Vegas Key Party

As the elevator comes up to the twenty-fifth floor, slows, and I wait for the door to open, the last of them, Harv, I think, slaps me on the back as if we're new best friends and says, "Ok, now. Give 'er!" He laughs at this, too long and too loud, and looks into my face waiting for me to laugh along with him. If I don't laugh, I fear he's going to say it again, he's that kind of guy. The elevator door can't open fast enough.

Give 'er. Give 'er. Give her. Give her... away. To this guy, Harv? It would hard to swallow, if that's who she ends up with tonight. But I stop, stop and talk to myself. She's my wife. My wife, not my possession, free to do what she wants, or so my head says. But I'm wondering if she and I, if the whole thing is finished, because she sure needs more than what I can, uh... give her. That's the essence, I think. All I need to do is to convince my heart.

I need to be by myself. I need time to think, but I'm not going to get it. Another fifteen minutes and the hard part begins.

So I can't bring myself to give Harv the laugh that he seems to want so badly. All I can muster is a fake, shit grin. At first it looks like he's bought it. At long last the elevator door opens. He steps out into the hallway and turns right. But then, when I can't see him anymore I hear a quiet, "Asshole." Now, I can laugh at that. When an asshole calls you an asshole, that's a good thing. The elevator doors close and, finally, I'm alone on my way up to our - my? - suite on the thirty-third floor. Suddenly, I picture Beth still down in the Chandelier Lounge, taking the marker from the woman beside her and writing 3327 on the back of her room key, putting the key back in its folder and dropping it into the bowl.

Harv was one of the worst downstairs at the Chandelier, leering eagerly at the five women, six counting his own wife. He was practically licking his lips, alternately sitting back trying to be cool but then, unable to stop, propelling himself back up to the front of the couch in full man spread.

I could almost see inside his head. Would it be her? Definitely fuckable. Her? Immensely fuckable. Jesus, what if it's her? I'll have died and gone to Heaven. Even her. Could lose five pounds, but still pretty damned fuckable. Every time his eyes fixed on Beth's breasts I wanted to launch myself off the couch and take him out.

Beth. My Beth.

And there's the problem. I've got to stop thinking of her that way, My Beth. I tell myself that that's another era's concept of marriage, not mine. It's out of date these days, especially for the two of us now, but it's vestigial in my mind, deeply rooted from my upbringing. My head tries to convince me. My wife, yes, but not my possession. It's about two independent people, isn't it, two people, partners in life? Me with her, she with me. That's marriage isn't it? We had just worked through a lot of this, hadn't we? All those long nights of talking it out? Renegotiating faithfulness? Levelling the field? It was how we ended up here.

Harv wasn't the only one to leer. All five of the guys were doing the same, not just at Beth, but at all the women. In about half an hour one of these women would be unlocking the door of my room expecting to be fucked. I looked at them, primping and preening, fluttering their eyelashes, tossing their hair, tracing their fingers at their necklines, sticking out their chests and crossing their legs, every cliché of flirtation. I wondered whether I'd be able to go through with it with any of them.

Any of them but one, the one named Galina. A stark contrast to the other women in their too-tight clothes, plunging necklines and short skirts, she was dressed elegantly, as if her lace dress were her armour against the trashy mendacity of Las Vegas. The dress an understated classic, an ivory sheath with a high collar, sleeveless, it fit her well. Her jewellery was gold, subtle, small dangling earrings, a thin chain at her neck, another at her wrist. Oddly, she wore no rings.

Not reclining, she sat upright on the couch opposite me with her legs crossed and her hands quietly folded at her knee, as if she were bored and waiting for this nonsense to be over so that she could move on.

She wore her blonde hair clipped up in the back. But more than anything, it was her face that caught my notice. She had a simple, authentic beauty, the kind of beauty that came naturally, a beauty that needed no effort because it simply was part of her.

As my gaze had come to her I saw that she had been looking at me first. The briefest moment of eye to eye contact, intense, a connection made, then suddenly, the slightest tilting of her head, knitting of her brow, the most subtle expression, but unmistakable. Puzzlement. It passed quickly and our gaze held. I felt as if she were reading something off the back of my skull. Unable to bear the intensity, I looked away.

