February Sucks - Jim Wakes Up

I'm quite sure the number of men by her cubicle and the lunch invitations went through the roof.

For me, it was not such a positive vibe. Conversations abruptly ended when I walked into the room. Everyone stopped and watched me as I walked through public spaces. On the other hand, people couldn't look me in the eye. Unsuccessfully hidden smirks. Awkward exchanges of pleasantries in the elevator. Most of my social interactions with all but those I worked with most closely, were suddenly very formal. In other words, everyone knew. Over time a new normal emerged, but it was obvious that every new employee heard the story as surely as if it had been part of the orientation.

Linda said, as if to somehow convince me to forgive her co-conspirator, that Dee asked about me during their first post-fuck call even before jumping into 90-minutes of detail about The Excellent Fuck. She felt that showed how much Dee cared about me, that she would postpone the Excellent Fuck story for 15 seconds to ask about me.

I had to shake my head. Linda couldn't see I was one of two burning questions on everyone's mind: the details of the fuck and my reaction. They had already heard the pathetic story of the cuckold running around trying to find his wife and the lonely walk of shame to the hotel. Dee would be the first to pass on fresh news on both questions and her cellphone would be blowing up 10 minutes after she hung up with Linda.

It put Dee in an enviable position as the chief news source for our circle of friends and everyone connected to them. And Dee would make sure everyone knew it was the greatest sex Linda ever had and pass on all those Maserati/ economy car, instrument/ virtuoso comparisons. That was the extent of Dee's compassion.

Linda had made me the worst kind of local celebrity. People with a story so notable, they are ever tagged with it.

"See that woman over there? She couldn't stop her Mercedes on a slick road and killed a kid in a crosswalk. Her family has money so her attorneys got her off."

"See that guy out there getting gas? He's on the sexual offenders list."

"See that sorry fuck over there with the two kids? Marc LaValliere felt up his wife on the dance floor right in front of him, then Marc took her home and fucked her all night. For the longest time the dumb fuck thought she was in the bathroom!" And the story would grow and get much worse.

I would ever have that highly interesting tag, and for a story this good, it would be known by an astonishing number of people outside our current circle of acquaintances. Of course this made me much more reluctant to go out than it did Linda. At lot of this had to have reached her as much as it did me, but I think she liked it. She had been chosen by The Excellent Fucker. For such a thing, one wants to occasionally bask.

But I think she was genuinely clueless that it was unavoidable that it would someday soon reach our kids, even as young as they were. Not everyone would smile at Linda enviously. And over the years there would be fights and tears and humiliations for those children she had so easily chosen to not think about. There was no way this story wouldn't some day reach them, even in the rosiest of scenarios. And our kids would be tagged too. "See that girl with the pink blouse? Her mom..."

We could not skip going to school functions or the sports events our kids were involved in. I avoided all but the Willing Mind, my one absolutely essential watering hole; quit the gym; didn't play golf that first summer; and certainly never hit the clubs with the exception of the cuckolding refresher course I got on Linda's birthday. I didn't go out for lunch at the usual places. I either didn't eat and worked through lunch or ran out for fast food and ate sitting in the car in a nearby mall parking lot.

The impact on our kids first came home to Linda the Saturday after Tommy's birthday. We took him and three close friends to one of those kids' arcades with a variety of games and very bad pizza. At least they also served bad beer. Linda didn't seem to notice that I didn't go to the one closest to us but instead to one that was in a more blue-collar area of town. It's not that often we see people we know, even near where we live, so I had expected anonymity at this distance and in this neighborhood. I was dismayed to see a guy do a double take and turn to look at us as we walked to our booth. It might have been one of the guys who did some landscaping work for us last summer.

After a few seconds to inform the uninformed, sometimes across booths, there was a rise in the volume of conversation with some general expressions of astonishment and laughter. I noted it all. It was not too bad, but I hadn't wanted any. I looked at Linda, frustration rising. But it was supposedly a happy place with lots of sounds, and it didn't reach her. The kids ran to exchange an astonishing amount of cash for a few tokens.

