Letting Them Play Through

If her Audi had not needed maintenance, Kurt's wife Shelly would have driven herself to her regular Saturday morning round of golf.

If their classmate's mother had not offered to take the kids to their swimming lessons, he would have had to drive them, and Shelly would have gotten a ride from someone else.

And if she had not forgotten her cell phone on the center console of his Porsche Cayenne, he would not have turned around and parked at the Glenwood Country Club and gone in to give it back to her.

But all those things happened, and so he found himself under the eaves of the main building, near the first tee, where the available pros waited to see if anyone needed them to complete a foursome. His wife and her companions were teeing up, and though golf was not his game, he knew enough not to disturb the players as they prepared to take their swing.

As usual, his wife looked great: her short, white skirt revealing her long, tanned, athletic legs; her orange and green polo shirt clinging suggestively to her sporty breasts; and her long, blond hair in a pony-tail, sticking out the back of her baseball cap.

He wasn't the only one appreciating the view.

"Shit!' exclaimed one of the young pros standing nearby. 'We're too late. She's already picked her fourth."

"Who? What are you talking about?" asked his companion. They both looked to be in their early twenties.

"The blonde in the white skirt."

"Oh yeah. I'd like to be in a foursome with her," the second fellow said with a tone that made clear he wasn't just talking about golf.

"Been there, done that," the first fellow boasted. "Six or seven times. And I gotta tell you, she could suck the chrome off a 5-iron."

"And how would you know that?" scoffed his companion.

Kurt, too, figured the first fellow was blowing smoke, making up a bullshit story as some guys like to do.

"Hey, man, I've sunk my putt into all three of her holes."

"Yeah, right."

Kurt was amazed at the audacity of the lie. Sure, Shelly liked sex and was an enthusiastic partner in bed – and no hole was off limits with her – but she wasn't some slut who slept with random guys like this golf pro. She was his loving wife, as faithful to him as he had always been to her. Her holes were reserved for his use alone.

He was about to have a word with the young man, to set him straight, when he heard an additional detail that made him pause.

"Seriously. She comes here like almost every Saturday, always with the old dude and some other dude."

The "old dude" in question was Ron Esterfield, the silver-haired CEO of the company where Kurt worked, who had just knocked his ball a few hundred yards down the fairway. He and Shelly golfed together regularly. Nearly every Saturday, in fact. Usually with one of the company's big customers.

"You mean that dude?" interrupted the second fellow, tilting his head toward the gentleman stepping up to the tee.

Kurt recognized him. It was Howard "Howie" Thornton, the strikingly obese CEO of Almatics, for whom Kurt's company had done some work and hoped to do much more.

"It's not the same guy every time. In fact, it's usually guys I don't recognize, so they're probably not even members. Anyways, she always picks out a fourth from among the pros. If I hadn't been showing you around, we would have had a chance—especially you, 'cause you're new. But she's already picked Calvin, that prick."

He was referring, presumably, to the tall, muscular, African-American man who was getting ready to take his turn at the tee. He looked to be about ten years younger than Kurt and Shelly.

"A chance at what?"

"It's the same routine every time. We play a short nine, then we slip off the course to this little house just through the trees by the ninth green. It's the guest house of a place I think the old dude owns and rents out to some other people. Anyways, everybody goes in and the old dude serves drinks while she strips off her clothes. Then the old dude eats her out. Man, he really knows how to do oral. You should hear her squeal."

Kurt had heard Shelly squeal many times. She had a tendency to do that when she got excited ... in bed.

"Then what?"

"The guest goes first, in whichever hole he wants. Then the old dude takes his turn, usually in another hole. Then the pro goes last, 'cause we're the hired help."

"No shit?"

Kurt felt faint, his world shifting and uncertain.

"When the guys have all gotten off, the old dude refreshes our drinks while she takes a quick shower, and then we all make our way back to the clubhouse -- by way of the eighteenth hole, so everybody else thinks we played a full game."

"Un-fucking-believable."

Kurt thought back to the many times he had waited at the clubhouse for Shelly, and met her and her companions as they returned from the links, smiling and laughing. She would always give him a loving, possessive hug, and the men would give him a friendly handshake. Their farewells to Shelly were always along the lines of "Looking forward to doing it with you again sometime."

"It gets better," continued the young golf pro. "She's married."

"To the old dude? Is he one of those perverts who gets off on watching his wife fuck other guys?"

"Nah. I think her husband works for the old dude. When he talks with the guest, he says things like, 'I think you'll be pleased to have her husband on your project. He's top-notch and very reliable.'"

"Top-notch and very reliable" sounded just like something Esterfield would say, thought Kurt.

"He must not be top-notch in the sack, though."

