19-04-2019, 10:41 PM
A CHEATED HUSBAND
PART 7
"OK, honey. Thank you for listening so patiently. This is just awful for me, and for you it must be ten times worse." She was nearly in tears, but trying hard to stay in control.
"Well he just kissed me, taking me completely by surprise, and before I knew it he had pressed me up against the wall and plastered his body against mine. I was about to cry out, push him away, slap him—and I just didn't. I was drunk, and thinking slowly, and ... and it just felt good. I liked kissing him, liked feeling his body and his hard-on pressing tightly up against me. And instead of pushing him away, I kissed him back. I put my arms around him, kissed him back, and let him stick his tongue in my mouth."
I could tell she was struggling to go on. I waited, quietly. There was nothing I could hear that could possibly be worse than what I had already imagined a thousand times.
"Well, we just ... went at it. Right there in the alley. You remember, Tom, that night before we were married, when we were a little drunk and we ... made love behind the bandshell in the park, while there was a concert going on? And it was outside, and someone could have wandered back there and seen us, and ... it was an incredible turn-on? Well, this was like that. Eddie had his hands all over me, one on my breast and the other up under my skirt, and I just wasn't thinking about anything except what he was doing to me. He was so excited and eager, breathing really hard, and it turned me on. My nipples got hard, and he was pinching them. He kept murmuring about how gorgeous I was, how I was the sexiest woman he had ever seen."
"He got his ... cock out, and I held it. It was so hard, and so hot! I began to stroke it, and he groaned into my ear. And his fingers were inside me, and I was soaking. His touch down there was driving me crazy. And then he pulled my skirt up, pushed my panties to the side, and just ... entered me." Marianne had turned away from me by now, and was looking across the room. She couldn't face me.
"We did it, there in the alley. He fucked me. He kept pushing me back against the wall, and humping at me like mad, grabbing my ass cheeks and pushing his tongue deep into my mouth. The two of us could hardly breathe. It was hot and exciting and nasty, and I came like crazy, and so did he. It was probably all over in about five minutes. And afterwards we clung to each other, and giggled. It just seemed so crazy! He kept whispering to me how hot I was, and how turned on he had been. And then we adjusted our clothes, and without really saying anything, we went back inside and rejoined our friends. They didn't even seem to notice we had been gone."
There was silence. I could tell that it had taken a lot out of Marianne to confess this much. I was angry, and I wanted to throw accusations and harsh words in her face—but I also knew that I had to hear the rest of the story. So I just quietly said, "OK, Marianne, go on. What happened after that?"
"Well, I was absolutely certain that would be the end of it. After another hour Susan and Whitney and I left, with no further kisses or anything from Eddie. They dropped me off here, and I collapsed into bed. When I woke up I felt incredibly guilty, but also somehow not guilty, you know?"
"It's hard to explain. The whole experience, out there in the alley, had been so ... out of context, separate from all the rest of my life, and our lives together, that it almost didn't seem to count. I knew I had committed adultery, I knew that I had been unfaithful to you, and that that was a terrible thing. Yet at the same time it just seemed kind of unreal, like a dream I had. And I knew you'd never find out, and I knew I'd never do it again, so I just sort of let it slide out of my mind. And I kind of imagined—I'm sure I thought of this so I'd feel less guilty—that the same thing might have happened to you on a business trip sometime, something fast and dirty and meaningless, and that I never would even have known."
"I never did that," I said, quietly but coldly. "Not once. And it's not like I never had chances. Once on a trip there was ... well, never mind. It's not important."
"I know, Tom," Marianne said. She was crying now. "I know how faithful you are, how you never would cheat on me like that. It was just a thought I had, so I could feel better about what I did."
"Then you came home from Phoenix that Sunday, and I was just so glad to see you. And we made love, and you were terrific, so passionate and loving and sweet. And that made my guilt flare up, but it also reassured me that nothing had changed, that you and I were still fine."
It was growing dark outside, and I could no longer see my wife's face. I quietly got up and turned on a couple of table lamps, then returned to my seat. Somehow the slow pace of her narration was keeping me calmer, almost like I was hypnotized. What she was telling me was incredibly painful, but at the same time I felt sort of anesthetized.
"I didn't have the slightest thought of ever seeing Eddie again, let alone ... having an affair with him. I ran into him in the supermarket a couple of weeks later, and didn't feel the slightest thrill. A flush of guilt, actually—but no excitement. We had a casual, five-minute conversation and went our separate ways. But I had happened to mention that you were going away again, and that got Eddie thinking."
