The curtain calls I occasionally use in my stories are my way of showing appreciation to others for various courtesies, which sometimes include an astute critique that I use for improvement.
William Shakespeare once wrote, "The pen is mightier than the sword."
As someone who once faced a sword-bearing warrior while a member of the Special Forces, I can tell you I greatly disagreed with Mr. Shakespeare at that moment. Fortunately for me at the time, I also held a sword in my hand, or else I wouldn't be here today writing this.
So I was one up on The Bard when life jumped in and handed Mr. Shakespeare a cheap win.
The fountain pen was invented in 1827, in France. The first ballpoint pen patent came 61 years later, in 1888.
Throughout the latter half of the 20th century and into the 21st century, pens have been used to great success as simple marketing tools. Even in this day and age where cellphones rule, many companies still put their names on pens to get their message out.
And those pens travel. A salesman hands a customer a pen. He later gives it to one of his kids. That kid takes it to school and loses it, where it's found by a teacher who puts in his pocket. Three weeks later that same pen is three states away, tucked behind the ear of a delivery man.
As I relate this, I have four pens with company names on them in my pen cup. You get the idea.
So it wasn't exactly a surprise that when I asked my wife for a pen at a dinner the other night, after discovering mine was out of ink, that she handed me a pen with a company name on it. As one of my responsibilities at the bank I work at is marketing, I always look at the names on pens, letterheads, etc., so I noticed the pen was from The Waltham, a hotel on the other side of town from where we lived in a large Midwestern city. I quickly made a note on the back of one of my business cards, put the note in my pocket and handed the pen back to my wife. Unlike a lot of people, I always return pens when they are loaned to me. Just one of my quirks.
We were sitting with two other couples at one of the nicer restaurants in town when I just had to write down a "note to self." Yeah, I know most people leave themselves an email on their phone, but another one of my quirks is that I prefer the old-fashioned method of writing a note. It seems to stick better with me.
Drink was flowing, the food was great, the conversation was light and jovial, but then I got a brain itch. While I'm fully aware that pens travel, it just struck me as funny that my wife would have a pen from The Waltham. The Waltham was a mid-level hotel clear across town, and I couldn't for the life of me imagine Traci running into anyone who stayed at The Waltham recently.
I make very good money and Traci only worked part time in a corporate law office. I know she was active with several groups in town, so it was improbable, but not impossible, that she could have gotten it at work or from one of the people in the historical society or the English Literature Society. I always thought those people were a little stuffy, though, and would probably consider The Waltham well below their standards.
The next morning when I was getting ready for work, as I stuck the card with my note to self on it in my shirt pocket, I remembered the pen. Just out of curiosity, I grabbed Traci's phone off her bureau and went to look at her calendar. It's highly unusual for me to touch her phone at all, but I figured a peek at her calendar wouldn't hurt anything and would clear up this pen thing in my mind. She was still asleep and would be for another hour, so there was no sense waking her to ask what I thought was a simple question.
To my complete surprise, Traci's phone was locked. I didn't believe it at first, so I actually tried it three times before it hit me. While I don't touch her phone very often, I have used it on occasion, and it's never been locked before. This was a new wrinkle.
Now that the challenge was thrown down, I accepted it. I thought for a few seconds of all the passwords she would probably use, and punched several in unsuccessfully. Then I punched in several more unsuccessfully. It wasn't until I entered in our younger daughter's Social Security number that I was able to unlock the phone, and by that point I was mad and losing my cool. So instead of going to her calendar, I went to her messages and started to scroll down. At this point, it was "fuck her privacy." I was going to open anything that didn't look familiar to me. The sixth contact down wasn't listed by name, just by initials: RJ. Bingo!
There were about a dozen exchanges discussing what only an idiot wouldn't assume was an affair. The last discussed a meeting this Thursday afternoon, again at The Waltham. Ah shit! Fucking Shakespeare just tied the game at one.
With trembling hands, I put Traci's phone back where I found it, and headed off to my job in a daze. Hard to believe that 27 years of marriage could be gone just like that.
At 50, the same age as me, Traci is still a beautiful woman. She has long blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, and at 5-7, 130 is only about 10 pounds heavier than when I first married her at 23. Her 38DDs are still a thing of beauty, even after breastfeeding all three of our children.
