Who Has It Worst?

"Serendipity" is the only explanation for how four guys with cheating wives ended up in the same high-end bar in a suburb of Washington, D. C. in the same afternoon at the same time. Maybe some higher power was taking pity on them because they had lived primarily innocent lives and didn't deserve the shitty circumstances that they were mired in.

Thirty year old Jack entered "The Gold Coast" at about 2:00 p. m. on a fateful Wednesday. Unable to concentrate on his job as a medical researcher for NIH, despite his normally teetotalling nature he had to do something and perhaps this bar could provide some solace. He planned on confronting Audrey, his wife of seven years and mother to their three year old daughter, that night about her infidelity. He dreaded the result because he could not envision a best-case scenario.

Jack was sipping an aptly named, given his mood, Devil's Cut Jim Beam bourbon at the most remote table from the bar when he saw Tom enter about 2:20. Of course at that time he didn't know that was his name, but the forlorn look on Tom's face immediately caused Jack to muse "That guy looks as shitty as I feel," just before he took another sip. Thirty five year old Tom, a low level lawyer for the Federal Government mostly dealing with military procurement contracts, had moved out of his suburban home into a cheap hotel a few days ago after finding out first-hand about his wife Amy's activities. He couldn't stomach the way that he was being treated but couldn't afford to do much else if he wanted to see his darling six and eight year old daughters on a regular basis.

Tom noticed that Jack was the only other person in the bar - not surprising considering the prices at The Gold Coast and the time of day. He sat at the second most remote table from the bar and was soon approached by Amber, the lone cocktail waitress working at the time.

"What can I get for you sugar?" Amber asked. Seeing Tom's bloodshot eyes and hang dog look she said "Looks like you need something strong."

"That obvious, huh?" Tom rhetorically replied. Amber compassionately nodded her head. "Two shots of anejo tequila, please," Tom sighed.

Stan was obviously agitated when he walked in about quarter to three. By then Jack was on his third Jim Beam - two more than he had had the past six years - and Tom was on his second round of tequila shots. Twenty eight year old Stan nervously paced the establishment for a while before settling down at a table close to the bar, one that had a good view of the entrance. Stan had to be at least six feet six inches tall and two hundred forty pounds, a big strapping guy who looked like he either worked out with weights every day or had a job requiring intense manual labor. While not in blue collar work clothes he wasn't in a suit with discarded or loose tie like Jack and Tom, and his bulging biceps were clearly protruding from his short sleeve shirt. "A pitcher of PBR," he barked when Amber approached before she could offer a greeting.

"Sorry, honey, but the owner of this place is kinda snobbish. We don't have that fine American brew, but we do have Heineken on tap. A pitcher of it will do the same thing as a pitcher of PBR, just cost you more," she smiled.

"A pitcher of Dutch horse piss it is, then," Stan growled, rapping the fingers of his left hand on the table while tapping the ground with the boot on his right foot.

It was about 3:00 p.m. when Will, a short, portly, well-dressed man in his early fifties, entered. He exposed the $200,000 Zenith Christopher Columbus watch on his wrist by moving back the sleeve of his monogramed silk shirt as he checked the time before sauntering up to the bar. He seemed to be as forlorn as Jack, Tom and Stan were. Rather than waiting for the barkeep to mosey over to him he lightly grabbed the passing Amber by the arm and said "Your rarest Glenfiddich, please," loud enough to be heard by the only other three patrons, none of whom had the slightest idea what he was ordering.

"Obviously a man who knows his Scotch," she giggled. "That may cost you two hundred bucks," Amber replied with a smile, and then laughed and said "and don't forget the tip."

"I wish my worry was money," Will sadly replied.

While serendipity had brought the four cuckolds to the same location, nothing might have come of it had there not been a catalyst. That essential ingredient took the human form in the person of Amber.

Amber was more sophisticated and older than your average cocktail waitress, but was as pleasant to look at as those ten years her junior, and she was all the more attractive because of her indomitable outgoing personality. After chatting up each of the four when she brought each round of drinks - as well as numerous times between rounds since the activity was so light this sunny Wednesday afternoon - she gleaned that each of her four customers had a common problem; wife trouble. None of them came right out and said that his wife was cheating, but having been around the block more than once, including having divorced a cheating husband, Amber surmised that that was the root cause. Why else would these four be in her bar on this fine day and time with the hang dog looks that they exhibited?

