Authors: David McManus
In his own small way, he was trying to do what Jim Murta had done, what the marines had done to that other guy. If he couldn’t fuck my wife, he could at least try and fuck with my head.
I thought of Ashley’s co-workers’ eyes fixed on me as I said hello to Jim fucking Murta.
I thought of what the guy had asked me to say and started whispering it back to myself.
I had popped a boner and started masturbating in the chair. I felt reduced, the guy had wanted me to feel reduced, and there I was jerking off, repeating what he’d had me say to him.
“I’m going to be polite and cordial to the guy who fucked my wife … I’m going to be polite and cordial …” Before I had whispered it ten times, I came.
Two minutes later, I thought,
No way am I fucking going
.
I called Craig the following morning.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” he said. “Ashley told me you’re going.”
“Yeah,” I replied.
I wasn’t about to let on that I was going to pull a last-minute bail.
“Are there going to be a lot of people?” I asked.
“Well, the usual happy hour group. But I heard a sales director will be throwing down his card, which helps turn-out. I think most of my team is going.”
“Sure, I hear you,” I said. “You think Jim Murta will be there?”
That question caused an awkward pause, and I didn’t know how to follow it up.
“Probably,” he finally replied. “I mean, if he’s around, happy hours are kind of his thing, especially if it’s being expensed. But who knows, turnout’s depressed in the summer with people going out of town for the weekend.”
“I got ya.”
“Were you—I mean, are you thinking of saying something to him?”
“To Jim? Oh no, not at all. Everything’s good with Ashley and me. I was just wondering about the scene was all.”
“OK, glad things are good with the two of you.”
I heard some office commotion in the background.
“I won’t keep you, Craig, so I guess I’ll just see you then.”
“Sounds good, Dave.”
I imagined Craig’s IT right-hand guy being nearby.
“Did I hear that correctly?” he might ask, “Dave Martens is gonna show Friday?”
“Yeah, that’s what he said.”
“Does he know his wife’s been the talk of the office?”
“Yeah, I told him the basics.”
“He knows Jim Murta fucked her?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he know what a horned up, horn-dog Murta said she was or how—”
“I spared him the blow-by-blow detail.”
“Does he want to confront Jim about it?” the guy might ask.
“No, I suspect he’s doing it for Ashley. He has to deal with events like this sometime, right?”
“Damn, I guess that’s commendable. But I sure wouldn’t want to be him there.”
Then I thought of the more junior guys on his IT team hearing that I was going—guys I was talking to out on the balcony as Jim Murta was fucking my wife. They had listened to me ramble about the Yankees and give the British guys bluster about American football. They had acted interested and amused at the time. Or perhaps they were merely showing deference to their boss’ friend. Maybe they thought of me as the buzzed, boorish, finance guy—cluelessly bloviating as Murta was going inside my wife.
Had they enjoyed a good laugh when they heard the rumors that Monday? Had these geeks jerked off thinking about my wife—the marketing director at their company—getting fucked by Jim Murta while her buzzed husband droned on to them? There were probably a number of guys at that company who jerked off thinking about taking Ashley like that.
So humiliating to think about.
And suddenly I was hard, just sitting there in my office.
I went to the library at lunch and headed for the men’s room upstairs. No one was there, and I went into a corner stall and sat on the toilet. I pulled my dick out of the fly of my suit.
I knew how crazy it was, but I figured if I didn’t, I’d be thinking about it for the rest of the afternoon.
I imagined hanging again with Craig’s IT team, were I to show. I assumed they’d be friendly again, maybe more so, given the strange “That’s the guy—Ashley’s husband” celebrity status I would have with her co-workers. But I imagined one of them regarding me as that boorish, buzzed guy, yapping away.
I imagined his unspoken thoughts.
How’s that high-horse you were on the night of the party working out for you now, Dave? I hope you’ve developed a taste for humble pie, because that’ll be on your menu when you show up Friday. I hope you’re put in the awkward situation of having to buy a drink for the guy who fucked your wife.
Boy, did Jim Murta do a number on you that night. He humiliated you real good. He not only had you sent upstairs so he could give your wife a proper fucking, but then he topped it off by putting that special cherry on top, busting his nut right inside your wife’s pussy.
And that’s how he finished fucking your wife, Dave, he topped it off with a cherry, by blasting his sperm seed up Ashley’s little puss.
He topped it off with a cherry, Dave, he put that fucking cherry on top.
When I came, it got on my suit. I panicked, reaching for the toilet paper—which left little white flecks on the spot—before trying to wash it off at the sink.
What the fuck is wrong with me
, I thought as I splashed water on my face. I had a 2:30 meeting I had to prepare for.
I thought about what I had imagined the IT guy saying again when I got home that evening.
The “fuck you” was Jim fucking my wife, knowing I was right outside. Putting the cherry on top was when he blasted his sperm inside her.
I started imagining watching in the bathroom as Jim Murta fucked my wife.
“Please don’t top it off, just not inside Ashley, please pull out, cum on her ass, just not in her pussy, just not the cherry, don’t top it off with that humiliating cherry.”
