

  “I'm so nervous right now that if you don't fix it I'll do it myself.”

  I smile softly. “I understand, Inez. Believe me, I do.”

  I gesture for her to sit down on the couch in the suite's living room. The TV's on and tuned into Gordon's hit afternoon show, Getting Down with Cleveland. He's crowing about the upcoming Sports Challenge victory banquet, softly needling his network bosses about not doing a special live broadcast of the event. Gordon's real grouse is that he wants a live broadcast of him getting his award.

  I chuckle softly. On Saturday, while Gordon's preparing to cruise down to the Lake Shore Gardens to thrill his worshipers, I'll already be there thrilling his wife.

  “Gordon's show has come a long way,” Inez comments.

  I grunt my agreement. “Will Scotch on the rocks be okay?”

  “Just Scotch. I don't like my liquor watered down.”

  I fix the drinks, hand Inez hers, and sit down in the plush, comfy chair angled off to the side of the couch. The moment my butt hits the cushion, Inez sets her empty glass down on the lamp table beside her.

  She crosses and uncrosses her thick, shapely legs and nervously preens, patting her hair.

  “Would you like another drink?” I ask.

  She glances at her empty glass, shakes her head no, then says, “On second thought, yes.”

  I fix it and sit down. Inez stares morosely into her glass. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She looks up and smiles bravely. “Yes, it's just… all this waiting.”

  I nod understandingly. “I know, Inez. Part of you wants to know; most of you doesn't.”

  “Please, Denmark,” she says, barely above a whisper, “just tell me.”

  I tear a page from Gordon's book and sadden my expression as I point hesitantly over at the bed. “Over there, in the brown envelope.”

  Inez turns quickly toward the bed and stares for a long moment. I know what she's thinking. The moment she sees what's in that envelope, nothing will be the same. But if she doesn't look, she'll never know the worst. Maybe she and Harry could heal their marriage. But if she opens that envelope, it's over.

  She hurries over to the bed, grabs the envelope, and pulls out the photos of Harry and Sierra, exhaling a low, steady groan as she looks. I sip my drink and calmly watch as piece by piece she falls apart.

  “I, I need a, a drink,” Inez stammers.

  I move to get it, but Inez helps herself, hurrying over to the minibar and throwing back a first then second shot of booze. She lumbers over and into a chair at the dinette table, slams down the glass, rests her arms and head on the table, and sobs.

  “Not me,” she laments. “This wasn't supposed to happen to me.”

  What Harry did to me was bad. But seeing what he's done to Inez, he deserves whatever he gets. It's time to help her, help me get some payback.

  I finish my drink, pad over to Inez, and stand just behind her as she cries. “What more could I have done?” she groans. “I tried so hard. God help me, I tried.”

  I gently squeeze her shoulder, lean close, and speak softly. “Don't blame yourself, Inez. It's not your fault that Harry's scum.”

  She whirls around and whacks me across the jaw. “Men!” she shouts. “You're all scum!”

  I stagger backward falling across the couch and onto the floor. I push myself up but am slammed to the floor when Inez lands on my back, swatting and punching.

  “No good dirty rotten bastard!” she rails, her arms flailing like super rotating windmills. “Nobody cheats on me!”

  I cover my head with my arms and twist and turn, trying to throw her off. Inez grabs the heavy brass-based table lamp. I spin out the way a split second before she slams it down where my head was. She loses her balance and topples to the floor. I jump to my feet and brace myself for another assault, but it's not coming. Inez is face down, flat on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

  I glance at myself in the wall mirror. My right cheek's throbbing. My left forearm looks like it's been mauled. And my lower back feels like it's been mule kicked.

  Inez moves, and I jump, startled. She slowly pushes herself up, shambles over to the minibar, and downs three small shot bottles of hard stuff. She grimaces as she swallows the last of the third bottle, drops it onto the floor, and looks at me.

  “Take me,” she says softly, stepping toward me.

  “Inez, hitting women isn't my bag,” I warn. “But if you jump me again, I'm doing you like I would a man.”

  She steps closer, her eyes narrowing. “I—said—take me! Make love to me now!”

  She keeps coming and starts undressing, pulling off a piece of clothing with each step. Then she stops, standing before me
in just her panties. She licks her fingers, circles them around her nipples until they're erect, then slides her hand down her stomach and onto her pre-ciousness, massaging herself.

  “It's calling you, Denmark,” she says huskily.