When it was Tom's turn to get yet one more tequila Amber approached him with the drink but didn't put it on his table. "Say Tom; have you ever heard the expression that 'misery loves company?'"

"I guess," he mumbled in response.

"Well I've never seen two guys as miserable as you and Jack over there," she said pointing over toward Jack's table; "except for maybe Stan and Will," she continued, nodding her head in the direction of the bar. "I'm putting this drink on Jack's table; if you want it you need to go talk to him."

Tom was about to protest - the last thing that he wanted was male companionship - but Amber was already halfway to Jack's table before anything came out of his mouth. When she placed Tom's tequila in front of Jack he was surprised, but by that time - having known her for a good ninety minutes - he liked Amber and just shrugged his shoulders when she gave him the explanation for her actions.

Tom reluctantly ambled over to Jack's table, they introduced each other, and started up an awkward conversation. At first it was just a little uncomfortable chit-chat, but Jack - being further along in his quest to kill brain cells and less used to drinking than Tom - broke the ice. "Tom, when I first saw you walk in I said to myself, Jack, that dude looks as shitty as you feel. Do you think that we have the same problem?"

Ten minutes later it didn't take much doing for Amber to convince Will to join the now freely conversing duo. Tom and Jack warmly greeted Will. They asked him what the hell "Glenfiddich" was, took a good look at his watch, and soon were talking to him as freely as they were to each other.

It was a little harder for Amber to get Stan to join the motley trio. His dress and drink didn't mesh with theirs. She offered him a pitcher on the house if he'd go over and at least say hi to them; apparently that appealed to him because he was already sitting between Will and Tom when Amber brought him his complimentary pitcher of beer and a new frosted mug.

By the time that it reached 4:45 p. m. and other customers started coming into the bar all four of the new acquaintances were near-drunk, if not sloshed. They had each opened up about the nature of their problems - a cheating wife - to the others and now were at that point that occurs during many male conversations; one-upmanship. They had a friendly argument about whose situation was the worst; and who had the most dastardly solution to his, or the others', problems.

By then, for their own reasons, Will and Jack had to leave, and it was better for Stan if he did too. However, before they broke up Will floated an idea.

"I think that we should each present our problem to a panel of objective strangers. Whoever is, hic... found to have the worst, hic... situation, the other three will help rectify it." Maybe not the best way to phrase it, but pretty good considering that he was drunk.

"What do you mean by 'rectify?'" Jack, a little more sober than Will and Tom, skeptically asked.

"I mean solve their problem. Look, the four of us have different abilities. Stan has brawn, Jack has guts and medical knowledge, Tom has legal ability and a typical devious lawyer's mind, and I have money. I'm willing to underwrite the entire experience so that we each get a fair hearing, and even if I don't win I'm willing to bankroll whatever we come up with to rectify the winner's situation." Sensing skepticism Will persevered. "What have we got to lose, dudes? Can things get any more depressing for us than they are now? At least we'll have the satisfaction of knowing that we're doing something."

"He's right," Stan barked, smashing his big right paw on the table and almost cleaving it.

"I'm in," Tom said snapping to a fully upright posture for the first time in days.

"What the fuck DO we have to lose?" Jack chimed it. "What's the plan, Will?"

"Tom, give me your card; I'll be calling you by tomorrow to have you do a little contract writing for the four of us. Jack and Stan I need your cell phone numbers too. I'll set up a meeting - shall we say 9:00 Saturday morning - at one of my offices to enter into a formal agreement, and discuss details. By then I'll have started work on getting a panel to evaluate our stories," Will excitedly uttered.

"What do we do until then?" Jack asked.

"Maintain the status quo the best that you can. You know your wives better than I do. I'm not saying that you have to act happy, but don't do anything drastic either - pretend that you're all Emmy-winning actors," Will replied.

They all shook hands and got up to go, each reaching for his wallet.

"To show you good faith - and because I'm so excited about this - let me pick up your tabs," Will said as he motioned Amber over, "and tip our darling little catalyst," he continued once she was in earshot. Will settled up and gave Amber a $400 tip, a hundred bucks per man. She also got a genuine hug from each member of the quartet.