"The next week Susan called, and I agreed to go out dancing with her on Saturday. This was in early December. She somehow knew you'd be away, though I hadn't told her. We tried a new club, and lo and behold, Eddie was there, with Jack, the friend of his who had been hitting on Susan. It turns out that Susan and Jack had started dating. Well, I found out later that this whole evening was a set-up. Eddie told Jack, who told Susan that you'd be away, and to invite me out dancing with her at that particular club."
"Tom," Marianne said in a pleading voice, and I looked at her. "This is the hardest part. What I did before that ... it was stupid, incredibly careless and stupid, but ... at least it was ... you, know, spontaneous." Her voice trembled. "A sudden burst of insanity, that I almost imagine you could eventually forgive. But what I did that Saturday night ... I don't have any excuse for. I'm ashamed. I hate myself for what I did, and that's the simple truth."
She seemed to wait for me to answer, but no words came to me. I managed to nod, and she went on.
"We all danced, and drank a bit, and had a good time. And when Susan said she was leaving with Jack, I knew I should let them drop me at home—but I didn't. I stayed with Eddie. I was having fun, and I wanted it to continue."
"Tom, we ... we went back to his apartment, and I spent the night with him. We had sex a lot ... several times. There was something about the wrongness of it, the dirtiness of it, that excited me, knowing that I was cheating on you, that this was ... sex with a man who wasn't my husband. Eddie is a bit younger, he's ... only 29, as I said, and the fact that he was so full of desire for a lady of nearly 40 was flattering. I was more ... more vocal than I usually am with you, and ... well, it was very exciting. I ... I, I came a lot."
Feeling absolutely numb, I spoke up for the first time in a while. "Marianne, at some point I may ask you more questions about that night." She hung her head, but nodded. "But for now, just go ahead with your story."
"When I left his apartment the next day ... oh Tom, I'm so sorry!" She wept into her hands, her shoulders shaking, and I silently waited for her to continue. Finally she regained some of her composure, and began to speak again.
"When I left his apartment, I knew I was going to keep ... seeing him. I knew that I couldn't justify doing it, I knew it was utterly wrong, and selfish. But I LIKED it. It had been the most exciting thing I'd done in years, and I liked it."
She looked at me. "Tom, making love with you is wonderful. You are so gentle, and sometimes so powerful, and you are so attentive to my pleasure. And I feel safe with you. But at the same time, after 16 years it has gotten ... maybe a bit 'familiar', or predictable? I'll bet you feel the same way."
"Anyway, with Eddie it was wild, and new, and very different. Not better, Tom! Never better than what you and I have. But different. And in some insane way I convinced myself that this was just something nice I was doing all for myself—the way some women go to a beauty spa, or treat themselves into a new outfit. I know that's crazy! But that's what I kept telling myself."
"From the very beginning, I told Eddie that I would do whatever it took to keep our ... relationship a secret. I told him I loved you—that this ... affair had nothing to do with that. I wanted my marriage to last, and my seeing him would never interfere with that."
"It was easy to arrange meetings, because my work schedule is so variable. I can be out of the office for hours without anyone thinking anything about it. I got a throw-away cell phone, and I only talked to Eddie on that, never on our other phones. We met at different places—but NEVER here, Tom, never in our house! I just wouldn't do that! It was motels, different ones. We didn't get too regular, because I didn't want our faces to be familiar to anyone."
As Marianne spoke I had gotten up and begun pacing around the room, without even noticing that I was doing it. The first part of her story hurt me, but in some way it soothed me as well. It made a kind of sense. I could imagine Marianne having fun dancing with her friends, and then the crazy spontaneity of sex outside with Eddie. Perhaps I might even have been able to forgive that.
What was still too hard to bear—what made me clench my fists in fury—was what happened afterwards. She had made a calm, cold-blooded decision to keep the relationship going. She knew what she was doing, she knew how it would destroy me if I found out, and she did it anyway.
I turned and faced her. "Is there more, Marianne?" My voice came out rougher, harsher than I had expected. She shrank back from me, her eyes wide.
"N-no, honey," she answered, fearfully. "I'll answer any question you ask, tell you anything you want to know, but not really. We ... kept getting together, sometimes twice or three times a week, sometimes less. It depended on my work, and on your business trips. I never let my ... meetings with Eddie interfere with any plans you and I had."