What the fuck am I doing here? Why did I agree to this? I wonder if Galina feels the same way.

~

The contract signed, I'd caught an earlier flight home. My bag was the first onto the carousel so I was out of the terminal, hailing a cab before the stores would close. I remember thinking, I'd make a couple of quick stops, for some champagne and roses, something to surprise her with, to celebrate, before going into the apartment.

I know her sounds, the sighs that turn into soft moans, the shuddering breaths and, when she's getting close, the urgent little chirps, the last one cut short almost like a hiccup. And finally, just before she comes, the long, gathering silence, one, two, three seconds before she releases the great, guttural grunt as if she's giving birth to her orgasm and she completely vanishes from the world and the whole universe becomes her convulsing pussy.

I heard it start as I quietly came in the door, recognizing it before I could even call out her name. And by the time I stood silently in the bedroom door, she had disappeared inside her orgasm, slouched in the bedroom chair, legs spread wide and the splayed fingers of both hands pulling the guy's shaved head hard onto her pussy.

Unnoticed, I didn't confront them. I retreated to the kitchen, quietly set down the champagne and flowers, took a seat at the island and waited and listened while he took his turn.

He came out first, naked, his limp cock still glistening and swinging like a rope, and when he saw me, he put his arm out protectively to stop her.

"What?" she said, laughing, but then she saw me. Shock registered on her face but she quickly composed herself.

"How long have you been here?"

I didn't need to answer.

"You should have called."

Or maybe you should have been faithful, I thought.

~

The pain is palpable. It's a tornadic explosion of thoughts and emotions. A desire to kick the living shit out of the guy and throw him out into the hall naked and bleeding. An urge to scream and yell and throw things.

Then come the questions that swirl inside your head. How long? When did it start? Is he the only one? Are there others?

And when you calm down a bit, the word why, why, why clanging loudly around inside your skull like rocks in a cast iron cauldron.

Finally, and most painfully, the dreaded possibility settles into your mind: is it me?

You make a choice. You can end it right then, right there, or you can wait, wait until you can sort some things out, wait until the pain subsides enough that you can even look her in the eye and talk.

For me, shocked and damaged as I was, the love was strong enough for me to wait.

All I could muster was, "I'll be... I need... couple days."

Her whole body slumped. I picked up my bag again and headed for the door.

~

They say it's fifteen to twenty percent who cheat. I think about Mom and Dad, their friends. So take any three couples in their circle? Somebody probably cheated, maybe with each other. I didn't like thinking about it, imagining Mr. Jaworski or Mrs. Jeffries, or worse Mom or Dad, but the truth is that probably somebody cheated, and this gave me some momentum for thinking about Beth and me.

Breaking the ice, going back into the apartment after another couple of nights in a hotel, was hard. What was there to say? And when her tears came, the wet, gushing apology, my wounded heart couldn't help but feel for her.

She came in for a hug and I allowed it, couldn't refuse her that, but it was different now that I knew she'd been so dishonestly in another man's arms. The connection was impaired, perhaps irretrievably.

Over a few days and nights we got drunk a lot and talked, me, the analytical one, trying to understand the marriage concept, to reinterpret it in context for the two of us, to define the multiple dimensions of it, and, most importantly to figure out what, if anything, was worth preserving.

On the fifth night after I came back she reached for me in the dark. I had thought we had made some progress, but surprisingly, my hurt and anger sparked up again in a hot flash. In my hysterical mind I imagined a punishing fuck, hard and painful for her, all for me and none of it for her. But that way would be more like her way, not mine.

"Beth... I can't... not yet." Maybe not ever, I thought.

I rolled away and knew that both of us would lie there awake for a long time.

~

Watching the numbers climb in the elevator as the thirty-third floor approached, my mind fills with the growing reality that it has been a complete mismatch, she and I. And a series of mistakes, everything, from my first sight of her in the office, entering the meeting room and noticing her from behind. That first glimpse, my eyes drawn to her shape, seeing how her skirt fit her so well, neither too tight nor too loose, how it framed her ass and waist, her hair shining, cascading over her shoulders, her posture, her aura. How I knew, even from behind, that her face would be beautiful, that she would be smart, good at what she does, funny and bright. How I knew in that instant that this stranger and I would be together, that I needed us to be together.