And thinking of the children, how was I going to tell them if my suspicions were confirmed? The girls at least are both out of the house at 25 and 23, and the youngest child, our son, 21, still lives with us when he's not at Michigan State. Traci's been a great mother, I have to admit, and this will probably be an ever bigger shock to them than it is to me.
I worked like a zombie the whole day. At 4:30, I went in to the bank president's office and asked for Thursday off for a personal day. I'd worked with and for H. Dave Knight for 17 years, since I got out of the service, and he could tell by my face that something big was wrong. He walked around from his desk and closed the door before returning to his seat behind his desk.
"What's wrong, Allie?" he asked, calling me by the nickname that my close friends and relatives used for me.
I debated for a second how much I was going to tell him, before I got choked up and started to cry in his office. Nobody -- and I mean nobody -- had seen me cry since I was about 6 years old and I broke my arm falling out of a tree. I tore up a knee playing football in high school, I took a couple of bullets and a knife on assignments in the Special Forces. Never cried. And there I sat blubbering like an idiot.
I told him what I found and all of my suspicions. As I talked, I started getting angry, and animated. H-Dave, as I called him in good humor, knew of my background, and started getting a worried look on his face.
"Allie, you need to calm down and think this through," he said. "Don't go doing something stupid and maybe wind up in jail. If this turns out to be what you think it is, don't ruin your life over this. You've faced much tougher situations before in your life than this."
"That's true, H-Dave, but I always had a clear objective. She's ripping my heart out. And it wouldn't be that difficult to make both of them disappear."
"Jesus, Allie! You can't be talking like that to anyone else! If either one of them gets a hangnail, guess who winds up in prison?"
"I know you're right, H-Dave, but I still need to take Thursday off to confirm my suspicions."
"First promise me on the lives of your three children that you won't do anything to harm either one of them."
H-Dave knew me well. He knew I would never make a promise on the lives of my children that I didn't intend to keep. I agreed.
My mind was going in a hundred different directions while I was driving home. I knew I needed to look at Traci's phone again to see if I could get a timeline on how long the affair was going on. I racked my brain for anything she might have said or done that might have given me a hint about what she was doing. After slowing everything down in my mind and carefully looking at the last few months, I had to tip my hat to Traci: she was one stone cold bitch. She never even gave me a clue. So now I had to be careful to return the favor and not tip her off to my suspicions.
Traci was her usual self that night, and the next night, Wednesday, was more than up for our usual Wednesday night romp in the sack. I carefully but discreetly cupped her pussy to see if she was trying to slip me seconds, but while she was wet as usual, it wasn't excessive and there were no other secretions that I could see.
Traci and I usually had sex three times a week. Depending upon our mood, sometimes we made love, sometimes we fucked. I made sure to always bring her to multiple orgasms with my hands and tongue as well, so I have to admit to being at a complete loss as to what I was doing wrong, and I have to admit, it just didn't make sense to me that she would just turn slut on me after so long.
It was difficult, to say the least, to feign interest when Traci started getting amorous Wednesday night. For the first time ever, I faked it with Traci at the beginning, but then anger took over and became my ally. I really laid it to her, probably as rough as I ever had, and yet she seemed to really like it and came multiple times before I finally shot my load inside of her.
Traci worked a half-day on Thursday, then went to the gym -- at least that's what she always told me. I got up my usual work time but didn't get into my usual business attire. Since she was still asleep, she wouldn't have any idea of what I was wearing and why. Before I left the house, though, I made sure to take her phone off the bureau again, and this time I knew exactly what to look for. The messages with RJ started about nine months ago, I ascertained. I put her phone back exactly where she kept it, grabbed my gym bag, then left the house.
Even though I knew she wouldn't be looking for me and my car, I still took no chances. After eating a good breakfast at the neighborhood IHOP, I went over to a Budget rental place and rented something nondescript. I then picked up a newspaper and read it before heading to the gym for a good, but certainly not strenuous, workout. I then changed back into my jeans and sweatshirt and headed over to The Waltham, parking where I could see the entrance and yet still be inconspicuous.
The message on Traci's phone had the "meeting" with RJ at 1. At 12:50, Traci's car pulled into the parking lot. She was wearing her work clothes, which today was a tasteful burgundy suit with a skirt that went to just above her knees. With her white blouse showing from inside of her jacket, she looked every bit professional, tasteful, and classy. She got out of her car, took a look around the lot and went inside.