"It's good to see you boys walk out of here with fire in your eyes; or should I say 'stumble,'" she joked.

Tom walked back to his shitty nearby hotel room while Jack and Stan took cabs home and Will was picked up by his limo; no one wanted a DUI to spoil their plans.

**********************

The four co-conspirators met at one of Will's suburban offices, a new brick three story building with the name "Bronson Commercial Realty" emblazoned over the classy cut-glass entrance.

"Who's 'Bronson?'" Stan naively asked.

"Yours truly, William H. Bronson, Jr." Will replied with a smile. "I'm kind of vain, but this is the only one of the dozen businesses that I own that I named after myself," he grinned.

After commiserating about how fucking hard the last few days had been, Will, Stan and Jack still interacting with their wives and Tom in his shitty hotel room with only a brief respite to see his girls, they quickly got down to business. Tom had drafted a contract according to Will's instructions and had it on a memory stick so that if necessary they could easily make changes using one of Will's computers.

In the contract the four amigos agreed to make their own presentation to an objective panel about their situation. The situation that the panel picked as worst would receive all of their efforts to rectify. They would brainstorm ideas and vowed to implement what they finally decided upon unless it was blatantly illegal. Each agreed to take up to four full days off work, if necessary and the plan called for it, as well as to diligently pursue any tasks that they were assigned.

"We're to have no electronic contact in the future except via these burner phones," Will said as he handed the phones out after everyone had read and signed the contract. "I've preprogrammed each of our burner phone numbers into each of these phones, and they are to ONLY be used to call each other. There are $200 worth of pre-paid minutes on each phone which should easily last us."

"What about the panel to 'jury' our presentations?" Tom asked.

"I have a principal of a polling firm due here any minute to discuss that," Will replied. Seconds later a bell rang. "Speak of the devil! I'll bet that's him now," Will chirped, hopping up from his chair and hustling to the front door.

"Guys, I'd like you to meet Dr. Andrew Minton, a very respected pollster," Will said as he returned to the conference room followed by a tall distinguished looking man with a gray beard and wire-rimmed bifocals.

"Please call me Andy," Dr. Minton replied.

After introductions and hand-shakes Andy sat at the head of the table and asked "So what can my little polling organization do for you gentlemen?"

Tom gave a basic explanation of what they were looking for and their situations. As Andy stroked his beard with a contemplative look on his face Jack asked "What type of panel do you recommend, Andy?"

"I think that a panel of about twenty adult males - no women - all within the age range of twenty five to fifty should hear the presentations and then discuss them before taking a vote. If no one gets a majority on the first ballot they would eliminate the last place presentation and vote again until a majority is reached. I would suggest mostly married male panelists, but with a few single, and a few divorced, guys," Andy replied.

"I think that we'd like an explanation of why they voted like they did, and what the vote was, too," Stan authoritatively said. The others shook their heads in agreement.

"How soon can you arrange it, Andy?" Will asked.

"Is Wednesday at ten p. m. at my office OK? You will each have twenty five minutes to make your presentation and answer questions. After lunch the panel will meet, discuss, vote, do a write up, and you should have your answer by three o'clock, four at the latest.

Everyone was in agreement. Jack, Tom and Stan left while Will discussed financial terms with Andy.

************************

On Wednesday, Andy informed them that the panel included twenty one heterosexual men, fifteen married, four divorced, two single. The youngest was twenty four, the oldest forty seven.

Andy had the members of the quartet draw cards from a deck to see what order they would present in. Each presenter would be alone in the room with the twenty one panel members and Andy while the other three watched through a one-way mirror in a viewing room. Each would have at least fifteen minutes of uninterrupted time to tell his story, and then would answer questions for ten-fifteen minutes more. The order turned out to be the same as the order in which they had entered The Gold Coast; Jack, Tom, Stan, and finally Will.

"No names," Andy reminded them, "not yours, your wife's, or your kids if you have any. You are simply Presenter #s 1-4. Even though all panelists have signed confidentiality agreements I'd rather keep identifying information to a minimum." They all nodded in agreement.