Linda smiled and reached over with both hands to squeeze mine. She looked into my eyes, conveying how wonderful it was for us to be a family and to be out doing things like this. I couldn't agree more, and tried to answer the look. She didn't like what she was seeing on my face and, as it often did lately, her smile faded into resentment.

My eyes are always on the kids in a place like that, and I realized I had been distracted by the other customers and my wife so I quickly turned to look, and was surprised to see Tommy almost to us without his friends and with a glum face. It was odd he was already back after only a minute or two.

"Everybody is looking at us," he said. "Some are laughing." He was a kid, but he could feel the derision.

"It's okay," I said. "They probably know it's your birthday!" Linda withdrew her hands.

Tommy flashed a bright smile at that possibility, then reconsidered. "They are talking about you, not me," he said, pointing as kids do toward a large party of eight.

Linda frantically pulled down his hand. "Don't point." She said it so angrily Tommy stopped to look at her.

Someone without a volume control and possibly with more than a little to drink had belatedly heard the news just as the general noise dropped to a low murmur against the background sounds from the machines of explosions, dinging, and racing cars. "No! No fucking way! That's her?" Then after a pause, "I don't get it."

Linda was wearing an oversized, vee-neck tee shirt with yoga pants, no makeup, and hair hurriedly stashed in a pony tail.

I smiled and patted Tommy on the back to let him know it was all okay. "They were pointing at you guys, mom," he said to argue that made it okay for him to point.

"And so were they. Just now," he said trying to free his hand to point to another booth as Linda held it fast.

"Tommy, I don't care what they were doing. I told you not to," Linda said. "It's very rude. And you are wasting your play time. Go find your friends." He went.

"I'd fucking kill her," stentorian man added. "What a pussy!" I think I was meant to hear that.

Linda couldn't look at me, her arms now folded across her stomach. She was very pale, and red splotches could be seen on her neck and chest as they often did when she was upset.

A long pause. Time enough for three unsatisfying sips of warm beer. Thankfully, there was nothing more painful to overhear as the conversation moved to stentorian man's slut aunt.

It might have been a harsh thing for me to say, but I was worried she was thinking of putting on that blue dress and heading out to prove exactly how desirable she was, instead of considering things I thought were more important.

"Are you sure you really know all the reasons behind Emma's recent fight?" I asked.

******

I woke with a jerk, my heart pounding. I nearly woke Linda, who stirred and mumbled something. This time it wasn't an image from that night at the club. This time it was Linda coming down the stairs in that blue dress on her birthday, the night we went out in an attempt to "reclaim" that dress for its original purpose. A moment I hadn't thought much about beyond the initial pain; there were too many other things to think of from that night. Seeing my reaction, she had changed into a red dress. I had been certain she meant well.

What woke me were new questions my subconscious had finally come around to. Why did she think it a good idea to wear that blue dress? That form-fitting, long-sleeved, high-necked, flared, and rippling blue dress with fabric that invited touch. She insisted on it. And of course, like Monica Lewinsky, she still had that dress, probably kept in a treasured location away from my prying eyes. Perhaps there were even some secret stains inside. I suddenly wondered if she had kept other mementos from that night as one often does after an amazing event. And now that I thought about it, I wanted her to throw away everything from that experience: the underwear, perfume (and never wear it again), ear rings, bracelets, necklace, rings--even the wedding ring was in doubt. Were some of those things being kept in a treasured place?

That blue dress. It was new. Never been worn until and except for that night, unless she since put it on in private moments. So that dress was fully and completely associated by all three of us with her getting fucked by The Excellent Fucker. One of the great moments of her life ("It was by far the best sex I've ever imagined, let alone had.")

