Litter Bug Boogie

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Fredoberto
Fredoberto
763 Followers

"Wow! That sounds fun!" I said, with false enthusiasm. "Any idea how I can find out more?"

"Easy. If you've got internet access just look for the Bottoms Up Club."

I sipped my coffee, got out my mobile and accessed the internet using the hotel's wi-fi. It wasn't difficult to find the Bottoms Up Club on the web. If you wanted to attend any of their events you would have to join the club and accept their terms and conditions, but the annual membership fee was only £20. The club's Mellow Monday Mix'n'Pick, priced at £49 for single men, was taking place at 7pm that evening 'at a local hotel spa'. The website had guidance on how members should dress, including advice that masques were optional.

By now I was pretty sure Mellow Monday Mix'n'Pick was why Mandy had checked in at the hotel. It seemed she was looking to have some fun that evening and I decided to try and catch her in the act. I didn't want to see my wife shagging strangers, but I did want clear evidence for use in a divorce if that's what she was up to. My plan wouldn't work if she found me sitting in the hotel lobby, so I finished my coffee and went outside to sit in the car.

I got my mobile phone out, called the Bottoms Up Club and spoke to another nice lady, who processed my payment and explained I would have to bring along proof of identity to be admitted to the event. She told me that my personal data would not be revealed to third parties, including other members. Condoms and a range of masques were available for purchase at the event, but I could bring my own if I preferred. The name of the club would not appear on any records of transactions. The supplier name for any purchases would appear as "SJB Services".

I drove back home to do some homework, check Wee Doug was okay and get changed for my encounter with the members of the Bottoms Up Club. I still wasn't absolutely sure I was betting on the right horse until I checked our finances online, including the bank accounts for ABC. Sadly my horse looked like a winner. There were occasional payments to SJB Services over the course of the past year, presumably for Mandy's membership and various events she had attended. I printed off extracts of the bank statements.

When I got back to the hotel that evening I waited until just before 8pm before heading for the hotel spa. An attractive, middle-aged lady in a flowery dress was sitting at a large desk in the reception area of the spa. It turned out she was the lady to whom I had spoken on the telephone. She checked my ID and sold me a masque and some condoms. I had no intention of using the condoms, but I needed to keep up appearances. I must have looked slightly nervous and she sought to offer me some reassurance.

"Just go through to the gym. You're a bit late, so you may have to wait to join in, but I'm sure you'll have a good time. Our members are very sociable and they'll make you feel welcome. If you're not sure about anything, please ask and they will keep you right."

I put on my masque and went through a door and along a passageway, past some changing rooms and into the gym. There must have been around seventy or eighty people in the gym and the organisers had set out to create a warm and welcoming atmosphere. The heating had been turned up and the lighting turned down, no doubt to encourage those present to shed their clothing and inhibitions. Mellow jazz was being piped through the sound system just loud enough to provide background mood music without making conversation difficult.

Just inside the door of the gym there was a table with soft drinks, but the action was elsewhere. I counted eight large mats covered with white sheets that had been placed around the gym hall and there were groups of people clustered around each mat, fully dressed, partly dressed or completely naked, with or without masques. Wearing a jacket and trousers, I was possibly overdressed for the occasion, but I needed to stay that way if I wanted a chance of getting what I needed.

The first group I checked was watching a couple of skinny young women in a sixty nine. They were lookalike bottle blondes with shaved pussies and they were licking and sucking on each other with great enthusiasm. The onlookers murmured their approval, occasionally stroking and fondling themselves or one another.

The next group featured two older couples, with pale blubbery flesh wobbling and glistening as the foursome sought to gain grapple-holds on one another and insert various appendages into receptive openings. It seemed to me nothing more or less than a strange, nightmare vision of sumo wrestling gone very badly wrong.

The third group was where I found my wife, naked and sweating on a mat near the far wall, with two young Asian guys spit-roasting her. She wasn't wearing a masque, but I would have recognised her even if she had been. Mandy has a little tattoo of a turtle just above her left ankle and she squeals and squeaks when she's getting close to climaxing.