"Take my advice, pal. Don't ever make a crack like that around her. She'll take your head off. She says her husband totally rocks in bed and she won't put up with anyone talking trash about him."

"Totally rocks in bed" sounded just like something Shelly would say, thought Kurt.

"So why does she do it?"

"I think it has something to do with business. When you play the nine, she talks to you about her stroke and the technical aspects of the game. The old dude and his guest talk shop. Then, when they leave the ninth, the old dude sometimes says something like 'So, do we have a deal?' and they shake hands. Fucking her just sort of seals it."

"But why does she fuck you?"

"I dunno. Maybe to bribe us to keep quiet about it."

Kurt had another theory: Shelly always tried to inject a little fun into any unpleasant chore. Like making a game out of getting the kids to clean their rooms. Or buying them milkshakes after a visit to the dentist. He had always found it endearing when she did something like that. It was one of the many things he loved about her.

"Wow. How long have they been doing this?"

"I dunno. My brother says they were doing it four years ago, when he worked as a pro. Back then, though, she insisted that everyone use condoms. Now she lets you cum wherever you want."

Shelly, Kurt knew, had had her tubes tied three years ago, after their daughter Kim was born. Like everything else important in their lives, it had been a joint decision.

Kurt pondered the second fellow's last question. He had a sinking feeling that he knew the answer already.

He and Shelly had first come to North Carolina during the summer before they graduated from college, her with a degree in sociology, him with a degree in engineering. They were already engaged to be married, and he had managed to snag an internship for the summer. But as the summer began, the economy took a dive, and word spread that only one of the ten interns would get a permanent job offer in the fall. With his mediocre grades, Kurt had little hope.

But at the company's Fourth of July picnic, Esterfield, then VP-Operations, struck up a conversation with Kurt and Shelly, and learned that she was captain of the college golf team. An avid golfer himself, he invited them both to play with him at his country club.

Kurt and Shelly had agonized over the invitation, knowing that it could be crucial for his career, yet recognizing that, if he tried to play, he would look pathetic and totally screw things up. Finally, they had jointly agreed that she would play and he would wait back at the clubhouse.

In his ignorance of the game, Kurt didn't really know how long it took to play eighteen holes, but it seemed to take a really long time. When they returned, Esterfield was smiling broadly, and Shelly looked a bit disheveled.

"Who won?" Kurt had asked politely.

"I think I did," Esterfield replied. "But she might disagree."

Kurt had not asked for an explanation, figuring they were making some sort of inside joke about the fuzzy way golfers keep score.

At the end of the summer, Kurt was stunned to learn that the job was his, though Shelly seemed not surprised at all.

That was another reason he loved her as much as he did: her unbounded confidence in him, in his ability to land the job he wanted, to get each successive promotion, to succeed at whatever he attempted.

They got married right after graduation and moved to North Carolina permanently. Esterfield sponsored them for admission as members of his country club, with the company paying the membership dues. Kurt threw himself into his new job, and Shelly handled everything at home—and worked on her golf game.

When she told him Esterfield wanted her to play regularly with him and the company's big customers, Kurt had encouraged her to do it. It could only mean good things for his career.

And indeed, his career took off. It seemed he always had plenty of work to do, on high-profile projects, even when the economy was otherwise slow and others in his department lost their jobs. Each year, he got a substantial raise and a large bonus. When he went back to college for his 10-year reunion, he found that he had outpaced nearly all of his peers.

He and Shelly had three beautiful children, a big house in an upscale neighborhood, and a substantial amount already saved in the kids' college fund. They took vacations in Europe and the Caribbean. Life was good.

And now Kurt knew why.

The foursome had finished teeing off and begun to walk down the fairway. He ran after them.

"Shelly!" he called, surprising himself with how plaintive his voice sounded.

She turned, and he thought he saw a moment of alarm in her face, but then she quickly regained her composure. "What . . . what are you doing here?" she managed to ask with only mild surprise.

Thirty yards away, he saw Esterfield, the man who could make or break his career with a snap of his fingers, and Howie Thornton, to whom he and his team had recently submitted a proposal for a major new contract worth $8.3 million. Both smiled and waved a greeting.

Kurt didn't look at the golf pro, Calvin, though from the corner of his eye he thought he saw him smirking.

"Um, you forget your cell phone in the car," Kurt stammered. That, at least, explained his presence, if not his agitated state.

"Oh, thanks, sweetie!" Shelly replied, and took it from his hand.

He stood and stared silently at his beautiful wife, his love, his source of happiness, his partner in everything in life. He would do anything for her, and she for him. He understood that now in a way that he never had before.

She could tell he wanted to say something more, something important, but was struggling with the words, and a shadow of fear returned to her face.

At last, he simply kissed her on the cheek. "Well, have fun," he said. Then he turned and trudged back up the hill.

- end -