****
When I got back home that night, I went online, into the “My Wife” chat room.
I decided to be more specific in the scroll. I typed, “My wife cheated and it’s royally messed with my head.”
Soon, others were publically writing back, “What happened Dave?”
I hesitated about opening up further, but after a few more comments asking for an explanation, I typed, “My wife had sex with a co-worker at a party I was at.”
“Tell us about it Dave,” I read in the scroll. It struck me then that being on the public stage—even if the twenty-five people reading it were anonymous strangers—was a little reckless.
Then the instant messages started: “NYC here” or “Can I see a pic of her?”
I read one that said, “It does mess with one’s head, doesn’t it? Tony, 45M, Baltimore.”
I figured he might have something to offer, some insight or perspective, so I replied, “Yeah, has been a colossal mind-f*ck to say the least.”
He asked me to tell him the story and kept replying “Wow” as I relayed the details of the last month.
“And then today,” I said, “my wife invited me to a work happy hour of hers.”
“Is the guy who fucked your wife going to be there?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“How do you feel about going, knowing everyone there knows what happened?”
“Well that’s the thing,” I said, “I can’t handle that. It would be just too humiliating. I think about having to shake hands with the guy or having to look him in the eye. I told my wife I would go, but I’m going to back out at the last minute. Tell her I suddenly have to work late.”
“Wait a second,” he replied, “so you told your wife today you were going, but you’re planning to be a no-show?”
“Yes, it would be just too much humble pie to eat.”
“So you’re just going to let your wife eat all that humble pie instead?”
“Huh?” I replied, “What do you mean?”
“How is your wife going to feel showing up without her husband?”
“She’s gone to plenty of happy hours without me.”
“But this is the first since the party right? Since this rumor started?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“And she invited you for a reason. She wants you there. She’s probably told people you’re going. She wants you by her side, to show everyone that you still love and support her. And when you don’t show up, she’s going to be embarrassed. And others will gossip about how you stood your wife up. You want to do that to her?”
“I don’t think she will feel stood up or embarrassed,” I said. “I just don’t think she realized how embarrassing it would be for me.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he replied, “You don’t think the rumor was embarrassing for her? Being gossiped about like that. She has to go into work every day and put on a smile and say hello to these people who all know what she did. And you can’t suck it up, and face the embarrassment she’s faced, for a measly few hours.”
“It’s just too humiliating,” I typed.
“So be humiliated for an evening. Don’t you see? It’s a test of your love and devotion. You have to go and provide solidarity, to show all the talkers that you’re 100% percent behind your wife, that you support her. And yes, even go up and shake hands and be polite to the guy who fucked her.”
“I just picture the smug self-satisfaction he would have, shaking hands with me,” I replied.
“No, the smug satisfaction should be all yours, because she’s your wife and she goes home to you.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” I said.
“No more thought. She invited you, and you said you would go. So swallow your pride, put your tail behind your legs, and show up at the party with your wife. And make sure to stand beside her and hold her hand a lot, especially when meeting the guy who fucked her. You should be a walking billboard for your love and devotion to her.”
“I would just feel so awkward and foolish, like they’d be laughing behind my back.”
“You want them laughing behind your wife’s back when you don’t show? And what do you think they’ll think of you, being too scared to show? Too intimidated to be in the same room with the guy who fucked your wife.”
“I understand,” I typed.
“If you understand then say it.”
“Say what?” I typed.
“I want you to tell me that you’re gonna go, and that there’ll be no excuses from you. Tell me that no matter how humiliating it may be, you’re going to be a good little hubby and hold hands with your wife, and be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked your wife.”
“OK,” I typed.
“OK, what? Tell me you’re going to the happy hour and you’re going to be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked your wife.”
“Fine,” I replied, humoring him, typing back, “I’m going to the happy hour and I’ll be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked my wife.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it? Between now and the party, I want you to repeat that to yourself and let the words really sink in. Now repeat it back to me.”
“I’m going to be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked my wife.”
“That a boy. And I’ve put you in my contacts and I’m going to message you after the party and you’re going to give me all the details of how the happy hour went, right?”
“OK,” I typed.
“Now let’s see a photo of this wife of yours. And send me one of the two of you together as well.”