And it was sealed when she turned around and introductions were made. Her two short strides toward me -- was that a slight limp? -- her hand extended. Taking her hand and holding it, neither of us letting go, a handshake that became suddenly intimate, intimate and enduring, something more. Her crooked smile, the little twist in her upper lip, not a sneer, maybe a scar, but all I knew was that the smile was for me. And then, when we let go our hands, how she stepped back a pace and right there in the meeting room with others gathered around, she struck a kind of a pose, too alluring for a meeting room full of colleagues, her one shoulder dropping to curve her spine, her hip thrust out to the side and her feet apart to stretch her skirt. And then, as she looked at me again, how she gave me a quick head to toe scan, and then, something else in that crooked smile.

That was the first mistake, falling for her so fast and so completely, knowing so little about her. But God doesn't make fools, pretty girls do. Mine was a mistake of judgement, being so smitten by her that I lost touch with myself, ignoring the lingering doubt that maybe, just maybe, I was about to get into the cage with the tigress.

I learned very quickly about her appetites. How many nights after fucking did she wake me an hour later for more? How many times did I catch her jilling off in bed beside me, trying to muffle her sounds. How many times did she come after me in the shower? Reach for me when we were alone in the elevator, or in the car, practically anywhere.

I remember our first date at the restaurant not a week after we met, me worrying about whether an office romance was a good idea. Walking in I had scanned the other tables to make sure there were no colleagues around to see us, and took another quick glance around once we were seated in the banquette.

The server came to take our drink order and as soon as he had turned away from us she slid over, pressed herself against me with smile. Then she turned her face away from me, as if absently looking toward the front of the room, and placed her hand on the front of my pants. My first reaction was to grab her wrist and take her hand away but she resisted, as if this was something she had done before and was used to. I let go her arm and looked up to see her face. But she was looking away, and all I could see was a hint of her bemused smile from the side, and her hand began to search, first to the left and then to the right, looking to find my cock and once she had found it, testing its length with a practiced hand, turning her eyes toward mine, boring her eyes fiercely into mine with that crooked grin of hers but now determined and wicked as she began to caress me until I got hard.

"Stop." Staring into my eyes she shook her head, no.

"Stop...STOP!" Again, no.

I tried a different tack. "Okay...okay... but later." I almost said that I'd promise to eat fast. She continued to stroke me and I started to worry about making a mess in my pants.

"You better stop," I said, unable to hide the growing desperation.

"Why? You a one shot?" As if this, this were the appetizer to a main course that would come later. Full of mischief, still stroking.

I nodded quickly. It was the truth.

"Well, okay, then. Later." She took her hand away, raised it to the side of my face and drew me in for a deep, lingering kiss.

~

The elevator display shows thirty... thirty-one... thirty two... thirty three. The doors open and I step out into the hall. In my mind I relive our first fight about it, how she couldn't get enough, how I couldn't give her enough.

We'd fucked in the bedroom for a good two hours on a Sunday afternoon, lazily at first but then hard, hot and sweaty. She was insatiable. I needed to stop, or at least to take a break.

I rolled off the bed and stood there looking at her. Her hand snaked under the sheet and it began to move as her fingers worked her pussy some more.

"You'd fuck all day if you could," I said with a smile.

"No, I'd fuck all day if you could." That crooked grin.

"Gonna take a shower," and I headed to the bathroom.

"Want company?"

"Looks like you're busy. Carry on," I said. Silence.

I came out of the shower and as I was towelling off I heard her through the door, the last little chirp, the long pause and the guttural roar as she came again. What was that? Five? Six? And how many while I was in the shower?

Her hand was still moving when I came out into the bedroom.

"Still going?"

"Really horny today," she said, and then she turned her face away from me and got back into herself. Unbelievable.

I threw on a bathrobe, went out into the living room and started to watch football on the television.

"Babe," she called from the bedroom.

"Yuh?"

"Come and fuck some more."