I had never thought about what it meant for her to wear that blue dress. To wear that same blue dress he slid his hands across and onto her ass with light touches even deeper. That silky fabric his hands pushed against her back, across her shoulders, and against her right tit and hard nipple as he lightly massaged a feel as they turned on the dance floor. That feeling of strength she said she felt came right through that blue dress. The feeling of his cock against her as they danced both at the club and at his place, pressed against that blue dress. The same dress he "gently stripped," that fell shimmering to the floor. The dress and the feel of his hands on her through the fabric belonged to the two of them and was entwined with her earth-shattering experience. It was impossible that dress would not bring back a flood of memories about The Excellent Fuck and completely turn her on.

Even more dubious was the idea that she was wearing it for me. So I could re-live being cuckolded down to the last detail. So I could feel that humiliation anew, as I indeed did. Suppose instead of running into The Excellent Lover, I had been hit by a car that night and was badly injured with blood everywhere. Suppose I looked at her in that dress as consciousness faded and I thought I was losing her. And then months and months of rehabilitation and nightmares followed. Who in hell would think it a good idea to put on the special dress she wore that night and go walking out to reclaim the street? Who wouldn't think how closely both of us would associate what she was wearing with what happened and instinctively avoid it at all costs?

Completely illogical behavior, unless bringing back those associations was exactly what she wanted--for both of us.

And there was the language of "reclaiming" the dress. I hadn't caught that at all when she first talked about it and she used that word several times. But being a newly minted cuckold, I have read about it extensively since. True stories on Reddit. I joined a Facebook support group, I read academic papers and fiction on Literotica. And "reclaim" suddenly had a different connotation. Supposedly the cuckold is eager to reclaim the pussy after his wife has sex with her dominant partner. It may even be biological; apparently it is a common compulsion many willing cuckolds feel. The desire to displace the last fucker impacted the evolution of the cock. Scientists say it's designed to pull semen out of the pussy from the last guy.

Had she just stumbled on the word, "reclaim?"

But through all this I still thought of her as the best person I know or could imagine. I couldn't believe she had done this on purpose. I had to believe it came from her heart, as misguided as it was. The most benign explanation was that her respect and view of me changed dramatically the night of The Excellent Fuck. A new stallion trotted in to mate and I failed to chase him off. I was no longer alpha, and that changed her view of me on a primal level in a way that maybe she didn't even consciously realize or understand. She was now subconsciously treating me as a cuckold with all it's attendant humiliation. ("I wasn't really sorry, as I think you know.")

With this new thinking, the context of everything changed.

She said that The Excellent Fucker stayed in the driveway until she had the front door open. Why was it important that I knew that Marc had lingered to mark his territory when he dropped her off that morning? Not just to the door, but until it was open. Why this level of detail? This is the kind of thing women say to their subservient cuckolds. To let them know their place.

"Marc is a very, very skilled lover." Two verys.

"He dominated my senses to the point that there was no room for anything else, including what is most important in all the world to me: you and our children." So even the kids. Did he dominate to the point she would have stranded the kids at the swing sets among the pedophiles had she met him at the park? (Would she "briefly" think of sending a text for me to go get them?)

She sent mixed messages about who she wanted to be with. She had written she was his for as long as he wanted her. That turned out to be one night. So far. Was there a time limit? Did the time he wanted her have to be contiguous?

Excellent Fucker came back, and she insisted she then chose me. But did she?

Even if she did, was it because she did not get the deal she was looking for? She had admitted this was possible. Had she believed Marc offered a longer commitment, would she still be here? If he offered a six-month trial, would she take the risk then? It was hard to believe she wouldn't. No one has the life-changing experience Linda describes and then decides never to experience it again. And what if my cuckold training had been more complete? Had I really been her definition of an "excellent man" and this bump in the road was already behind us with minimal fuss, can I believe she wouldn't have gone back for another one-night stand?

This appeared to be simple risk assessment. This time maybe she was thinking a bit about the kids. But it would take very little to pierce that hymen. The minute Excellent Fucker said he had room for the kids at his place and explained he could offer them the kids of celebrities as friends, parties, front-row seating, new cars at age 16, and so on, as little as a three-month commitment with the possibility for more would probably have closed the deal.