She looked up at me, suddenly even more worried. "Tom, there is one more thing. When you were away on business trips I ... usually spent the night at Eddie's apartment. That way we didn't have to get a motel room, and ... we had more time together."
This hurt. A lot. In light of everything else, I didn't understand why the thought of Marianne in Eddie's bed all night was so much worse than her in bed with him for a couple of afternoon hours in a motel room, but it was. Maybe it stemmed from the relaxed familiarity I heard on the tape. Somehow it wasn't just the sex—it was hearing them together, being easy and fond with each other. I could almost see them in Eddie's apartment. Greeting each other excitedly, passionately fucking, then relaxing, sharing dinner or a couple of beers, watching TV together, then more sex ... then sleeping cuddled up, with more sex during the night or the next morning.
It was that picture of happy intimacy—the intimacy that I thought she had shared only with me—that made my anger boil up again.
"Well, Marianne, it's quite a story." I spoke coldly. She sat with her head down, not replying. She could surely tell that angry words were coming. I felt desperate to hurt her, or at least to make sure that she understood how deeply hurt I was feeling.
"Do you love him?" She looked at me in shock. "Of course not! It was never anything like that!"
"OK, then," I replied coldly. "Suppose you tell me just how you do feel about the man you were fucking and sucking for eight months, and spending the night with on a regular basis. Are the two of you 'friends'? Are you 'fond' of him? Is he a 'special person' you 'really care about'? Is there a 'unique bond' between you, a 'special closeness'?"
I spat these phrases at her, and she started to cry again.
"I know I deserve this, Tom. I deserve whatever you want to say to me, whatever you want to do. I don't know if I can say how I felt about him. Like a ... friend, I guess. OK, the truth: I WAS fond of him. I felt close to him—after all we had been sharing ... intimacies for several months."
I wanted to shout at her that I'd heard the fondness on the tape—that that fondness was the single biggest thing that was tearing my guts out. But I wasn't ready to confess that yet. Instead I had one final angry question for her.
"OK, Marianne. You said you told him that the marriage came first, that you would never let your ... 'get-togethers' with Eddie interfere with anything in our married life together. Have I got that right?" She nodded.
"Well, then, perhaps you could explain to me why you fucked him—you cheated on me—the day of our 16th wedding anniversary! Perhaps you could help me understand why he fucked you so thoroughly that day that you had the "honeymoons". Perhaps there's some good reason why you were so sore that night that you wouldn't let me fuck you—on our wedding anniversary!"
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My heart was racing so fast as I drove away that I had to force myself to slow down, to breathe deeply, not to drive 80 mph or run through red lights. I had no idea where I was going, no idea what I was going to do next.
It almost made me laugh. "I don't know what to do in the next five minutes; and I don't know what to do with the rest of my life."
At that moment there were only two things I was sure of. The first was that I still loved Marianne. I still wanted, despite everything, to be married to her.
But the second was that I absolutely could not imagine any way of getting past what she had done. I couldn't even begin to see how I could get over this, how I could stop being so angry and hurt that I wanted just to yell at her, to make her cry.
How would I ever be able to make love to her again? Even thinking about kissing her, I heard her in my mind kissing Eddie, or saying "God, it's so big, and so hard, and so beautiful!" I imagined them in the shower together, or lounging around Eddie's apartment after sex, relaxing and looking forward to the next time.
She had taken something she promised to share only with me—her most personal, intimate and vulnerable self—and given it to another man. No matter what else ever happened between us, it could never be just for me again.
It was even clearer to me now than before that it wasn't the fucking itself that mainly mattered. Had she just had that hot quickie outside the dance club, I know I would have been able to get over it. Not without some serious anger and pain, but I'm certain I could have put it behind me. And if I felt it necessitated some revenge, by way of a quickie with someone else on my part, well then Marianne would just have had to deal with it.
But the sustained relationship she had had with Eddie—the familiarity and intimacy that had developed between them over eight months—the depth of that betrayal took my breath away.
And there was an additional element: the sense of humiliation I felt at having been deceived for so long. For eight months my wife had been happily having sex with me, sharing caresses and loving words with me. Then she'd been getting out of my bed and going off to do the same thing with another man. How could she not have been thinking of him, some of the time she was making love with me? How could she not have started to think less of me, knowing that she had this secret, this power over me?
