Surprise!

Try as I might, I could not find the videotape that my wife had literally stolen at gun point from Harry. I'm sure she must have disposed of it in an incinerator somewhere. Neither was I ever able to locate the derringer.

I spent a lot of time analyzing myself that week. What I really found disconcerting was the shocking erection I had during the showing of that tape in Harry's apartment. I wondered why. I didn't know if that made me a freak, a cuckold, or what. It didn't seem normal, but I didn't seem to have any guilt about it. What did that say about me? As best as I could calculate, the tape had to have been made in California when I was either finishing school or developing my company. I'd be the first to admit I spent many hours maintaining good grades and starting the company. But it had been worth it to me. Hadn't it been worth it to Sarah?

The affair itself wasn't the most important thing to me—it was the timing. You see, immediately after I'd graduated with honors, our first child, Elena, was born. If the affair happened nine months before she was born, then whose child was she? On the other hand, he'd called Sarah a mother too, when he'd been calling her names, but I wasn't sure that meant anything. There were no easy answers to my question. I should have casually asked Harry when he'd made the tape while I was at his apartment. However, after what happened, I knew I couldn't go back, because it would look suspicious. No, when the time came, I'd get my answers from Sarah.

Lynn was finished with her meetings on Wednesday, so until she left, we spent our time talking about people we knew from school and rehashing our trials and tribulations. In college, Lynn had dated my best friend, who was now married and had seven children. I was tempted to talk to Lynn about Sarah's adultery, but resisted the urge. Sarah and Lynn had become such fast friends I wasn't sure how Lynn would take the revelation and I wasn't sure I wanted to spoil their friendship. I wasn't sure of much.

During the week, Sarah was pretty busy until five o'clock every evening, but after that we partied with Lynn until Thursday evening when Lynn flew home to her family in Georgia.

When Sarah finished up her meetings on Friday, we check out of our hotel—I think it had bad memories for the both of us. After some discussion, we took the train north to a small town in Connecticut and rented a car there.

We were both tired of the city and needed to relax, so we spent the rest of our vacation at the Maine shore. It was rustic, beautiful, and lively there. We spent a lot of time going through the local shops, lounging on the beach, and walking the pier.

All the time, I kept wondering if our marriage had gone too far off, whether we'd ever get back what we once had, or if I even wanted to go back . . . or forward.

PART SIX

At my office, back on the West Coast, I discover that much of the tape I'd recorded with the pen-cam is unnecessary, so I edit it, cleaning up the visuals. Then I make a copy, which I put in my personal safe since no one has the combination but me. The other copy I take home with me. By the time Sarah gets home that evening, I have the children fed and watching TV. She walks into the dining room just as I'm placing our salads on the table.

She smiles at the romantic setting I've created using our finest china and a candle. Once seated, we enjoy the roast duck in orange sauce I'd picked up from the Chinese deli on the way home. Sarah can't seem to get the smile off her face and during dessert, she asks, "So what is the occasion?"

"It's truth night," I tell her, finishing my dessert.

As I rise to go to the kitchen, she asks, "Truth?" "Yes," I call over my shoulder. In the kitchen, I pour two cups of decaf espresso and then bring it to the table, where my wife still sits with her eyebrows raised in question.

"I don't understand."

"We're going to talk about some things," I say, retaking my seat. "Honesty, children . . . those kinds of things?"

"I still don't understand. What things?"

After gulping down my espresso, I rise, round the table, and stand behind her. "Why don't we go into my study. I can explain better there. The kids are immersed in the TV, so we won't be disturbed." Taking her arm, I guide her out of her seat and lead the way, not minding that she hasn't finished her espresso but at the moment, who cares?

"You are being very mysterious tonight."

Smiling to myself, I can tell she is suspicious and nervous, but also curious. Letting me lead her, we leave the dining room, go through the living room, down the hall, and enter my office, which shares a bathroom with the bedroom beside it. Then, I sit her on the sofa and cross to the TV and VCR.

Turning to her, I say, "My problem, Sara, is that I am no longer sure about myself. Or my life, our marriage, our children . . . or anything."

"But . . ."

I hold up my hand to silence her. "I'm going to show you what has created these uncertainties. Maybe, just maybe, we can work it out after, if we want to."

"If we want too?" she mutters, mostly to herself.

I pick up the remote, walk back, and sit beside her. Taking her hand in mine, I press the play button on the remote with the other.

A few seconds after the tape starts, I see Sarah with her mouth open, staring in shock, then she pulls her hand from mine and lays her hand-covered forehead on the arm of the sofa. I hear her sob, but I have no mercy.

"Please, stop it. Please," she says sitting up. "Come on, Brad, stop it."

When I don't, she screams, "I've already seen the damn thing. I don't want to see it again."

I glance at her. "One of the problems I have is directly related to watching your wanton, illicit, erotic romp on this tape."

She stares and me and shakes her head in confusion and disbelief. As she begins to moan on the tape, I shut it off.

I stand up and pace, getting my thoughts in order, "a major part of my problem is that I get a hard-on watching you get fucked. I don't understand it, but I fear it."

Through her tears she says, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too," I respond, "I think".

She rises and tries to come into my arms, but I resist her.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not quite ready to hug this away just yet."

Sitting back onto the couch with resignation, she stops crying, but doesn't wipe her tearstained face. "What do you want? I confess. You don't know how I've wanted to confess all this time." She swallows as if it's the most difficult thing to do in the world. "Do you want a divorce?"