Five minutes later, RJ arrived. Turned out to be Robert John Hall, the attorney son-in-law of Mark Templeton, the first name in the firm of Templeton, Oates and Scripner, attorneys-at-law. Shit, not only is Traci cheating on me, but she's fucking the boss's son-in-law!
RJ, as everyone called him, was a New York University-trained attorney who joined his father-in-law's firm about four years ago. He's 32, handsome and well-built, with short light-brown hair and brown eyes. He and his wife, the boss's daughter, Jasmine, have three little ones.
I've met Jasmine a few times through the years, and while my wife is a beautiful woman, Jasmine is probably her equal in looks, although her tits are noticeably smaller. But still, I'm not sure why RJ would even consider stepping out on something that looks as good as Jasmine, who's about 5-2, 110 pounds, with long dark hair and twinkling blue eyes. Unless the woman is a total bitch to live with, she's a total babe from where I'm standing.
I couldn't image Jasmine sitting still for this liaison, when I decide to tell her. Better yet, I can't imagine Daddy sitting still for it. They'll both be looking for new jobs when this gets out.
But first things first. I waited about 30 minutes before heading into the hotel. I asked the desk clerk in which room Robert Hall was registered. He couldn't find the name in the registry, so I asked if he had a room registered to Traci Sanford. As a matter of fact, he did. I asked him for a key to the room since I was her husband.
"I-I-I don't think I can do that, sir, without calling Mrs. Sanford first and confirming," he said as sweat suddenly formed on his upper lip.
I pulled out my wallet and showed him my driver's license: Allister Sanford.
"But unless you have your wedding license with you, I have to confirm with Mrs. Sanford," he insisted.
Next I pulled out my Sig Sauer 320 from my waistband holster.
"Richard," I said slowly as I read his nametag. "You've got five seconds to hand me the room key before I take my gun butt and pop you upside your left temple."
He slowly reached for and handed me the electronic key.
"Now wait two minutes before you call the cops," I said. "If the cops get here any sooner than five minutes, I will come back here and shoot your ass when I get out of jail."
When I got up to the room, I could hear the pair going hard at it. I listened to the unintelligible grunting and moaning for about 30 seconds before slipping the key card in and quietly opening the door.
RJ was on his knees facing away from the door, doing Traci doggy. He was pulling back almost all the way out and slamming back into her, making her moan each time he drove forward. She was also facing away from the door, and I was able to pull out my iPhone and snap several photos for evidence. When I put the phone away, I again pulled out my Sig.
"Pardon me, but I seem to have misplaced my wife," I said in a voice a little louder than the grunting going on. "Oh, look, there she is, at the end of your dick."
The pair almost dislocated their necks as they twisted their heads at the sound of my voice. RJ came to an immediate stop, and Traci quickly crawled forward off of his dick.
I stood there pointing the 9 mil at RJ. I'm sure I was smirking. Both of them looked at me with deer in the headlights looks on their faces.
"It's not what it looks like, Allie," RJ said while Traci curled up into a small ball.
"Really, RJ?" I queried. "I expected so much more from an attorney. Aren't you guys supposed to be good under pressure?
"This is exactly what it looks like. You're fucking my wife -- at least were fucking her until I interrupted. The way you've been doing for the last several months."
I looked down at RJ's dangling cock, which appeared to be shrinking at a rapid rate.
"Jesus, Traci, if you were going to cheat on me, couldn't you at least have done it with a guy with a big dick, instead of a guy who is a big dick?"
Traci just sat there curled up, making small choking noises. I don't know if she told RJ about my 10 years in the military, but she knew what I did, and what I was probably capable of doing to both of them.
"Stand up," I said to RJ as I walked over toward the bed.
He slid off of the bed and stood facing me, with his hands in a surrender position in front of his chest. I transferred the gun to my left hand, and in the blink of an eye lashed out with a straight right that caught him square in the nose. His face exploded in blood with an awful crack and he fell back on the bed, out cold.
I heard the sirens pulling up in front of the hotel. I looked at Traci, who looked like a frightened little girl.
"You need to be gone from the house when I get out of jail tomorrow. I will get my stuff out and you can come back and live there until we sell the house in the divorce. I've already split our financials down the middle and taken my name off everything we owned jointly, including the credit cards. You car is bought and paid for, and so is my truck. We each keep those.
"You will be served as soon as possible.
"Got to run. See you."