I found myself driving past a bar on Front St. that I had been in a few times before. For lack of anything better to do, I went in, sat at the bar, and had a beer. On the TV the Indians game was in the 4th inning. They were already losing by six runs. "Typical," I said to myself, thinking that my life was going sort of like the Indians game—or their season.
After two beers, I got up and headed back to my apartment. I had considered getting drunk, but it didn't appeal to me. I realized on the drive that I hadn't even looked around the bar to see if there were any women there. It may be that some cuckolded husbands immediately think of revenge, of tearing off a piece with someone else, but that didn't seem to interest me at all.
That night I had another nightmare, worse than the previous one. Marianne and I were in our bedroom, making love. First she was lying back, purring happily, smiling at me, as I sucked on her nipples and caressed her pussy with my fingers. Then, at her urging, I climbed onto her and began to fuck her gently in the missionary position. It was unhurried and relaxed, and we were both enjoying it. But after a couple of minutes I looked around and realized that our bed was now on a stage in an auditorium, and the hall was filled with hundreds of people watching us. I began to feel pressure to please Marianne, and I fucked her more energetically, kissing her and licking her neck. But something had changed—she was no longer enjoying it, and the harder I tried to give her pleasure, the more bored she looked.
Then suddenly a man with a clipboard came up to the bed, shouted "Time!", and a couple of guys pulled me out of the bed and off to the side. Another man walked onto the stage, his erect cock waving in front of him, and jumped into bed with Marianne. She greeted him eagerly, with an excited smile, and in no time they were fucking. From the very beginning Marianne was more enthusiastic and involved with him than she had been with me. He was getting her more and more excited, and her moans were so loud they could be heard throughout the auditorium. She looked only at him, never once even glancing at me. With each of his thrusts she rotated her hips, trying to get him deeper into her. I could hear the audience's rising excitement. Just as the man with the clipboard approached the bed she reached an enormous orgasm, crying out "Oh my God! Oh Eddie! My God! yes, fuck me!" It seemed that Eddie came just as she did.
After the two lovers collapsed in each other's arms, the clipboard man called "Time!" and the audience burst into a sustained ovation. They got up from the bed, naked and sweaty, waved to the audience with big grins on their faces, and walked off-stage arm in arm, leaving me forgotten and alone on the other side of the stage.
PART 7
"OK, honey. Thank you for listening so patiently. This is just awful for me, and for you it must be ten times worse." She was nearly in tears, but trying hard to stay in control.
"Well he just kissed me, taking me completely by surprise, and before I knew it he had pressed me up against the wall and plastered his body against mine. I was about to cry out, push him away, slap him—and I just didn't. I was drunk, and thinking slowly, and ... and it just felt good. I liked kissing him, liked feeling his body and his hard-on pressing tightly up against me. And instead of pushing him away, I kissed him back. I put my arms around him, kissed him back, and let him stick his tongue in my mouth."
I could tell she was struggling to go on. I waited, quietly. There was nothing I could hear that could possibly be worse than what I had already imagined a thousand times.
"Well, we just ... went at it. Right there in the alley. You remember, Tom, that night before we were married, when we were a little drunk and we ... made love behind the bandshell in the park, while there was a concert going on? And it was outside, and someone could have wandered back there and seen us, and ... it was an incredible turn-on? Well, this was like that. Eddie had his hands all over me, one on my breast and the other up under my skirt, and I just wasn't thinking about anything except what he was doing to me. He was so excited and eager, breathing really hard, and it turned me on. My nipples got hard, and he was pinching them. He kept murmuring about how gorgeous I was, how I was the sexiest woman he had ever seen."
"He got his ... cock out, and I held it. It was so hard, and so hot! I began to stroke it, and he groaned into my ear. And his fingers were inside me, and I was soaking. His touch down there was driving me crazy. And then he pulled my skirt up, pushed my panties to the side, and just ... entered me." Marianne had turned away from me by now, and was looking across the room. She couldn't face me.
"We did it, there in the alley. He fucked me. He kept pushing me back against the wall, and humping at me like mad, grabbing my ass cheeks and pushing his tongue deep into my mouth. The two of us could hardly breathe. It was hot and exciting and nasty, and I came like crazy, and so did he. It was probably all over in about five minutes. And afterwards we clung to each other, and giggled. It just seemed so crazy! He kept whispering to me how hot I was, and how turned on he had been. And then we adjusted our clothes, and without really saying anything, we went back inside and rejoined our friends. They didn't even seem to notice we had been gone."
