A Few Good Men

Thanks to my editor Leo!

I drove my husband to Newark airport. He'd be gone ten days. He was always nervous about flying. Not nervous once he was in the airplane, but nervous about all of the rigmarole of checking in, going through security, going to the gate, etc. I escorted him all the way to security, but there I had to stop, since I didn't have a ticket. If I had been a dog, especially a comfort dog, or a guide dog, I could have continued. I wasn't though; I was just a wife.

He was flagged at security. My idiot husband had packed his handgun in his carryon luggage. In addition, it was loaded. He barely avoided being arrested, and if he had arrived in Paris with it in his hand luggage, he'd have been in big trouble. He hadn't been malicious; it was more like unthinking. I took the gun, and I had to go home with it in the car. All this created a lot of drama, more than anyone needed.

He got off okay, finally, and I was at loose ends. I had no desire to fight traffic and to go home, to an empty house, where I would reside for the next ten days. It was already 9PM, since Brad had taken an overnight flight to Europe. He was in business class. He'd probably meet some woman in a business suit and chat her up all the way to Paris.

Maybe they'd share a taxi from the airport to the city center. Maybe they'd exchange coordinates, to keep in touch. Maybe she'd go to his hotel with him? I could see it now: Really, you're staying at the Bristol? I've heard about it. How are the rooms? Are they as nice as people say? Why not come with me to the Bristol? I'll buy you a drink -- they have a great bar -- and then I can show you my room?

Oh no, I can't do something like that. How would it look? He'd answer, How would it look to who? Who's going to be watching us? She'd reply, There's always someone watching. I'm an actress, you see. We're always under scrutiny. Oh, I had no idea, Brad would say. Have I seen any of your films?

Probably not. I haven't broken through yet, and some of them show too much skin to be popular in America. There're some erotic scenes. Your country is so moralistic. Maybe just a drink at the Bristol. No room. Okay?

ENOUGH! What a scenario I was imagining! And yet, I could so easily see it happening with Brad. He can seduce a woman so easily, and without even trying. After all, he seduced me easily enough the first time. And the second time. And the third, fourth, fifth, and all of the times. The man is irresistible. Women throw themselves at him. I wonder why he chose me to marry? He tells me why, often enough.

Our divorce is in the works. It will become final around a week after Brad returns from philandering in Europe. He's there on business, but Brad goes after anyone in a skirt. Or any woman wearing pants, or shorts, or an evening gown. The man likes women; all women, and they seem to like him. Especially French women seem to like him. Lots of French women do not seem averse to being a mistress, and perhaps it's a plus over there for Brad that he's married. He's also handsome as hell, and charming. Well, he won't be married much longer.

Infidelity is the cause of our divorce, and it's not my infidelity. It's Brad's large number of infidelities. Well, that's water under the bridge, or semen under some tramp's skirt, by now. Over and done with, no need to dwell on it, right?

Maybe I'll try a French hotel tonight? Solidarity with Brad. He cheats with hot and cold running sluts in France, and I'll be at a nice, French hotel. Maybe a Sofitel? Right: like there'll be one at Newark airport. Who am I kidding?

There's a Sofitel in midtown, though. I go online; I reserve a room. Maybe I'll get the infamous DSK room? That's where Dominique Strauss Kahn sexually aggressed a maid, thereby ruining his political career in France. I wonder if he ever thinks of how Trump would have handled a similar sex scandal, hee, hee. I guess he knows. I guess everyone knows.

I used valet parking at the Sofitel. I went to my room first, to freshen up. I removed my bra. Then I went to the bar. I needed a drink. I knew I could almost certainly get a drink from the minibar of my room, but I wanted a mixed drink; a cocktail.

I was wearing a light sweater on top, and I checked before I left my room. My nipples poked at it. I'm small breasted, but I have wonderful nipples. They're long, thick, and they harden like steel and do they ever poke; I like to think of them as being sociable when they poke. Rising up to say hello, if you will.

I sidled up to the bar. The house cocktail was boring, boring, boring. Champagne with some peach liqueur. How about something that takes some skill to make?

"A Rum Martinez, please," I said to the bartender and he gave me a quizzical look. Having grown up in Contra Costa County in Northern California, El Cerrito to be precise, I take some pride in our most famous local cocktail, even if I now live in New York. The cocktail, it's said, dates back to the mid-nineteenth century. Gold Rush territory. Those prospectors knew how to drink.