There were eight or nine other spectators looking on, watching the action and occasionally commenting or encouraging the three participants. Fully clothed and wearing a masque, I wasn't going to speak or say anything that might betray my presence to her, so there was no chance she would know I was there. I concentrated on surreptitiously recording the action on the video camera of my mobile phone, which I had slid out of the cuff of my jacket into the palm of my right hand. I had signed a privacy agreement to get in, but I wasn't going to let that stop me getting my evidence. Mandy's face would be clearly recognisable, but I could get the faces of third parties blurred out of the video later.

A middle-aged white man, dressed in a black shirt and black chinos was standing next to me. He was enjoying providing some sort of match commentary. I have no idea whether this was intended for the benefit of anyone else, but it seemed like everyone could chip in.

"Banging like a shithouse door in a force nine gale," he said, stating the obvious to no one in particular. There was a pause and then he added, "Just look how she's getting into that rhythm."

"Yeah, she really enjoys taking on two or three people at a time," said a naked woman who looked to be ages with Mandy and was standing cuddled up to a naked man of the same vintage. She looked around at the man in black. "We've been with her a couple of times," she added, apparently bragging to him about her expert knowledge of the subject matter. "I'm sure she'd be happy if you want to join in. She likes anal if you fancy a bit of that, but she won't go bareback, so you'll need a condom."

"Sounds tempting," responded commentator man. "ANALysis is one of my specialities," he quipped.

Part of my mind was screaming in anguish, but I had shut it away in a dark corner. The other part of my mind was clear and focused and had been working on getting evidence, so I was aware there was a very good chance I had managed to record both the graphic images of Mandy in action and the commentary. Whatever the disturbed state of my mind, I had seen enough and I wasn't going to hang around to watch her getting three-holed. The lady at the spa reception area was surprised to see me leaving so soon after I arrived, but I told her I had forgotten something and would be back.

To say I was upset is an understatement. I was trying to come to terms with the cold hard fact that Mandy was fucking a bunch of strangers. She was giving them something I held very precious. Our special relationship had been totally devalued and was basically worthless as a consequence. I was in shock, but as I walked out of the hotel I began to experience physical and mental reactions to what I had just seen and heard. A nauseous, empty feeling gripped my stomach and I could taste bile gathering in my mouth, almost like a reaction to food poisoning. At the same time I experienced an overwhelming sense of sadness so profound that I had to sit in the car for a while before I was able to drive home.

Gradually my mind started building a barrier around the hurt, the sorrow and the grief. It wasn't any easier for me, just because I knew all about the process of managing change in adverse circumstances. I wasn't going to waste time in denial. She was fucking other people. After all, I had seen it with my own eyes. Of course I was angry, but I accepted the inevitability of change and I needed to react, make adjustments as a consequence and take control of the change process to whatever extent was possible.

Sorrow and anger would be my close companions for some time to come, but I decided I would start taking action without delay. I wanted to be ahead of the game and not stuck in a rut, trying to understand the whys and wherefores. By the time I got home I had an idea of how I might start to deal with things, control the changes that were inevitable and work towards outcomes that I wanted and were not imposed upon me. I'd wait and see if I felt the same way in the morning. Festina lente.

In the meantime I took Wee Doug for a short walk, so he could do his business and then I tried to dull the pain in my soul with a couple of drams of Glenfarclas.

*

I slept badly and felt like shit the next morning, but Wee Doug and I were going on a trip. I always think of Cornwall as the toe of England. It's as far south west as you can get and points out into the open Atlantic Ocean. Nowadays much of Cornwall is virtually a retirement home for wealthy old age pensioners from London who have bought up all the little cottages that were once the homes of Cornish fishermen. The hard working fisherman has been replaced by the silver haired and wrinkly Mr and Mrs Beige. Many of these older folk have pet dogs to keep them company and provide some additional incentive to stay healthy by going for a walk every day.

I had considered whether to take Wee Doug to Belgium, but he hadn't been fitted with an electronic chip and he didn't have a pet passport, so that was a non-starter. It was probably just as well he didn't have a chip implant, because he would have been traceable. In any case, Cornwall was actually further away from Surrey than Brussels. It took over five hours to get to Newquay, with a short stop en route for Wee Doug to stretch his legs and dump a load, which I bagged and binned.