“I don’t have any on this computer, sorry.”
“Don’t lie to me, show her to me.”
“It’s my work laptop; I really don’t.”
“But you have some on your home computer, right?”
“Sure.”
“OK,” he typed back, “and next time, you are going to send me some photos, and you’re going to give me all the details about that happy hour, OK?”
“OK,” I replied, just to assuage him, “I have to go now.”
“First, repeat what I told you back to me.”
“I’m going to be polite to the guy who fucked my wife.”
“And cordial.”
“And cordial,” I typed, “I really have to go.”
****
I thought about what the guy had just said about Ashley being left holding the bag if I didn’t show. It was true that Ashley had suffered a huge indignity as well. Jim Murta blabbing had been a major “fuck you” to her as well. I had the luxury of not having to see them. But she had to work with these people and put on a brave face every single day—in meetings, presentations, going up the elevator, walking down the hallways.
Perhaps Ashley was feeling just as out on the moon. And maybe it was important to her that I go. Perhaps she wanted me showing her friends that I did support her and that our marriage was as strong as ever.
But good God, how I could possibly show my face at that event?
I decided to start dropping hints tomorrow about a big project to try and get a better read from her. I’d see which way she leaned by how she responded, either something like “No problem, I understand if you can’t,” or “It’s really important to me that you come.”
Then I thought of what the guy had messaged me at the end. His attitude had changed as our conversation progressed from helpful to almost badgering, like he was rubbing it in a little.
Perhaps his efforts to show me Ashley’s perspective were sincere, but by insisting that I tell him the details afterwards, he appeared to be taking some enjoyment from my predicament.
And his demand to see photos felt like some kind of weird power assertion.
Then I thought, The guy was trying to fuck with me.
He probably got off on getting me to repeat twice back to him, “I’m going to be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked my wife.”
I thought of him ordering me to repeat those words before I w
ent to the happy hour. What a crazy thing that would be. I’d feel reduced before even showing up.
Jesus, that guy was trying to fuck with my head.
In his own small way, he was trying to do what Jim Murta had done, what the marines had done to that other guy. If he couldn’t fuck my wife, he could at least try and fuck with my head.
I thought of Ashley’s co-workers’ eyes fixed on me as I said hello to Jim fucking Murta.
I thought of what the guy had asked me to say and started whispering it back to myself.
I had popped a boner and started masturbating in the chair. I felt reduced, the guy had wanted me to feel reduced, and there I was jerking off, repeating what he’d had me say to him.
“I’m going to be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked my wife … I’m going to be polite and cordial …” Before I had whispered it ten times, I came.
Two minutes later, I thought, No way am I fucking going.
****
I called Craig the following morning.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” he said. “Ashley told me you’re going.”
“Yeah,” I replied.
I wasn’t about to let on that I was going to pull a last-minute bail.
“Are there going to be a lot of people?” I asked.
“Well, the usual happy hour group. But I heard a sales director will be throwing down his card, which helps turn-out. I think most of my team is going.”
“Sure, I hear you,” I said. “You think Jim Murta will be there?”
That question caused an awkward pause, and I didn’t know how to follow it up.
“Probably,” he finally replied. “I mean, if he’s around, happy hours are kind of his thing, especially if it’s being expensed. But who knows, turnout’s depressed in the summer with people going out of town for the weekend.”
“I got ya.”
“Were you—I mean, are you thinking of saying something to him?”
“To Jim? Oh no, not at all. Everything’s good with Ashley and me. I was just wondering about the scene was all.”
“OK, glad things are good with the two of you.”
I heard some office commotion in the background.
“I won’t keep you, Craig, so I guess I’ll just see you then.”
“Sounds good, Dave.”
****
I imagined Craig’s IT right-hand guy being nearby.
“Did I hear that correctly?” he might ask, “Dave Martens is gonna show Friday?”
“Yeah, that’s what he said.”
“Does he know his wife’s been the talk of the office?”
“Yeah, I told him the basics.”
“He knows Jim Murta fucked her?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he know what a horned up, horn-dog Murta said she was or how—”
“I spared him the blow-by-blow detail.”
“Does he want to confront Jim about it?” the guy might ask.