She said my love was the reason she knew she could do it in the first place. She said, "I don't believe for a moment that our marriage is in danger. Our love is too strong." What kind of mate measures your love by how much pain she can give you without suffering any return consequences? In her case she felt she had enough love on deposit to fuck Marc, write a letter designed for maximum pain, and then insist I remain faithful. It would be interesting to know how many fucks, cruel acts, and broken promises she thinks she has left to draw on.

But the text she didn't send, kept coming back as one of the most vicious things she said. Immediately after emphasizing that the sex seemed like it went on forever and "forever was exactly what I wanted," She noted that she only "briefly" thought of texting. The effort required was too great. "All I could think of was sleep," she said. Forever / briefly. Reaching out to me / sleep. The relative importance of me in that thinking could not have been lower. But she never hid that. In fact she had made it very, very (two verys) clear, it was zero. I had just failed to really believe it. And to this day I am still guilty of not really believing she is as cruel as the things she did and said. ("I didn't make a conscious choice, I just was.")

Was all of this honesty or cuckolding? Clearly she was enormously turned on while writing that first letter. Now it was a question whether part of the turn-on may have been imagining my hurt reaction and my simpering attempts to "reclaim" things. It was what she had expected. And she admitted she wasn't really sorry when she wrote it, which explains why it reads like locker-room bragging. It was more and more apparent that she got herself off a time or two as she wrote. As I read again with new eyes, I could almost see by her increasingly breathless descriptions where her arousal peaked.

And then there was that second humiliation on her birthday, which was almost as bad as the first.

I have already written what I call the "reconciliation" version about that night and nothing in it was untrue, just incomplete. At that point this was supposed to be the story of how we worked it all out. I really thought then it was a story we could use to help other couples who were facing similar issues--especially since my story would always be so much worse than anything that might have happened to them. But now that our marriage is in the state it's in, there's no point withholding the whole story.

I'm sure you recall that the original reconciliation version was humiliating enough. The moral of that story was "how I learned to stop being so unreasonable about my wife dumping me in front of friends and more than 60 strangers to fuck a guy she just met." And how Linda sort of apologized for ruining our plans. It all culminated in a tearful reconciliation after I was, once again, humbled and brought into line. Now I see I was very, very (two verys) wrong to let her believe I learned that lesson. Because I now believed it was a dramatic spiral downward into cuckoldry.

She had been chosen by the great celebrity. They had to hire a hooker to come on to me. Linda had the choice--and made it with the greatest nonchalance--to walk through that door and fuck all night to so many orgasms she lost count. She chose to put me and our children on the block. No, actually it was just me on the block. What she really chose was for me to lose the children and the children to lose me, from life as we knew it. I would miss so much. Almost everything. For her, in our legal system, that was never a possible consequence.

I was once again humiliated with rejection when Ellen Punked me by saying, "Now you know" instead of fucking me for what I had hoped would seem like forever. My dreams of sex that was better than I had imagined let alone ever had, were dashed.

Like the cuckold I was, I ran back to Linda for a tearful scene and a second humiliating letter. I was to believe that I had exhibited the same weakness she had and was therefor enjoined (in front of witnesses again) to judge no more and from that dawning light, emerge from darkness into understanding.

The full story of that night was more complex, and the real lesson it taught me, was beginning to force its way to the top. I was avoiding acknowledging that truth, because I could not lose my kids. I would not go there or even consider it. I could not accept that consequence.

Ellen approached our table, and, as has been written, asked my wife if she could "borrow" me for a dance. ("Everything he borrowed has been returned.") Odd that Ellen would refer to it as "borrowing" just as my wife had referred to Marc as simply "borrowing" her. Only Marc hadn't asked. And only Linda persisted in thinking it was that simple.

That verbiage immediately got my attention. Believe me, much of what my wife had said and written was deeply embedded in my memory and was constantly popping in my head. This interesting wording gave me a bit of a heads-up on what was coming. It could have been coincidence. It wouldn't be an unusual thing to say. But it got my bullshit Geiger counter clicking.