The nice lady at the animal refuge was happy to take him off my hands when I told her I had found him wandering the streets of Newquay, with no collar or any other sign of who his owner might be. She had immediately recognised Wee Doug as a Shih Tzu, so I tried telling her my shit zoo joke, but she didn't get it. She reassured me that the dog would readily find a home, even if his owners couldn't be traced, as he was just the sort of little dog that older people are looking for. For my part, I was just glad Wee Doug didn't whine when I left. He simply looked a bit puzzled.

On my way out of Newquay I thought I'd try to find a country pub where I could get a late lunch. When I asked the man behind the till at the petrol station for directions to nice place for lunch, he told me, "You could do worse than the white whores". I must have looked astonished for a few seconds until I deciphered what he had been trying to say.

The White Horse Inn was close by. Soon I was sitting at a table all to myself in a quiet corner of the beer garden, with a ploughman's lunch and a half pint of tasty ale. I checked my mobile for messages and then called Jim Savage.

Jim's a senior partner in a big management consultancy company based in Surrey. Mandy and I have known Jim for a long time, because he's a major competitor of ABC. Jim's a likeable enough character, but he's a bit of a wolf in sheep's clothing when it comes to doing business. Not long after Mandy and I started ABC, Jim tried his best to neutralise us. He offered us well-paid jobs if we closed down ABC and signed up with him. There's little doubt Jim would have employed us, but he would have got rid of us a bit later, whenever it suited him. We didn't take up Jim's offer all those years ago, but we met him from time to time at various business events hosted by the local Chamber of Commerce. Jim was very interested in what I had to say. Despite the short notice he agreed to meet me the next day.

It was early evening by the time I got back to Surrey, so I decided to call Mandy and tell her about Wee Doug. I still felt very angry, but at least I had been able to take some action to assuage that anger. I was confident I would be able to speak to her without telling her what was on my mind. By coincidence, my mobile rang before I could call her.

"Hello, Mandy," I said. "I was just about to call you. I've got some very bad news I'm afraid. Somehow Wee Doug got out of the garden this afternoon. He ran onto the main road and was hit by one of those damned juggernauts."

"Oh my God!" she cried in anguish. "What happened? Is he okay?"

"Sorry, Mandy, I'm afraid he's gone. I didn't see it myself, but a passerby came and got me. She said she saw the dog wriggle under our garden gate and run down the street, but she couldn't stop him. The lorry driver didn't stop. Maybe he had no idea he'd hit a small dog. There was nothing I could do. I've buried him in the back garden."

There was prolonged sobbing on Mandy's end of the line, followed by her mumbling something about her poor Wee Doug. I had actually considered killing the dog, but somehow that seemed a bit much. I mean, you have to draw the line somewhere. I couldn't blame Wee Doug for Mandy's decision to fuck other people. Killing him would have made me a cold-blooded dog murderer. It wasn't like he was a wild animal, like a wild goat for example. Besides, I felt much more satisfaction from knowing Wee Doug was alive and well and living in Cornwall, while Mandy thought he was dead and buried.

I offered Mandy my condolences and suggested we could get a small headstone for Doug's grave. That set her off on another crying bout, so we finished our call. She was obviously grief stricken and there was little doubt she would be crying for a while that evening as she mourned her loss.

*

The next morning I went down to the local butcher's and bought a rabbit, which I bashed thoroughly with a hammer and then buried wrapped in an old hand towel in the garden. In the unlikely event that Mandy ever decided to disinter her pet's caTerryr, I thought a smashed up, decomposing dead rabbit might be a passable stunt double for a smashed up, decomposing dead Shih Tzu. I even put Wee Doug's collar on the rabbit, but I kept his ID tag as a memento for Mandy, just to make sure she had a daily reminder of her loss.

My meeting with Jim Savage went very well that afternoon. After I had explained what I wanted, he told me it was almost certain his company would be willing to do a deal along the lines I was proposing and he would get their corporate lawyer to draft an agreement for me to review as soon as possible.