***************

"The last place that I want to be is here, laying my sole bare," Jack began his soliloquy, "but I'm at a loss for what to do and I need to do something. Thank you for listening. I'm Presenter No. 1."

Jack then proceeded to tell about how he found out that, Audrey, his wife of seven years, had for a time period not pinned down, but likely since sometime after she recovered from the birth of their only child about three years ago, been regularly trolling for guys. Unless she had recently changed her M. O. she apparently had been going to one of the many local college campuses looking for guys and then hooking up with them for one afternoon stands, or in some instances two or three times. When colleges weren't in session he believed that she sometimes trolled male dominated conferences held in hotels or convention centers. He believed that she always made her fuck buddies wear a condom, but wasn't sure. He had only recently gotten proof and hadn't confronted her and was dreading doing so.

"Have you noticed any decrease in the frequency or intensity of sex with her or any decrease in affection?" panelist #4 asked.

"No - none at all, which is probably why I didn't ever suspect anything and would still be clueless if I hadn't stumbled upon her activities by accident," Jack replied.

"You say that you think it started sometime after the birth of your child," panelist #19 said, "did your wife have some sort of metamorphosis after that?"

"Actually, I guess you could say that she did. She has always had a high libido, but after our little girl was born for a few months her libido was depressed, I think primarily because she didn't like her own body. Then she started exercising intensely and taking yoga, and within a few more months was really proud of her body. At that time she started getting more sexually aggressive and until I found out about her cheating we were fucking at least five times a week, sometimes twice a session. The sex wasn't just frequent but fantastic..." Jack said before he started to lose it. He wiped his eyes, regained his composure, and said "Sorry," to the panelists.

"How could she be so effective at picking up guys, especially younger ones?" panelist #6 naively asked.

"She has a beautiful face, she's five feet nine inches tall, 135 pounds, a D cup chest, long blond hair, and sleek thighs that would make the average heterosexual guy cry," Jack wistfully replied.

"Sorry I asked," #6 genuinely blurted out.

"How frequently do you suspect she has engaged in dalliances?" panelist #14 quizzed.

"Likely once every two weeks," Jack mumbled softy, and then had to repeat it more loudly when several panelists indicated that they hadn't heard him.

"What is your present situation?" panelist #1 inquired.

"I know that she senses that something is wrong. While I have had sex with her twice since I found out it's not the same. I've told her that I don't feel well, but she knows that's not the problem. I was going to confront her the night that I met Presenters 2-4 but we all decided to wait, and help each other," Jack responded, wiping his eyes once more. "She looks scared and seems to be walking on eggs around me while maintaining a façade of being upbeat."

"Thank you Presenter #1," Andy said while looking at his watch. "That's twenty seven minutes. Please send in #2."

Jack shuffled out of the panelists' chamber and returned to the observation room where Tom was already standing and ready to exit. They exchanged hugs and then Tom marched into the "jury" room.

*****************

"Hi, I'm Presenter #2," Tom nervously began. Although he was an attorney he didn't do trial work and was uncomfortable in front of an audience. However his angst was overcome by his pain, anger, and resentment, so he persevered.

Tom related how he had come home early from a business trip - classic situation, almost laughably cliché if it wasn't so tragic - to see a guy leaving his house around lunchtime. He hustled inside and ran up to the master bedroom. He heard his wife Amy chime "Forget something Jeremy, or do you want to make another sperm deposit?"

"My name's not Jeremy," Tom told the panelists, unsuccessfully trying to smile at his gallows humor.

He explained about how when he saw Amy laying naked on their marital bed with her legs apart and a creampie leaking from her pussy his wife was only slightly flustered. In response to him yelling "What the fuck is this!" she calmly replied "I'm sorry that you had to find out this way, Tom."

His wife went on to explain to him that she had enjoyed an affair with a guy named Jeremy for over a year, and that she had every intention of continuing it. She said that she still had affection for Tom, but that he was going to have to accept the situation otherwise she would be withholding sex from him in the future. When he started talking about divorce she viciously informed him that she would take him to the cleaners and make sure that she got sole custody of their daughters - the lights of his life - and that he would end up with a miserable existence. "Once you tell me that you accept this situation I'll take you away for a weekend and fuck your brains out," were her last words before he stormed out of the house.