"Right away. I'll have to find the Applewood chips. We don't get a lot of call for those." I could tell I had earned the respect of the bartender. That, and that he took the look down my scoop necked sweater (with a generous scoop!) at my bare boobs, when I leaned forward. I'm pretty sure he saw some nipple, too, since my nipples dwarf my breasts. I wonder if Brad knows what he's throwing away? I guess he's already thrown it away. Well, too bad for him!

I stood at the bar, patiently awaiting my Rum Martinez. Some people like smoky Scotch Whisky, and some like smoky Bourbon, or smoky Tequila, or Mezcal, but with the Rum Martinez, the bartender lights aflame the Applewood chips and captures the smoke in a capped glass vessel. The cocktail gets fresh smoke. It doesn't get better than that.

In the ten minutes or so, as I was standing, waiting for my drink, a man stood next to me and began to chat me up. A second man joined him a few minutes later. They were obviously competing for my attention, with the clear hope of a reward of a liaison, in my room, or theirs. I had never strayed during my three-year marriage to Brad, unlike Brad, but maybe it was high time for a little payback?

This was my big chance at adultery. Wait two more weeks, and I'd just be yet another single girl in the meat market. I'm still marketable, too, being only 25, pushing 26. Like Cassidy Hutchinson. I'm not a media sensation, however. No, I'm a nobody, but I'm a good fuck. A damn good one, according to Brad, and he's a connoisseur.

I had brought my gym bag that I keep in the trunk. I had put Brad's gun in it. God, that was irritating. The bag has my toiletries I use at the gym, plus a change of nice clothes, because you never know. I picked up some condoms at the little hotel store. They didn't have any dildos, but sometimes a girl has to make do.

Maybe I could unload the gun, and use it as a dildo? If so! I'd finally have found a useful purpose for his cherished Glock 17L. It had a long slide, making it the best Glock to serve as a dildo. Who needs gun oil when you have pussy juice by the truckload? I read the warning. Exposure to lead. I sure as hell didn't want lead to invade my sweet little kitten. The gun as a dildo was out. Maybe I could use humans, instead?

The first guy of the two who approached me, named Jack, was intriguing. He was not intriguing for his appearance, which could have been from central casting when they want a 50-something character actor to portray a bored, lecherous businessman. No, Jack's appeal was his voice. He could be a voice double for Jack Nicholson. He had that built-in sardonic twang, that everyone loves.

He was around my father's age. Well, maybe I had Daddy issues? I didn't think so, but you never know, do you?

The second guy, Tom, had the shit-eating grin of Tom Cruise in the movie Risky Business. You put them together and you've got the two key members of the cast of A Few Good Men, except you need a sexy female star, and Kevin Bacon. Demi Moore wasn't all that sexy in the movie, but at the Sofitel Bar, it looked like I was a fortiori put into the Demi Moore role. Kevin Bacon was the good-looking bartender, I guess.

I wrote a short note for the bartender, whose given name was Kevin, too! I gave him the note with my payment, charging it to my room, so 'Kevin' would know which room I was in, hee, hee.

Tom and Jack seemed interested in me, and were peppering me with questions. Tom reminded me of my older brother, who was also named Tom. Thomas Butterfield is his name, and I'm Amy B. Collinsworth, since I took my soon-to-be-ex-husband's name when we married. The two men, these wannabe seducers, could have taken lessons from Brad on how to be smooth; maybe I could talk him into offering a course at NYU or someplace, on how to seduce women. These two could have benefitted from such a class. Nevertheless, they were both there, and so too was I, and just being there is 90% of seduction.

They had both ordered beer, and my cocktail was finally ready for me. The three of us adjourned to a table. Tom was a chatterbox swamping the table with words, while Jack was the strong, silent type. Most men, I've found, are rather taciturn. Tom was a notable exception. It was kind of nice because there was never an awkward pause in the conversation. He was funny, too, and he had me laughing in short order.

Two more Rum Martinez cocktails later, and the men were on their third, fourth, or fifth beers, I wasn't sure, and I was a tipsy kind of toast. I was done. What's the phrase? I was thoroughly marinated in booze.