There was silence. I could tell that it had taken a lot out of Marianne to confess this much. I was angry, and I wanted to throw accusations and harsh words in her face—but I also knew that I had to hear the rest of the story. So I just quietly said, "OK, Marianne, go on. What happened after that?"
"Well, I was absolutely certain that would be the end of it. After another hour Susan and Whitney and I left, with no further kisses or anything from Eddie. They dropped me off here, and I collapsed into bed. When I woke up I felt incredibly guilty, but also somehow not guilty, you know?"
"It's hard to explain. The whole experience, out there in the alley, had been so ... out of context, separate from all the rest of my life, and our lives together, that it almost didn't seem to count. I knew I had committed adultery, I knew that I had been unfaithful to you, and that that was a terrible thing. Yet at the same time it just seemed kind of unreal, like a dream I had. And I knew you'd never find out, and I knew I'd never do it again, so I just sort of let it slide out of my mind. And I kind of imagined—I'm sure I thought of this so I'd feel less guilty—that the same thing might have happened to you on a business trip sometime, something fast and dirty and meaningless, and that I never would even have known."
"I never did that," I said, quietly but coldly. "Not once. And it's not like I never had chances. Once on a trip there was ... well, never mind. It's not important."
"I know, Tom," Marianne said. She was crying now. "I know how faithful you are, how you never would cheat on me like that. It was just a thought I had, so I could feel better about what I did."
"Then you came home from Phoenix that Sunday, and I was just so glad to see you. And we made love, and you were terrific, so passionate and loving and sweet. And that made my guilt flare up, but it also reassured me that nothing had changed, that you and I were still fine."
It was growing dark outside, and I could no longer see my wife's face. I quietly got up and turned on a couple of table lamps, then returned to my seat. Somehow the slow pace of her narration was keeping me calmer, almost like I was hypnotized. What she was telling me was incredibly painful, but at the same time I felt sort of anesthetized.
"I didn't have the slightest thought of ever seeing Eddie again, let alone ... having an affair with him. I ran into him in the supermarket a couple of weeks later, and didn't feel the slightest thrill. A flush of guilt, actually—but no excitement. We had a casual, five-minute conversation and went our separate ways. But I had happened to mention that you were going away again, and that got Eddie thinking."
"The next week Susan called, and I agreed to go out dancing with her on Saturday. This was in early December. She somehow knew you'd be away, though I hadn't told her. We tried a new club, and lo and behold, Eddie was there, with Jack, the friend of his who had been hitting on Susan. It turns out that Susan and Jack had started dating. Well, I found out later that this whole evening was a set-up. Eddie told Jack, who told Susan that you'd be away, and to invite me out dancing with her at that particular club."
"Tom," Marianne said in a pleading voice, and I looked at her. "This is the hardest part. What I did before that ... it was stupid, incredibly careless and stupid, but ... at least it was ... you, know, spontaneous." Her voice trembled. "A sudden burst of insanity, that I almost imagine you could eventually forgive. But what I did that Saturday night ... I don't have any excuse for. I'm ashamed. I hate myself for what I did, and that's the simple truth."
She seemed to wait for me to answer, but no words came to me. I managed to nod, and she went on.
"We all danced, and drank a bit, and had a good time. And when Susan said she was leaving with Jack, I knew I should let them drop me at home—but I didn't. I stayed with Eddie. I was having fun, and I wanted it to continue."
"Tom, we ... we went back to his apartment, and I spent the night with him. We had sex a lot ... several times. There was something about the wrongness of it, the dirtiness of it, that excited me, knowing that I was cheating on you, that this was ... sex with a man who wasn't my husband. Eddie is a bit younger, he's ... only 29, as I said, and the fact that he was so full of desire for a lady of nearly 40 was flattering. I was more ... more vocal than I usually am with you, and ... well, it was very exciting. I ... I, I came a lot."
Feeling absolutely numb, I spoke up for the first time in a while. "Marianne, at some point I may ask you more questions about that night." She hung her head, but nodded. "But for now, just go ahead with your story."
"When I left his apartment the next day ... oh Tom, I'm so sorry!" She wept into her hands, her shoulders shaking, and I silently waited for her to continue. Finally she regained some of her composure, and began to speak again.
"When I left his apartment, I knew I was going to keep ... seeing him. I knew that I couldn't justify doing it, I knew it was utterly wrong, and selfish. But I LIKED it. It had been the most exciting thing I'd done in years, and I liked it."