  My big head's still throbbing from Inez's whack, but my little head's throbbing with excited expectation. Inez eases closer, and I relax my guard. Step by step she comes until she's only inches from me. Her exhaling breath reeks of alcohol. My little head convinces me that it's eau de perfume. She staggers to the right, and I catch her. She grabs my shoulders, pulls herself steady, then gently rubs my right cheek.

  “You poor thing … I'm sorry,” she slurs. “Did I … do that?”

  “Yes!” I answer tautly.

  She reaches down, and I flinch, instantly worried that my balls are goners. “Stop being so nervous,” she giggles. “I'm only … trying to help.”

  She unzips my pants and lightly runs her fingers back and forth along my hardening length.

  “Oh, baby,” she says, staring hungrily down at me. “How'd you get all this in such a tight place?”

  Electric insanity arcs through my groin. She pulls my head down for an alcohol-soaked kiss, her soft lips and snaking tongue stirring up gale force winds of desire in me. Somehow, some way, she comes out of her panties, lifts a leg, and joins with me. I grab her cheeks and pull her in tight. She wraps her legs around my waist, and we rock, sway, and moan. Then she stops, grabs my face in both her palms, and looks straight into my eyes. Hers are awash in tears.

  A bolt of fear shoots through me. I'm not looking at drunk, lusting Inez but at someone else. She's afraid, desperate, and staring up from deep inside where she's imprisoned and begging for rescue. Boozing Inez slams the door in her face.

  “Screw me, baby,” she urges, moving slowly up and down. “Do it so we can get even!”

  I smile inwardly, set Inez down, take her by the hand, and lead her quickly over to the bed. She gets in and onto her back as I strip.

  “Hurry!” she orders.

  I toss aside my underwear, get into bed, and obey her command. She closes her eyes and exhales in stuttering gasps. She hooks her ankles behind my thighs, I grab big handfuls of her butt, and we grind out our frustrations. Frenzied minutes whisk by until Inez suddenly pushes me off and rolls onto her stomach.

  “Like this!” she demands, lifting her butt slightly.

  I get behind her and gently find my way, then tend to the deepest parts of her garden. She grabs fistfuls of sheet and buries her face in the pillow, muffling her moans. The bed hits the wall with rapid, steady machine-gun thumps. Rivers of sweat roll down my back. Inez's firm, round butt shoves back at me as I thrust into her. She screams into the pillow. I bite my lip and taste blood. We shake, tremble, and hang on as our roaring tidal wave of passion blasts ashore.

  I roll off Inez and onto my back, my chest heaving as I inhale great gulps of air. I reach for her, but she's over at the minibar, guzzling another shot bottle of booze and a beer. She tosses them aside, then looks at me with renewed hunger.

  “I want … some more!” she mumbles.

  I prop myself up on an elbow, smile, and pat the bed. “Then come and get it.”

  FORTY-TWO

  It's 1:22 early Thursday morning, and I've knocked several times on locksmith Linwood Powell's front door. No one answers, and I knock again, pounding.

  “All right, all right!” he grumps loudly as he stomps closer. “Chill out! I'm coming!”

  He scratches around behind the door, most likely looking through the peephole. I bend down, look back, and wave. “Denmark?” he says, surprised. “Is that you?” I lean close. “Yes, it's me. Open up!”

  “Okay, man. Hold on. This'll take a minute.” It sounds like he's opening a vault to a Swiss bank. After just about a minute of clanks, clicks, slides, rattles, and jiggles, he opens the door. “What's up, man?” he asks, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You're out late for a weeknight.”

  “Linwood, I need your computer hacking expertise.” “Right now, at this time of night?” “You owe me for that lousy lock job you did.” He frowns. “Hey, man. I resent that. My work's guaranteed to … ”

  I shove past him. He chuckles resignedly. “Well, please do come in.”

  “Linwood, who is it?” a female voice calls from a back room.

  “Uh, go back to sleep, baby. It's just a friend needing some money.”

  “What kind of friend stops by this late to borrow money?” she demands to know, coming out dressed in an oversized tee shirt.

  She looks me up and down, sees that I'm fully male, rolls her eyes, and trundles back to bed. I glance at the door and do a double-take. It's covered in locks, bolts, chain restrictors, and any other entrance preventive device.

  Linwood shrugs and grins. “It's like I told you,” he whispers. “I ain't getting cleaned out by any more girlfriends.”

  “Whatever. Look, I need you to do something for me.”

  I explain, and Linwood's eyes light up with mischief. Moments later we're in his junky computer room. I stand over his shoulder and watch amazed as his fingers fly across the keyboard.