I walked out of the room, went down to the lobby and turned myself in to the four cops who watched me with guns drawn. I made sure not to give the nervous young guys any reason to shoot me accidentally.
I called H-Dave and asked him to bail me out in the morning. They booked me on battery charges for laying out RJ. H-Dave said he could hurry up and get me bailed out yet today, but I told him that I probably needed to spend a night in jail so Traci could be clear of the house when I got home.
"Well, I suppose it could be worse," H-Dave said to me. "I can probably smooth this over with the board much easier than if you had shot the bastard."
After I got out of jail, I rented one of those storage spaces and got most everything I wanted out of my house. I found a cheap motel and settled in, figuring I could get a more permanent place once I found out if I was going to have to serve any time in jail on the battery charge. I guessed I would need an attorney for that in addition to one to handle the divorce, when out of the blue I got a fortuitous phone call: seems that H-Dave was a friend of Mark Templeton; yep, the very same Mark Templeton whose daughter was being cheated on by RJ Hall.
According to my new attorney, RJ called in sick on Friday and did not tell anyone about his run-in with me. Templeton only found out when H-Dave took the initiative to call and explain my side of the equation to his attorney friend. Templeton said he'd be glad to handle both cases, although he hadn't done a divorce in several years, and told H-Dave that both RJ and my wife wouldn't have jobs come Monday morning.
I didn't hear a word from Traci until Sunday morning, when she invited me over to my own house to talk about "our problem."
"I didn't realize 'we' had a problem," I responded. "I didn't break my marriage vows. Only you have a problem."
I hung up.
Two minutes later, a tearful Traci was back on the line.
"OK, I have a problem," she sobbed. "But can't we talk about this like reasonable people? I screwed up. But I still love you and I don't want to get a divorce."
"Maybe you should have thought about that months ago," I replied. "Maybe we could have fixed things before you decided to make RJ a regular thing. What did I do to deserve that?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone for an eternity ... actually about 10 seconds.
"You didn't do a thing, Allie. It's all on me. I was taken by the attention a handsome, young man gave me. At first it was just innocent flirting, then some touching, and a few lunches. I knew it was wrong. And then we started having sex, and while I felt guilty at first, I rationalized that away by thinking that if I gave you all the sex you wanted, I wasn't taking anything away from you, especially if you never found out. I never denied you sex any time you wanted it, and I never gave you sloppy seconds. I made sure I was always clean for you.
"It truly was just sex. There was no emotional attachment. We were just two friends who enjoyed each other's bodies. I suppose it was somewhat exciting because it was illicit, and it was exciting because it was the first time in almost 30 years that I had another man take me. But we never shared the intimacy that you and I share ...
"Shared," I corrected curtly. "You forfeited that intimacy when I found out you were cheating. You gave up us when you added him."
"Don't be like this, Allie. We can work on this. We can be us again. I'll go to counseling. We can both go to counseling."
"What the hell do I need counseling for?" I snapped. "I didn't cheat. You mean I need counseling so I can learn to live with what you have done?"
She flinched at my statement. I got up and left.
On Monday, Templeton fired both Traci and his son-in-law. I heard from H-Dave later that Jasmine also threw RJ out of their house.
Although H-Dave was in my ear constantly about not being stupid and trying to get revenge, I was still considering those options when the police showed up at the bank about a month later. Seems that someone with martial arts skills had kicked the shit out of Traci after she left a movie theater by herself one evening. Whoever it was must have been pretty good and/or pretty angry, too, because they knocked out most of her front teeth and gave her a concussion. So naturally they came to me first.
I shrugged my innocence to H-Dave as the police led me out of the bank. I knew he would call Templeton for me.
I didn't say a word to the police until Templeton got to the station about 30 minutes later. I really didn't have an alibi because I was sitting at home watching TV in my apartment by myself. Then I remembered I was texting with my son for a while at about the same time Traci was getting hammered. Templeton persuaded the cops to turn me loose, and I called H-Dave immediately and told him I would be back as soon as I visited Traci in the hospital. After all, she was still my wife -- for the time being -- and you just don't turn your back on somebody after 27 years of marriage -- at least I didn't.
Hospital security wasn't sure about letting me in to emergency until they called the local police station. Then I got escorted to Traci's room. Wow. What a fucking mess. Both of her eyes were purple, her nose appeared to be broken, and her mouth was a bloody mess. The few teeth that I could see were broken. This was very personal, and since I knew I didn't do it, I knew who did. But I wasn't saying a thing to anybody.