A pause. This will not go well. "I'm watching the game."

"But I need your cock."

I was annoyed, tired and already more than satisfied, not sure I could get it up again.

"I don't think I can," I said, "Give me some time. A week should do it." Trying to make light. I heard her snort of derision and turned my attention back to the game.

In a minute, making a big show of it, she came stomping out of the bedroom. She was naked and in her hand was her large, purple jelly dildo. Like a petulant child that hasn't got her way she made a big production of plopping herself in the chair beside the television so I couldn't help but see. She pulled her knees up so that her heels were on the edge of the chair and, looking me straight in the eye with anger, plunged the dildo balls deep into her pussy.

I stared back, expressionless. She began to slam the dildo into herself, slow at first, but getting faster and harder. I held her eyes, determined not to get sucked in. A minute went by with her destroying her pussy, but there came a time when her arousal built and she flinched, a little wince on her face, a twitch of her mouth, and then she couldn't return my stare. Her eyes glazed over, blinked, blinked, and closed as she approached her orgasm.

I thought it would be over then. She opened her eyes and when her breathing returned to normal she said, "Come on. Fuck me one more time."

That's when I knew she -- and we -- had a problem.

"Beth. I think you need help."

"So help me then. Fuck me," she said.

Not what I meant.

~

Walking down the hotel hallway toward my room, I root the key out of my wallet. Arriving at the door I swipe it, hear the quiet click. I enter the room. The lights are off, but the blazing neon from The Strip thirty-three floors below illuminates the room well enough.

The next time a key swipes the lock, I think, it will be one of the women from downstairs. I'm still not sure how I am going to handle it. Will I let her in and go through with it, or will I just send her away? But I can't just send her away. I'm not cruel. She'd be hurt, rejected. I'd feel remorse. And besides, where could she go? Her husband would be getting busy with another woman -- maybe Beth -- in her own room.

I will have to be more kind. "It's not you, it's me," I think, but that is so lame. I'll need to get her out of the room at least, maybe take her back down to the Chandelier Lounge for another drink. I don't know.

I take a seat by the window to think it through some more. I have another ten minutes or so, I imagine.

Staring out on dazzling lights of The Strip, all I can see is the mendacity of Vegas, the fake Eiffel Tower, the fake pyramid, everything fake. My mind is poisoned by the basic dishonesty of the place and becomes filled with other thoughts. Why am I here? Why did I agree to this? It's just another in a long series of mistakes.

I drift back to the third night after I came back to the apartment. We got really drunk still trying to talk it out. In my haze, my filter broken by bourbon, with my hurt dripping from my words, I blurted out the big question, "But Beth...why?"

She answered without a pause, as if she'd already asked herself the same question.

"Because I love cock," she said and then it all came out, how she loved to hold cocks in her hands, her mouth, to rub them over her face, her lips, her tongue. How she craved cock, a variety of cock, how lowering a man's pants was as exciting as when she was a little child opening Christmas presents. Would it be hard or soft, long, short, thick, cut or uncut?

And she spoke about how powerful she felt when she possessed a man's cock. Kneeling in front of him, feeling him harden in her hand, licking, teasing, and then taking him deep into her mouth, what sound would he make? A moan? A long sigh? Would his knees buckle a little? And how, when she took his cock into her pussy, when she surrounded him, enveloped him, when she had all of him then, how he might think he had all the power thrusting into her, but he would be wrong. It was really she who had power over him, causing him to buck and thrust, she who was making him lose control, she who caused his total capitulation to her pussy and her body.

It was more than I could stand. I put my head in my hands and began to cry. In a moment she laid her hand gently on my shoulder.

"I know I...," she started and then seemed to be searching for the right words.

"I know you and I have different..." She stopped again.

"We're different...our needs...I've always...," she said.

I looked at her, miserable. "Always?"

"Well yes, after the first time, yes, always." And then she told me about the motorcycle accident when she was fifteen, the broken leg, the brain injury. The slight limp. The scar on her lip and the crooked smile. Brain injury, I thought, wasn't that a thing with nymphomania, something I read about one time? She told me about the long recovery, two years, meeting her physiotherapist's younger brother and how he became her first.