On the way home I dropped into one of the estate agents in our area and had a chat about what they thought our house would fetch on the market. It sounded like a hell of a lot of money. Mandy and I had talked about what we might do when we retired and our game plan included keeping the house and renting it out. We had discussed this with our daughters and they thought it was a good idea, as long as we didn't sell up. Now I would be making a few changes to the game plan.

I didn't call Mandy that evening, although she was probably expecting me to check how she was coping with the loss of Wee Doug. I thought about it, but I wasn't about to offer any further sympathy. She could deal with it on her own and she would be home late the next day. According to what she had told me, she was somewhere near Manchester, but who knows if that was true? Whatever she was up to and wherever she was, all I know is that I slept a little bit better that night, having exacted a small measure of retribution for the grief she had caused me.

*

I awoke early and briefly wondered where Wee Doug was, before I remembered he was no longer with us. It came as a blessed relief that I would no longer have to feed and water him, take him for walkies and bag up his shit. That fleeting thought was immediately replaced by the returning realisation that I had much more serious shit to shovel.

In England, divorce lawyers are called "family" lawyers. They specialise in family law, which is mainly about divorces and death as far as I can tell. There are plenty to choose from and there's not a lot of difference between them. I didn't want anyone local, so I called and made an appointment with a family lawyer in Dorking. The town's name appealed to my warped sense of humour and it wasn't far away. I got an appointment for that afternoon.

With time to spare I checked the information about personalised registration numbers on the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Authority website, then I visited a jewellery shop and went food shopping before heading for Dorking. In between times I made telephone calls to a couple of business contacts.

My nerves were a bit frayed by the time I got to the family law firm's offices. I had never expected to be in this situation. The receptionist tried her best to put me at ease, fetching me a cup of coffee while I waited. The lawyer was another middle-aged lady who listened attentively to my tale of woe, but cautioned me not to be too hasty. For a brief moment I wondered if she was a swinger, but then I realised she was probably only interested in drawing out the proceedings to earn more money.

In my experience lawyers are an avaricious species and seldom turn away potential clients, irrespective of the circumstances of the individual case. I pointed out to the lawyer that a petition for divorce could still be withdrawn at a later stage. Of course, as far as I was concerned that was highly unlikely and the lawyer probably didn't care one way or the other, but she seemed satisfied that we had discussed the options and she agreed to proceed with submission of a petition for divorce on the grounds of Mandy's adultery.

When I got home I needed to piss, so I went into Mandy's office and pissed in her aquarium. I wasn't absolutely sure what effect all that urine would have on her tropical fish, but I thought it would probably be fatal. When dissolved in water, urea turns into uric acid and breaks down into ammonia, both of which corrode the mucous coating on the gills and scales of fish, leading to suffocation.

The fish might survive until after she got home that evening, but I didn't care. I wasn't willing to kill her dog, but I had few concerns about assassinating some fancy-coloured fish. It did seem weird, particularly as I had spent so much of my time up to now cleaning out the aquarium and feeding the fish. I was committing piscicide and it was a sick and nasty thing to do, but another small act of vengeance had been accomplished and another domestic burden had been removed from my shoulders. I felt a bit sorry for the fish, but I didn't feel sorry for Mandy. She would have other things to worry about soon enough.

When Mandy got home that evening she was off her food. It didn't help that I had decided to make a very spicy beef vindaloo curry. It was one of my favourite recipes, but she couldn't stand it. That was fine by me and it also gave me an excuse to have some of that excellent Scottish craft beer that I like so much. Over dinner I told her about the new contract I had managed to land while she was away. I explained that I would be working up north in Yorkshire for a while and I suppose she assumed it would just be another project, like any of the others I had worked on over the years.

She was still very sad about Wee Doug and she was disappointed when she found out I had to leave for Yorkshire the next morning and wouldn't be back until late on Saturday evening. I didn't want to appear completely heartless, so after dinner I put my arm round her as we sat and watched TV. She quietly cried for Wee Doug and I quietly breathed beer and curry fumes on her. After we went to bed I made sure to let rip with a corker of a fart that was probably heard two streets away and lingered like a decaying badger in a sett savaged by ferrets many months previously. Mandy was disgusted, which suited me.

Fredoberto
Fredoberto
763 Followers