"Hey, you," I said quietly to see if she was awake.
"Hey ack," she mumbled as she slowly opened her darkened eyes.
"Iv you do is to ee? I?"
I took that to mean, "Did you do this to me? Why?" so I shook my head and answered gently, "You know I would never harm you physically in any way unless you threatened my life. I definitely did not do this to you.
"The police asked me the same question. I was actually texting with Josh when you were being attacked. They let me go, although I can't leave the state."
I held her hand for a few minutes, then I went back to work.
H-Dave greeted me in my office when I got back, and he didn't look happy.
"Allie, this isn't a good thing for the bank, the cops showing up and escorting one of my vice presidents out in handcuffs. Maybe you should take a leave of absence."
"I know where you're coming from, H-Dave, and I can appreciate that," I answered, but I wouldn't do anything to hurt the bank ... or Traci. I swear to you I didn't do this."
"This has to be the last time they come for you, or I'll have to put you on administrative leave," he said. "I've already heard from two board members."
"Then you are going to want to be with me for this next meeting. I'm calling Templeton, and I -- we -- need to see him and his daughter as soon as possible."
I got right through to Templeton at his office, and told him that H-Dave and I were coming over to speak with him and his daughter. He was confused but I told him this was not a request if she wanted to maintain her freedom. He got off the phone with me and called her, then called me back and told me the four of us could meet in 30 minutes at his office. The office would be closed at that time, but if we called him on his cell he would let us in.
H-Dave called his wife and told her that an important meeting with me and my lawyer just came up, and that he was going to be late. She apparently understood, because he quickly ended the call and I drove us over to Templeton's office. H-Dave dialed Templeton's cell, and he quickly came to the door, let us in, and locked it behind us.
Jasmine was already in the conference room when we arrived, looking every bit the demure mother of three in a plain blue dress with flats.
"What's this about, Allie?" Templeton asked, looking as serious as a heart attack.
"Did you really have to beat her that badly?" I quietly asked Jasmine.
Jasmine apparently hadn't told her father yet. Maybe she was hoping that I really didn't know. She fidgeted for a minute, studied the conference table, then finally spoke.
"I suppose I got a little carried away," she said passionately. "I've got three little ones, and that bitch ruined my life!"
Templeton and H-Dave looked at each other in shock and amazement.
"How did you know it was me?" Jasmine asked.
"That beating was all about rage," I answered. "And you and I would be the only two who would have that kind of rage over this. I just never knew you had that kind of training.
"I've been doing Mixed Martial Arts training in the gym for two years. I'm pretty good at it," she said smugly.
"But you also beat a person half to death," I responded. "If it wasn't for the fact that I completely understand where you are coming from, I would have you arrested. You do realize that I still love the stupid bitch somewhat at this point, and that she is the mother of my three children?"
"You punched RJ's lights out when you caught them. Isn't that the same thing?"
"Not even close," I said. "I caught them in the act of cheating and responded, but with just one punch. You didn't catch them in the act, and you threw a hell of a lot more than one punch. Your father can tell you there is a big difference when there's intent to harm."
She looked down at the table like a little kid that's just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
"But that said," I added, "That was some nice work. And I guess now I don't have to figure out my revenge on her. You got enough revenge for both of us."
She looked up and grinned evilly. Templeton and H-Dave still looked shocked.
"Well, then, can I ask you for one favor?" Jasmine queried.
I nodded.
"Mr. Knight, could you please leave the room for a minute or two?" she asked. "My dad can stay because he's my attorney, and there's that attorney-client privilege."
"Actually, Sweetie, as an officer of the court -- technically -- I am supposed to report any potential wrongdoing, so maybe it's best I go with Dave into my office for a few minutes," Templeton said to his daughter.
When the two had gone and shut the door, Jasmine leaned in closer to me and said that she wasn't done getting her revenge, only this time she would be paying for somebody to even the score with her dickhead husband. She was telling me, she said, so I could have an airtight alibi, because she knew the cops were going to come to me first, seeing as I was the one with the Special Forces experience.
"If I tell you the date, I think you and Mr. Knight and my father should be out somewhere together in public ... and maybe be a little loud so a lot of people can see you," she said in a voice just above a whisper. "And with the police taking a good look at you, that will give my people a better chance to get clear of the situation. You'd be sort of like a decoy."