She looked at me. "Tom, making love with you is wonderful. You are so gentle, and sometimes so powerful, and you are so attentive to my pleasure. And I feel safe with you. But at the same time, after 16 years it has gotten ... maybe a bit 'familiar', or predictable? I'll bet you feel the same way."
"Anyway, with Eddie it was wild, and new, and very different. Not better, Tom! Never better than what you and I have. But different. And in some insane way I convinced myself that this was just something nice I was doing all for myself—the way some women go to a beauty spa, or treat themselves into a new outfit. I know that's crazy! But that's what I kept telling myself."
"From the very beginning, I told Eddie that I would do whatever it took to keep our ... relationship a secret. I told him I loved you—that this ... affair had nothing to do with that. I wanted my marriage to last, and my seeing him would never interfere with that."
"It was easy to arrange meetings, because my work schedule is so variable. I can be out of the office for hours without anyone thinking anything about it. I got a throw-away cell phone, and I only talked to Eddie on that, never on our other phones. We met at different places—but NEVER here, Tom, never in our house! I just wouldn't do that! It was motels, different ones. We didn't get too regular, because I didn't want our faces to be familiar to anyone."
As Marianne spoke I had gotten up and begun pacing around the room, without even noticing that I was doing it. The first part of her story hurt me, but in some way it soothed me as well. It made a kind of sense. I could imagine Marianne having fun dancing with her friends, and then the crazy spontaneity of sex outside with Eddie. Perhaps I might even have been able to forgive that.
What was still too hard to bear—what made me clench my fists in fury—was what happened afterwards. She had made a calm, cold-blooded decision to keep the relationship going. She knew what she was doing, she knew how it would destroy me if I found out, and she did it anyway.
I turned and faced her. "Is there more, Marianne?" My voice came out rougher, harsher than I had expected. She shrank back from me, her eyes wide.
"N-no, honey," she answered, fearfully. "I'll answer any question you ask, tell you anything you want to know, but not really. We ... kept getting together, sometimes twice or three times a week, sometimes less. It depended on my work, and on your business trips. I never let my ... meetings with Eddie interfere with any plans you and I had."
She looked up at me, suddenly even more worried. "Tom, there is one more thing. When you were away on business trips I ... usually spent the night at Eddie's apartment. That way we didn't have to get a motel room, and ... we had more time together."
This hurt. A lot. In light of everything else, I didn't understand why the thought of Marianne in Eddie's bed all night was so much worse than her in bed with him for a couple of afternoon hours in a motel room, but it was. Maybe it stemmed from the relaxed familiarity I heard on the tape. Somehow it wasn't just the sex—it was hearing them together, being easy and fond with each other. I could almost see them in Eddie's apartment. Greeting each other excitedly, passionately fucking, then relaxing, sharing dinner or a couple of beers, watching TV together, then more sex ... then sleeping cuddled up, with more sex during the night or the next morning.
It was that picture of happy intimacy—the intimacy that I thought she had shared only with me—that made my anger boil up again.
"Well, Marianne, it's quite a story." I spoke coldly. She sat with her head down, not replying. She could surely tell that angry words were coming. I felt desperate to hurt her, or at least to make sure that she understood how deeply hurt I was feeling.
"Do you love him?" She looked at me in shock. "Of course not! It was never anything like that!"
"OK, then," I replied coldly. "Suppose you tell me just how you do feel about the man you were fucking and sucking for eight months, and spending the night with on a regular basis. Are the two of you 'friends'? Are you 'fond' of him? Is he a 'special person' you 'really care about'? Is there a 'unique bond' between you, a 'special closeness'?"
I spat these phrases at her, and she started to cry again.
"I know I deserve this, Tom. I deserve whatever you want to say to me, whatever you want to do. I don't know if I can say how I felt about him. Like a ... friend, I guess. OK, the truth: I WAS fond of him. I felt close to him—after all we had been sharing ... intimacies for several months."
I wanted to shout at her that I'd heard the fondness on the tape—that that fondness was the single biggest thing that was tearing my guts out. But I wasn't ready to confess that yet. Instead I had one final angry question for her.
"OK, Marianne. You said you told him that the marriage came first, that you would never let your ... 'get-togethers' with Eddie interfere with anything in our married life together. Have I got that right?" She nodded.