I should explain. Throughout my three years of marriage to Brad I was a faithful little wife, doing all the things a good little wife does for her man, including providing a warm and loving presence in the bedroom. I was quite accommodating to all of Brad's needs, including his sexual peccadillos, such as swallowing his cum at the end of a blowjob, giving him my ass when he wanted it, and trying every sexual position he could think of, and believe-you-me, the man had quite some imagination!

Brad was everything a girl like me could want. He was handsome, charming, solicitous of my needs, tolerant of my family, charming with my girlfriends (and no, he never tried to seduce my friends, not even the tramp Sheila Henderson who would have loved stealing Brad from me). He was a rake, a philanderer, and twice he even generously gave me STDs. I loved Brad with all my soul, but it got to a point where I just could no longer tolerate any more of his infidelities.

We'd only be married for two more weeks, and ten of those fourteen days he'd be trying to lay every slut he could find in Paris, France, and trust me: There are no sluts like French sluts. I didn't want the marriage to end with my never having cheated on him. I had ten glorious days to take my revenge and the night of his leaving town seemed as good a time as any.

I'd had a lot of sexual fun before I had ever met Brad so even though I was now rusty, I knew how to play the game. I had two candidates at my table and I had only to choose one of them: Tom or Jack? Jack or Tom? It was too bad the bar didn't have a dance floor.

The bar was closing. I got up, and said it was time for bed, and thanked Tom and Jack for their delightful company, and for having paid for my second and third Rum Martinez. I know, I know, I was laying it on a little thick. Jack had been looking at my wedding ring, but he never raised the subject of my husband, and neither had I. Tom just seemed to be oblivious to everything except that I was pretty, laughed at his jokes, and that I was apparently available.

"I'll walk you to your room," Jack said.

"I will, too," Tom said, earning a dirty look from Jack, and a giggle from me. We left the bar with both men having an arm around me, with me giggling almost continuously. The elevator brought us up to the 14th floor, and both men walked the short walk to room 1407, which was my room.

"Kiss goodnight?" Jack asked.

"Kiss goodnight?" Tom quickly asked, too.

"Yes, to both of you," I said.

Jack pulled me into his arms, and he kissed me gently, slowly raising the temperature of the kiss. I was turned on when he finished. Tom grabbed me and kissed me hard from the get-go. The two men passed me back and forth until I was almost dizzy.

During their kissing me goodnight, Jack and Tom had both slipped their hands under my sweater to fondle my naked boobs. When Jack raised my sweater to my neck, exposing my bare boobs to both men and to the hallway in general, I was still sober enough to call a halt to it all.

"Thank you both, and goodnight," I said, as I quickly pulled my sweater back down, and opened my room door.

"I could really use a nightcap," Jack said.

"The bar is closed, remember?" I replied, now standing in the doorway to my room.

"Your minibar in the room has drinks in it," Tom said.

It was decision time. I knew whoever I invited into my room I was implicitly inviting into my panties as well. I just couldn't choose! Tom had the gift of gab, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but Jack sounded like Jack Nicholson, and I loved that, too. Jack was older, and more mature, which I liked. Tom, however, bubbled with contagious enthusiasm and was filled with the joy of life. I figured, I could always decide later and send the loser home with a nice kiss goodbye, right?

Maybe the first guy to make a serious move on me would be the guy for me for tonight. Jack had already exposed my boobs in the hallway, so he was the leading contender.

I need to explain about my eyes. I am almost blind for distance vision, distance being more than two feet away. I have coke-bottle-bottom glasses, but happily there are now special option contact lenses that work, too. My eyes were tired, dry, and painful with the contacts, which I had been wearing since the early morning, so I took them off. I was now legally blind; however, I could still see things that were close to me; the closer the better.

Back to the matter at hand.

I began to understand Brad's love of seduction. This was fun! Who do I invite in? Which guy is getting lucky? Oh, fuck it; I'll decide later after I dance with each of the two men in my room. Maybe I'll choose the better dancer? Maybe the guy who kisses better? I should have been paying more attention to the kisses in the hallway. Well, if I invited them both into my room, chances are good I'd have another chance to judge their kisses?

"Maybe you men would like to come in for a nightcap, courtesy of my minibar?" I said, postponing the ugly task of choosing the man who would get lucky with me. They both agreed, and soon we were all three in the room. I put some dancing music on, using my iPhone, which one could plug into the room's stereo system.

"Who wants to dance?" I asked.