I had completely underestimated Jasmine. She was not one to piss off when it came to her family.
"You do realize of course that you are completely running roughshod over my revenge plans," I said to her.
She shrugged her shoulders and tried to use that innocent look that she did so well. It wasn't working on me, but I admired her pluck.
"Deal!" I said, sticking out my hand for a firm handshake with Mark Templeton's hellcat.
She got up from the table, opened the door to the conference room and called out, "OK guys, let's finish this up."
As they came back into the conference room, Jasmine looked at the pair and announced that they and their wives were going to take me out to dinner next Friday, and maybe do their best to get me drunk as well. Templeton gave her a look, but she wordlessly help up her hand in a signal of stop.
"I think Mr. Sanford has had enough heartbreak for a while. He needs a good night out with friends."
Templeton looked from his daughter to H-Dave, then just nodded.
"Friday night it is, gentlemen."
Saturday morning I woke up with a pounding headache. I didn't think I had quite that much to drink, but there it was -- an incessant pounding. Wait a minute, that's not my head; that's my front door.
I got out of bed, threw on my robe and staggered to the front door of the apartment I rented after leaving Traci. Two cars, lights flashing, four cops.
"Can somebody turn off those damned flashing lights?" I asked as I held my head. God, I hate hangovers.
The cops came in and asked me where I was Friday night. I told them I was at a restaurant with friends, then we went to a small concert where I wound up on stage doing the Joe Cocker part to the song "Up Where We Belong" with a gorgeous young singer named Gemma Amazing.
"Wait, let me get my phone," I said.
H-Dave's wife had taken my phone and done a video of my performance. The time stamp said 9:54 p.m. as I played it for the cops. And, if I say so myself, I did a pretty good job with the song.
I offered the police officers coffee as I set about brewing a pot.
"So what happened last night that you guys just happened to think about me," I inquired.
A sergeant Pete Bartrom stepped forward, took his phone out of his pocket, put a photo up on the screen and asked me if I knew whom it was.
"Of course I know who that is," I said. "That's the dickbreath who fucked my wife and ruined my life. Wait ... something bad happened to him and you think I got my revenge!"
I was almost smiling at this point. I had to punch it up good so they would chase their own tails for a while wondering how I could have done it and yet have witnesses as to my whereabouts. It was already hardwired into their brains that since I was ex-Special Forces, I would get my own revenge in my own way. Who was I to deny them their thinking?
"So did dickhead fall down and go boom, or did his car conveniently run out of gas on the railroad tracks? Is he still alive?"
The cops looked from one to another as I poured myself a mug of coffee.
"He's very much alive, sir, but when the drugs wear off I'm sure he is going to wish he was dead," said Sgt. Bartrom. "Someone, or maybe more than one someone, beat his genitals with a baseball bat or something similar, and surgeons spent most of last night removing his testicles and stopping the bleeding.
"But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, since you were so busy making your stage debut?"
"Exactly!" I said. "But I'll tell you this. You find out who did this to dickhead and I'll pitch in to their defense fund. Now if you guys don't mind, I've got to get some aspirin and a shower."
I gave the cops the names of who I was with so they could further verify my story. They seemed impressed that I was with a bank president and a prominent attorney at the time of the attack.
It took almost a year for the divorce to go through. Traci fought it tooth and nail. She just couldn't or wouldn't get it through her head that I wouldn't take her back. She even tried to rope me into counseling in front of the judge. I calmly told the judge that I considered nine months of cheating more than just a bad decision on her part, and that I would prefer to sit in jail rather than be with someone who could throw my love away because she was flattered by the attention of a handsome younger man. The judge considered that for about five seconds, and decided against counseling.
I didn't date for at least a year after the divorce was final. But that didn't stop one of my co-workers, Dick Reed, from coming around to my office every so often to tell me that single guys my age were in the driver's seat because there are a lot more single women than men in this age group.
"It might be a little wrinkled, and you might have to invest in a truckload of lube, but there's 'mucho' fine pussy to be had, my friend," he'd typically say.
He's an ass, but he is right, I found out.
I would occasionally forage out to a decent bar or small restaurant with a band playing just for female companionship other than my co-workers at the bank. Not that there aren't several fine-looking women working at my bank, but I would never hit on a co-worker. That's just not done, and especially now with this Me Too thing.