“No, I suspect he’s doing it for Ashley. He has to deal with events like this sometime, right?”
“Damn, I guess that’s commendable. But I sure wouldn’t want to be him there.”
****
Then I thought of the more junior guys on his IT team hearing that I was going—guys I was talking to out on the balcony as Jim Murta was fucking my wife. They had listened to me ramble about the Yankees and give the British guys bluster about American football. They had acted interested and amused at the time. Or perhaps they were merely showing deference to their boss’ friend. Maybe they thought of me as the buzzed, boorish, finance guy—cluelessly bloviating as Murta was going inside my wife.
Had they enjoyed a good laugh when they heard the rumors that Monday? Had these geeks jerked off thinking about my wife—the marketing director at their company—getting fucked by Jim Murta while her buzzed husband droned on to them? There were probably a number of guys at that company who jerked off thinking about taking Ashley like that.
So humiliating to think about.
And suddenly I was hard, just sitting there in my office.
****
I went to the library at lunch and headed for the men’s room upstairs. No one was there, and I went into a corner stall and sat on the toilet. I pulled my dick out of the fly of my suit.
I knew how crazy it was, but I figured if I didn’t, I’d be thinking about it for the rest of the afternoon.
I imagined hanging again with Craig’s IT team, were I to show. I assumed they’d be friendly again, maybe more so, given the strange “That’s the guy—Ashley’s husband” celebrity status I would have with her co-workers. But I imagined one of them regarding me as that boorish, buzzed guy, yapping away.
I imagined his unspoken thoughts.
How’s that high-horse you were on the night of the party working out for you now, Dave? I hope you’ve developed a taste for humble pie, because that’ll be on your menu when you show up Friday. I hope you’re put in the awkward situation of having to buy a drink for the guy who fucked your wife.
Boy, did Jim Murta do a number on you that night. He humiliated you real good. He not only had you sent upstairs so he could give your wife a proper fucking, but then he topped it off by putting that special cherry on top, busting his nut right inside your wife’s pussy.
And that’s how he finished fucking your wife, Dave, he topped it off with a cherry, by blasting his sperm seed up Ashley’s little puss.
He topped it off with a cherry, Dave, he put that fucking cherry on top.
When I came, it got on my suit. I panicked, reaching for the toilet paper—which left little white flecks on the spot—before trying to wash it off at the sink.
What the fuck is wrong with me, I thought as I splashed water on my face. I had a 2:30 meeting I had to prepare for.
****
I thought about what I had imagined the IT guy saying again when I got home that evening.
The “fuck you” was Jim fucking my wife, knowing I was right outside. Putting the cherry on top was when he blasted his sperm inside her.
I started imagining watching in the bathroom as Jim Murta fucked my wife.
“Please don’t top it off, just not inside Ashley, please pull out, cum on her ass, just not in her pussy, just not the cherry, don’t top it off with that humiliating cherry.”
“Oh, but I am so going to top it off Dave,” I imagined Jim replying, “There’s no way now that I’m not cumming inside the woman you love. I’m topping it off, Dave, with a special fuck-you Dave cherry, and your wife’s gonna take it real good. I’m topping it off, oh yeah Dave, here it comes, now take that fucking cherry!”
I came hard.
I’m fucking losing my mind.
Then I thought Jim Murta had thrown another cherry on top when he told everyone about fucking my wife that night.
And now he’d probably relish topping it off again by trying to man-me down at the happy hour.
I thought of the imaginary IT guy saying, “He fucks your wife, and you find yourself in the awkward position of buying him a drink. How’s that for topping it off with another cherry, bitch?”
****
Waiting for Ashley to return, I brought my laptop out and scattered work papers on our living room couch.
I went down to the bodega and bought two large coffees—dumping them out and leaving the empties beside me. I pretended to have dozed off with the computer in my lap when she came home.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“My boss called. We’ve got a last-minute pitch for next week. I have to get Jeff all the analytics before the weekend.”
“Is that realistic?”
“It’s going to have to be,” I said, “I’ll probably be up for a while tonight.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you stressing about it?”
“Yeah, a little. How was the movie?”
“So-so, kind of cliché and predictable,” she said, “how does tomorrow night look for you now?”
“What
?” I said.
“The happy hour.”
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