"Let's drink first," Tom replied. As it turned out, neither man liked to dance.

One thing about a hotel room: the dominant feature is the bed. There's just no way around it. It sits there, looming, as if reminding one constantly what happens in hotel rooms. We all kept looking at it, knowing it was there, like the proverbial elephant in the room.

I gave them each a drink (they both chose beer; I had bubbly water), and as my iPad went through my playlist, we stumbled onto the Randy Newman song You can leave your hat on. The men were sitting on the bed, leaving a place for me between them, but I jumped up, grabbed my straw hat, and my coat, and I began to dance for them.

Baby, take off your coat

Real slow

I slowly, sexily, took off my coat.

And take off your shoes

I'll take off your shoes

Jack jumped up and slipped off my shoes. He was smiling broadly. He was into this! You've gotta like the man.

Baby, take off your dress

Yes, yes, yes

Okay, I wasn't wearing a dress, so I pulled off my sweater, becoming topless, since I was not wearing a bra. I unzipped and slipped out of my pencil skirt, too. I was down to my panties.

You can leave your hat on

You can leave your hat on

You can leave your hat on

I left my straw hat on.

Go over there

Turn on the lights

All the lights

Come over here

Stand on that chair

Yeah, that's right

Raise your arms up in the air

And now shake 'em

I did as the song demanded, dousing the lights, standing on a chair, raising my arms in the air, and then I shook myself all over, quite sexily, I hope, with my boobs bouncing around, I hoped in a seductive manner.

Now give me a reason to live

You give me a reason to live

You give me a reason to live

You give me a reason to live

I blew a kiss to each of the men, and then sucked two of my fingers the way I would suck a cock in a blowjob. The men had been mesmerized and sort of in shock by my antics, I think, but they woke up and began to applaud me. The song continued on, but I stepped down from the chair and reached for my sweater.

"No!" Jack said, rather forcefully, surprising me. "Stay the way you are, please. Amy, you're gorgeous!"

"Hear, hear!" Tom added. Both men were sporting erections; I could see the lumps in their pants.

"I have to decide. Which one of you fine gentlemen wants to spend the night with me? If you have a wife, or a fiancé, please leave now," I said.

"I want to spend the night with you, Amy. I've never met anyone like you before," Jack said.

"You need to get out more," I replied. Jack raised one eyebrow. I wish I could do that! I was leaning toward choosing Jack, anyway, so I was glad he had spoken up.

"I want to spend the night with you, Amy," Tom said, too. Shit. He looked so cute, so adorable, like a puppy dog who would be crushed if I didn't choose him.

"Who do you want to spend the night with?" Jack asked.

"Yes, who do you want?" Tom quickly added.

"I can't decide. That's the problem. Both of you are great, albeit in different ways," I said, not really coming to terms with having two men in my hotel room, and having stripped down to just my panties! And my hat; let's not forget my hat! I kept my hat on.

My phone dinged. I had a text from Brad.

I arrived safely in Paris, and am at the Hotel Bristol. You won't believe who was sitting next to me on the airplane: Léa Seydoux herself!

I wrote back:

Awesome. Have fun, both with her and without her.

Very funny he texted back. I love you & miss you, my little wife

Not for much longer, I thought to myself. Get used to not calling me your little wife. Maybe he'll call me his little ex-wife? Or just his little ex? He'll think of something to call me when he tries to seduce me, and he will try. That's a given.

I love you, too. Goodnight, sweetheart and I put my phone on Do Not Disturb.

While I had been texting with Brad, Jack (or was it Tom?) was fondling my boobs, and Tom (or was it Jack?) was trying to pull my panties off. I didn't have a free hand to stop him from pulling them down, so I simply sat down. Unfortunately, I sat down on the bed, but at least my panties stayed on. A small, probably Pyrrhic, victory, I know.

It happened so fast! My panties came off, my legs were spread, and Jack's head went to my kitten like a laser guided missile. I thought of the weapons of war in Ukraine and had to suppress a giggle: This kind of laser guidance is better than any guided missile. My grandmother, a product of the 1970s, used to say, "Make Love, Not War." May she rest in peace, the sweet woman. She would approve of what I was doing! Fight fire with fire, she would say. In my case it might be fight infidelity with infidelity?

Jack was amazingly talented at cunnilingus, and trust me, eating me out the way Jack was doing is the way to this girl's heart!