But I started noticing the tables of women in their 40s and 50s popping up at these places, and I noticed that they weren't wearing wedding rings. You'd get the 20 and 30-somethings in the trendy places and the hot clubs, but the 50s set would show up at places that would probably be considered second-tier. I'm guessing most of them aren't looking for a hot 20 or 30-something for either a one-night stand or for a catch leading to the altar, and they apparently know that people like me aren't looking for them there, either.
I spotted her one night at Giorgio's, a little Italian bistro/bar. At first she was with a table of about four or five women, but she got up, went to the bar a few places down from where I was sitting, and ordered a shot of Don Julio tequila on the rocks. Not the usual drink for a woman, and I was curious to see if she knew what she was doing or was going to waste a good tequila by throwing it down in one shot. She studied the shot, held the glass up toward her face, and then took a sip before reveling in its warming embrace. I was intrigued, so I turned to her and mentioned it.
"You're the first woman I've ever seen actually sip a straight shot of tequila, instead of just slamming it home. And you've chosen wisely, I see," I said.
"Well thank you for the consideration of my choosing skills, kind sir," she responded with mock seriousness. "I take it you are a tequila snob."
"I am probably a snob of all things distilled," I responded. "When I was a child, I drank like a child, but now that I've matured somewhat, I like to critique the handiwork of fine distillers. And you do that by sipping, and by not putting anything else into the glass except maybe some ice."
"So you're really not trying to pick me up then?" she said completely seriously.
"Wasn't planning on it, but if you'd like to be picked up, I'm sure we could work something out," I responded, holding up my ringless left hand with the fingers spread.
"I'm Amy, Amy Umbarger to be exact, and you are ..."
"Allister Sanford. Allie to my friends as you can see why," I answered.
She took the few steps over to me since I had a plate of food that I was working on. I asked if she wanted something to go with her tequila, but she declined. I turned to the bartender and ordered myself a shot of Don Julio, also over ice. We made a small toast to the gods of agave.
Not only didn't Amy Umbarger drink like your average woman, she certainly didn't look like your average woman, especially for the crowd that usually frequents Gorgio's. She had long dark brown hair that fell to her small waist and kind of hid what I was guessing to be 36Cs in her silky blouse. She was about 5-6, with toned-looking legs in her fairly tight jeans, and those legs finished at what might have been the best ass I've ever seen live in person. I'm more of a boob man than anything, but this woman had an ass to die for.
"Do I pass inspection?" she asked, catching me ogling her.
"Oh yeah," I said while blushing over my stupidity.
I again held up my left hand, and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm kind of new at this. Haven't done this for a very long time."
She giggled, and I was totally gone. We talked for about two hours, telling each other about our divorces and our jobs among other things, before one of her friends from the table came over and said her friends were going home. She told me she had to leave since she didn't drive tonight, but she picked my cellphone out of my shirt pocket and put her number in.
"Only an idiot would lose that," she whispered to me as she bussed my cheek.
It took every ounce of willpower not to call her until the middle of the next day, and when I finally did, she confessed that she thought I lost the number. Nobody that she had ever given her number to had taken that long to call, she said unashamedly. She also said I passed muster among the four friends of hers at the table.
We must have talked for an hour. I found out she was 45 and was born and raised in this general area. Her parents, in fact, still lived about an hour from her, and that she visited them on a regular basis. My parents, I told her, had both died within the last 10 years. Her lone child, a daughter, was a senior at Purdue University in Indiana.
I let her pick the restaurant and she chose one of the better French places in town. We drank vodka with our meal once I explained to her that both of my favorites were made in France -- Grey Goose and Ciroc -- and were made out of grapes instead of potatoes.
"Leave it to the French to do something else ingenious with grapes in addition to wine," she toasted.
It wasn't until our fourth date that we had sex, and that was done with a condom. She told me she wasn't on the pill since she wasn't very active sexually, but she was smart enough to use condoms, especially since at her age she was still within childbearing age. I didn't mind using a condom although it was the first time since before I was married to Traci. Despite the fact that I hadn't had sex in over a year, I wasn't a lust-crazed Lothario, and managed to hold out for a fair amount of time before cumming, but it wasn't near as satisfying as the sex I had with my ex-wife. I could tell by her face that she wasn't exactly swooning over my performance either. I did bring her off three times with my talented fingers, but I knew I could do better.