  He makes a final keystroke, grunts with satisfaction, and turns to me. “Where do you want it to come from?” he asks. “I can send ghost e-mail from the Department of Defense, NASA, the CIA …”

  “Are you for real?” I ask, incredulous. “You're into the CIA?”

  He laughs smugly. “It's the government, Denmark. They've got every door closed but the front one.”

  It's too good to pass up. “Set it up so I can ghost it from the CIA,” I say.

  Linwood hits a few more keys and then gets up out the way. “It's all yours, my man.”

  He watches as I sit down and start typing. I stop and turn to him. “Linwood, if you don't mind, I'd like to send this in private.”

  He frowns, nods, and sidles out, grumbling about being disturbed at all hours to have his computer commandeered. I pull a small digital camera from my jacket pocket and download into the computer the picture of a passed-out Inez, her head lying in my lap and her lips right next to my semi-hard pole. Once the picture's fully loaded and attached, I type out the message: “Harry, here's your wife, Inez, sleeping soundly after another man has sexed her long, hard, and well.”

  I sign it “Your tax dollars at work” and hit the send button.

  FORTY-THREE

  It's 9:17 on Saturday morning, the day of the victory banquet. It's been two days since I got with Inez, and only a few hours are left before I “talk” with Alice.

  I've just finished a three-mile run and am ready for a shower but want to fix some coffee for after I get out. I wrap a towel around my waist, set up the coffee maker in the kitchen, and start back upstairs when the phone rings.

  “Who's this calling so early?” I grumble, going to answer. I pick it up. “Hello?”

  “Ah, Den, Denmark, it's, it's me,” stammers crack-head Yarborough.

  I roll my eyes. “What's up, Yarborough?”

  “Nothing … I mean, you know, same old, same old. Yeah, ah, hey man, I was wondering if you could loan … ”

  It's a short conversation. He begs for cash. I tell him no. He gets pissed and cusses me out. I hang up.

  Several minutes later I'm cleaned up, in my robe, sipping coffee, and reading the morning paper when the phone rings again. This time I check the caller ID, see that it's June, and smile. We've been talking two, three, sometimes four times a day. She says it's a relieving outlet because her husband, Zachary, spends his days on the phone, helping people resolve their computer problems.

  “By the time he gets home, he's not in the mood to talk to me,” June told me a few days ago.

  And so we talk. I don't know how she's keeping her conversations secret with a husband, two kids, friends, co-workers, and anyone else who might eavesdrop, but that's her issue. I'll talk as often as she wants for as long as she wants. Making love to her mind is the bridge leading to the sexing of her body.<
br />
  I let the phone ring a few more times, then pick up. “Hello?”

  “Well, good morning,” says June.

  “Hold on. Give me a second while it fills me up.”

  “Give you a second for what to fill you up?”

  “The happiness I get from hearing your voice.”

  We laugh. June's is light, uninhibited, and genuine, like she hasn't laughed like this for a long time. “What were you doing?” she asks.

  “Sitting here thinking about you, and hoping desperately that you'd call.”

  “Oh, Denmark,” she says, breathless. “You're so sweet.”

  “You make it easy.”

  Several tender seconds of silence pass before she says, “I'm on the turnpike right now.”

  “Are you taking a trip?”

  “No. I just decided to drive around for a while so I could talk to you freely.”

  “Are the kids with you?”

  “No. Zach's at home watching them. We're going to the zoo later.”

  That Zach's a good man. After June and I are over, I'll have to write him a thank-you note.

  “What're you wearing?” June asks.

  “I've got on just a robe. Except for that, I'm butt naked.”

  “Mmm, that sounds enticing.”

  “You ought to come see for yourself.”

  “Baby, I want to. Believe me, I do! Please don't get impatient.”

  I speak softly but firmly. “June, understand one thing: I could never be impatient with you. However long it takes for us to be together, it'll be worth the wait.”

  On the other hand, if I haven't stroked her booty by next weekend, June will be waiting by herself.

  FORTY-FOUR

  I haven't talked with Inez since Wednesday, when she plummeted into her oblivious, drunken sleep. I moved fast to finish my business with Linwood Powell. He lives just a few blocks from the Aristocrat, so I was able to get to his house and be back in time to get some sleep, and later sex Inez into the stars again and again.

  Now I'm down at the Lake Shore Gardens Hotel, and it's time to do Alice. I sprinkle rose petals onto the bed, tune the entertainment unit radio to a channel playing round-the-clock soul love ballads, adjust the lights down low, put the champagne in an ice bucket, and light candles all around the suite.