"I don't know."

Bewilderment in her expression, she asks, "You mean there is a chance that you can forgive me."

"Once again, I don't know. I have some real problems from your escapade. I don't know if we can resolve them or not—or even if I want to."

Straightening up, she looks right at me. "I want to. I love you."

"We'll get to that. What I need from you is the date that this occurred."

"Oh God, Brad, I don't remember. I remember it was hot . . . it was summer."

"What year?" Anger flashes in her eyes. "What the hell difference does it make? The date, the day, the time? We're talking about keeping our marriage together, aren't we?"

"I don't know, Sarah. But this is important to me. It has to do with whether or not one of the children is mine." She is obviously shocked—whether by my asking such a question or because she hadn't thought of the possibility, I don't know.

"Oh, no," she says. "Oh, my God."

"You understand my predicament."

Looking away, then back she says, "Brad, you don't have a problem there. They are both yours. I guarantee it."

"Your guarantees are a far cry from what I need, dammit. You've already proved yourself to be a liar. I need proof. A goddamned date."

"Okay, let me think," she says.

"I would think you'd remember something as important as when you cheated on your husband. This was your only extramarital adventure, wasn't it?"

"Of course it was," she says with a curious mixture of fright, anger, and bold innocence.

"I'm not going to find out later that someone else made a tape of you like this, am I?" I ask, piercing her with an unwavering gaze.

"No!"

"Okay, back to the date."

"It was the year you started the company."

"So, our boy comes into play. Poor Dustin."

"Do you think this is a damned game?"

"Since I'm paying the damned consequences, I think it's a horror."

"All right, I'm sorry," she says, looking at her feet. Is she trying to remember the sequence of events or is she thinking up a lie—at which I suspect she may be getting quite proficient.

After a moment, she looks up, staring at me. "It was July of that first year. I was lonely. You were gone most of the time and I was so lonely for you."

She touches my shoulder and I almost break into tears.

"I stopped with one of the girls for a drink. It was a busy night. I remember Sally, the girl I was with from work, was the first to notice Harry. When she said something, I turned and he was looking at me. Later he came over and asked me to dance."

"Early July or late?" I don't need to hear anymore details.

"Late." Suddenly, something damns in her eyes, "Oh, it was the day before payday. I got paid on the twenty-fifth, so this must have been on the twenty-forth."

"So, on the twenty-fourth of July of the year I started the company, you met this asshole, this freak of nature, danced with him, no doubt rubbing bodies and so forth, and went with him to that hovel in the video?"

Downcast, she replies, "Yes, that's more of less what happened. I made arrangements to meet him at his hotel and I have regretted it every day of my life."

"Sure didn't look like you were regretting it on the tape."

She looks like I slapped her.

"So, if that was late July and Dustin was born the following March--which he was—then Harry didn't impregnate you. You were already pregnant."

"Oh God, how clinical." She looks up at me sadly. "We'll never get over this, will we?"

"I don't know," I say. "It's difficult for me not to be sarcastic. I'm sorry."

"If that's all I have to suffer from you, I think I'll be lucky."

"Well, Dustin was not premature, so he's out of the woods at least."

"Good for Dustin," she says, her head hanging.

I sit beside her, "Now, we get to the major problem—that of me getting an erection when I watch that animal fuck you."

She looks up, "Tell me what I can do and I'll do it," she says, looking concerned, which surprises me somehow.

"I don't know if there's anything you can do to help. It's a psychological problem, I guess." I get up and pace around the room again before coming back to her. I feel my face flush in embarrassment as I admit, "what's strange is . . . I don't even know if I want to solve it. I seem to enjoy it much more than is reasonable."

"You're kidding," she murmurs under her breath. She almost smiles.

"Yes, I keep wondering and wondering how you took that huge monster inside your mouth, inside you—especially in your ass."

"Brad, this is disgusting. You have to do something about it."

"Yes, I know." I get up and start pacing again.

Eventually, I turn back to her.

"There is one thing I've gained from this experience."

"What's that?"

"I've always been curious about anal."

She smiles sheepishly, "yes, I know that."

"But," I continue, "since I've never tried it, I wouldn't have known how to do it—how to start, how to talk a woman into it, how to get her ready. Now it seems I have a training tape."

She stared at me with a funny look on her face. "You want to do anal?"

"I think so," I respond.

"With me?"

"Definitely you." A small smile forms on her face, and it grows. "Well, Brad, to be honest with yoiu, lately I've often thought about trying anal with you. I didn't know how you'd react if I brought it up."

"Really?" I appraise my wife anew, "and I'd like you to wear sexier clothing when we go out, and sometimes go without underwear, and sometimes even flash a man or two, here or there."

"Yes, I can do all that for you, Brad. I'll enjoy pleasing you in everyway. I can't wait!"

Her smile is getting bigger, lighting up her face, causing the dried tear tracks to reflect the floor lamp's light. "And now, with your training tape, you know how to do it, right?"

I can feel a smile spreading across my face. "Right."

"Brad, honey, let's get the kids to bed, we have some rehersing to do," Sarah says, pinching my ass on her way out of the room.

FINIS

P.S. I know you must be wondering about our marriage. Sarah and I worked it out.

Please vote. All emails will be read, considered, and responded to.