"Well, then, perhaps you could explain to me why you fucked him—you cheated on me—the day of our 16th wedding anniversary! Perhaps you could help me understand why he fucked you so thoroughly that day that you had the "honeymoons". Perhaps there's some good reason why you were so sore that night that you wouldn't let me fuck you—on our wedding anniversary!"
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My heart was racing so fast as I drove away that I had to force myself to slow down, to breathe deeply, not to drive 80 mph or run through red lights. I had no idea where I was going, no idea what I was going to do next.
It almost made me laugh. "I don't know what to do in the next five minutes; and I don't know what to do with the rest of my life."
At that moment there were only two things I was sure of. The first was that I still loved Marianne. I still wanted, despite everything, to be married to her.
But the second was that I absolutely could not imagine any way of getting past what she had done. I couldn't even begin to see how I could get over this, how I could stop being so angry and hurt that I wanted just to yell at her, to make her cry.
How would I ever be able to make love to her again? Even thinking about kissing her, I heard her in my mind kissing Eddie, or saying "God, it's so big, and so hard, and so beautiful!" I imagined them in the shower together, or lounging around Eddie's apartment after sex, relaxing and looking forward to the next time.
She had taken something she promised to share only with me—her most personal, intimate and vulnerable self—and given it to another man. No matter what else ever happened between us, it could never be just for me again.
It was even clearer to me now than before that it wasn't the fucking itself that mainly mattered. Had she just had that hot quickie outside the dance club, I know I would have been able to get over it. Not without some serious anger and pain, but I'm certain I could have put it behind me. And if I felt it necessitated some revenge, by way of a quickie with someone else on my part, well then Marianne would just have had to deal with it.
But the sustained relationship she had had with Eddie—the familiarity and intimacy that had developed between them over eight months—the depth of that betrayal took my breath away.
And there was an additional element: the sense of humiliation I felt at having been deceived for so long. For eight months my wife had been happily having sex with me, sharing caresses and loving words with me. Then she'd been getting out of my bed and going off to do the same thing with another man. How could she not have been thinking of him, some of the time she was making love with me? How could she not have started to think less of me, knowing that she had this secret, this power over me?
I found myself driving past a bar on Front St. that I had been in a few times before. For lack of anything better to do, I went in, sat at the bar, and had a beer. On the TV the Indians game was in the 4th inning. They were already losing by six runs. "Typical," I said to myself, thinking that my life was going sort of like the Indians game—or their season.
After two beers, I got up and headed back to my apartment. I had considered getting drunk, but it didn't appeal to me. I realized on the drive that I hadn't even looked around the bar to see if there were any women there. It may be that some cuckolded husbands immediately think of revenge, of tearing off a piece with someone else, but that didn't seem to interest me at all.
That night I had another nightmare, worse than the previous one. Marianne and I were in our bedroom, making love. First she was lying back, purring happily, smiling at me, as I sucked on her nipples and caressed her pussy with my fingers. Then, at her urging, I climbed onto her and began to fuck her gently in the missionary position. It was unhurried and relaxed, and we were both enjoying it. But after a couple of minutes I looked around and realized that our bed was now on a stage in an auditorium, and the hall was filled with hundreds of people watching us. I began to feel pressure to please Marianne, and I fucked her more energetically, kissing her and licking her neck. But something had changed—she was no longer enjoying it, and the harder I tried to give her pleasure, the more bored she looked.
Then suddenly a man with a clipboard came up to the bed, shouted "Time!", and a couple of guys pulled me out of the bed and off to the side. Another man walked onto the stage, his erect cock waving in front of him, and jumped into bed with Marianne. She greeted him eagerly, with an excited smile, and in no time they were fucking. From the very beginning Marianne was more enthusiastic and involved with him than she had been with me. He was getting her more and more excited, and her moans were so loud they could be heard throughout the auditorium. She looked only at him, never once even glancing at me. With each of his thrusts she rotated her hips, trying to get him deeper into her. I could hear the audience's rising excitement. Just as the man with the clipboard approached the bed she reached an enormous orgasm, crying out "Oh my God! Oh Eddie! My God! yes, fuck me!" It seemed that Eddie came just as she did.
After the two lovers collapsed in each other's arms, the clipboard man called "Time!" and the audience burst into a sustained ovation. They got up from the bed, naked and sweaty, waved to the audience with big grins on their faces, and walked off-stage arm in arm, leaving me forgotten and alone on the other side of the stage.
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