“Oh, but I am so going to top it off Dave,” I imagined Jim replying, “There’s no way now that I’m not cumming inside the woman you love. I’m topping it off, Dave, with a special fuck-you Dave cherry, and your wife’s gonna take it real good. I’m topping it off, oh yeah Dave, here it comes, now take that fucking cherry!”
I came hard.
I’m fucking losing my mind.
Then I thought Jim Murta had thrown another cherry on top when he told everyone about fucking my wife that night.
And now he’d probably relish topping it off again by trying to man-me down at the happy hour.
I thought of the imaginary IT guy saying, “He fucks your wife, and you find yourself in the awkward position of buying him a drink. How’s that for topping it off with another cherry, bitch?”
Waiting for Ashley to return, I brought my laptop out and scattered work papers on our living room couch.
I went down to the bodega and bought two large coffees—dumping them out and leaving the empties beside me. I pretended to have dozed off with the computer in my lap when she came home.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“My boss called. We’ve got a last-minute pitch for next week. I have to get Jeff all the analytics before the weekend.”
“Is that realistic?”
“It’s going to have to be,” I said, “I’ll probably be up for a while tonight.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you stressing about it?”
“Yeah, a little. How was the movie?”
“So-so, kind of cliché and predictable,” she said, “how does tomorrow night look for you now?”
“What?” I said.
“The happy hour.”
“Oh right,” I said, “well I definitely want to be there, but I kind of need to play it by ear. Is it OK if I have to show up later?”
“Yeah, of course, it will be probably go on for a while.”
I fell asleep on the couch after Ashley went to bed.
At 4 a.m. I made my way to our bedroom. I was deliberately clumsy getting into bed. I wanted her to wake up briefly.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Sshh,” I said, whispering, “Just past four. Go back to sleep.”
“Oh my God, Dave, have you been up working all this time?”
“Yeah, it’s OK. Go back to sleep, Ash.”
“How’s the project going?” Ashley asked, when she called after lunch.
“It’s going,” I replied, “but my team’s still pulling data. I think we’ll get there; it’s just a race to the finish.”
“Are you exhausted?”
“I’m hanging in there, been chugging coffee, a little wired on adrenaline.”
“What time do you think you’ll finish?”
“Tough to say, I’m hoping to get out of here by six or seven. How late will the happy hour go?”
“People will probably be there until at least nine.”
“OK,” I said, “I’m just going to have to play it by ear. I’ll call you around six and let you know my status. I’m really sorry about this. Is that OK?”
“Yeah, of course,” she said, “no worries. Do what you have to do, baby.”
By six, the office had cleared out. No one works late on a summer Friday, unless they absolutely have to.
Ashley called to tell me she’d just arrived, and what a beautiful night it was on the bar terrace.
I told her I had just gotten the last data runs back and was going to crank as quickly as possible. “Hopefully, I can be there by eight,” I said. “I’ll call you in an hour.”
“OK,” she said, “good luck, and hang in there. I know the office is the last place you want to be on a beautiful Friday night.”
I had nothing in particular to do, but I decided I’d at least be productive. I did my expense report and started an employee review that wasn’t due for two months.
When I called Ashley just after seven, she sounded a little buzzed. It was noisy, with lots of talking and laughter in the background.
“I’m going to try for nine, Ash,” I said. “I just finished going through all the data, and I’m mad-rushing the second half of the report.”
“I’m so sorry, honey. I miss you. I’ll have a margarita on the rocks, no salt, waiting for you, if you can make it, but I understand if you can’t.”
I was bored, but determined to stay in my office for the duration. On every call to Ashley, I wanted my work number to show up.
This sucks
, I thought, but it was better than being at that happy hour. I had to give credit to the online guy two nights ago. He’d at least made me consider Ashley’s potential perspective on a last-minute bail. Because of him, I had laid down the groundwork the night before. And now I knew for sure she wasn’t embarrassed going alone.
To anyone asking why I hadn’t shown, well, a major project had come up. Her husband has an important job. “I feel bad,” she could say, “he was up until four a.m. last night doing a major pitch.”
No one could say, “Can’t say I was surprised he’d chicken out. That’s how a pussy like Dave Martens rolls.”
I called her at eight and apologized, saying that I still had another couple hours. I told her to say hello to everyone for me, to tell Craig that I was sorry to have missed him.
She said that was too bad, but she would make sure to have a stiff drink waiting for me when I got home.
And she did just that. When I walked in at eleven, she gave me a big kiss and showed genuine sympathy for the extra long day I’d just endured.
I had escaped a very awkward social situation.
I acted disappointed to have missed it and asked who was there. She threw out the usual names like Tamara and Craig and others. Jim Murta’s name never came up.
I felt calm and more relaxed than I had for ages. The guy online the other night was right. My wife was home with me. I had a drink in my hand, my wife beside me, and I had avoided the happy hour. Spending five additional hours where I didn’t want to be—at work—had been worth it.
As I lay in bed, I remembered a
Flintstones
episode I’d seen as a kid. Fred and Barney were in a pickle. A hidden camera show had caught them carousing with dancing girls at the Buffalo Lodge. It was going to air that Saturday night. When they realized their wives were going to see the show, they spent all Friday night lassoing TV antennas off every house in Bedrock. Exhausted as they were at 5 a.m.—having yanked every last antenna—they felt satisfied and relieved.