"Let's do this again in a couple of weeks after we both get ourselves tested and bring back healthy report cards" I said. "Then you can get 'the full Allie.'" I even used air quotes.
"Cheeky bastard, aren't you?" she replied.
"We'll see," I rejoined.
Two weeks later we presented each other with clean bills of health, and I was like a man let out of prison. I couldn't wait to get at her pussy with my mouth, and my enthusiasm for the night was sky high. She was equally up to the task and incredibly responsive, and it only took about five minutes of hand-play to get her to cum hard for her first orgasm. I got her five more times with my fingers, then I slid down the bed to get my first hot meal in about two years.
I put that gorgeous ass in both hands, then laid the flat of my tongue over the opening of her pussy, causing her to shriek my name. Traci used to just scream unintelligibly, so this was the first time in forever that I heard a woman scream out my name during sex. What a fucking turn-on! I went absolutely nuts after that, and used virtually every mouth and tongue trick that I ever knew on her.
"Jesus Allie!" she screamed. "Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!"
She then squeezed her legs together as much as possible with my face buried in her pussy and started to convulse wildly for about 30 seconds. She was yelling for me to stop, I think, but I wasn't sure because for a few seconds there she had cut off my air supply and I was fighting for a breath. She then stopped moving for a few seconds while I took my face out of her cunt and got some precious air back into my lungs.
"Whoa, whoa whoa, you fucking monster!" she suddenly yelled out. "How long have I been out?"
"About 10 seconds," I panted back.
"That was fucking amazing! That's never happened before! But you have to come back up here now and fuck me hard because I'm running out of steam."
So I did what the doctor ordered. I even got her off one more time on my cock before she finally got me, and I came as hard as I ever have in my life. What a fucking woman!
"Amy Um," as I began calling her, and I became exclusive that night, and were for the next six months until I blew it with one simple question.
"Will you marry me?" I asked her one night while she was coming down after about a dozen hard orgasms in my bed.
I could feel her body tense up in a completely different way than she did when she was sexually excited, and I knew that it wasn't going to go well for me. She hesitated, and I answered negatively for her.
"I'm sorry, Allie, I really am, but I'm just not ready to do marriage again this soon," she said as she started to choke up. "And I know that's what you want and really need: a firm commitment. I get it. And I know we're exclusive and everything, but if I can't do marriage then I think I need to let you go find a woman who can. Sooner or later, I might not want to not be exclusive, and it gets really complicated when you're married. And I love you too much to ever cheat on you, but I don't want to make your life miserable by waiting on me to make a commitment. I don't want you to look back on this 15 years from now and blame me for deceiving you."
I felt gut-punched. Next to finding out that Traci was cheating on me, this might have been the worst moment of my life. But if nothing else, being in the Special Forces taught me that sometimes you had to take a bullet and keep moving forward.
I didn't date again for about six months, and then I jumped back into the game, as much to shut up Dick Reed as anything else.
"There's good pussy out there, bro. You're just letting it walk right by you," he'd say when he saw me.
I wasn't really looking when I first saw her, but circumstances changed that. She was sitting alone at the end of the bar in Stewart's, a favorite hang-out of the office crowd in downtown. I almost never go in the place, but I was in the neighborhood at a meeting, and when one of the guys in the meeting with me suggested we go over after we finished, it sounded like a pretty good idea. What else did I have going for me on a Thursday evening?
As my two companions and I were eating, she walked in, wearing a classy jacket and knee-length skirt combination, took a quick look around and walked over to the end of the bar. I'm not sure what the conversation was about anymore, because I stopped participating and became engrossed with this woman. Her outfit and the way she carried herself said "total confidence, complete control," but she moved haltingly, like she was expecting to meet someone she didn't see.
As her skirt was somewhat tapered, I could tell she had a tight ass and strong-looking thighs, so I guessed her to be, or have been, a volleyball player, especially since she was about 5-10. On her head was a mop of longish, unruly brown ringlet curls, which I found rather attractive. What I also found attractive was her beautiful face framed by all those curls, and her absolutely flawless caramel-colored skin. I guessed her to be about 35.
She sat down at the bar, spoke to the bartender and was served a white wine. The sharks started circling immediately. Maybe this was why she looked so reluctant coming in.
She rejected the first three guys that came up to her, but guy No. 4 seemed to be a little more persistent. When he put his hand on her forearm and she shook it off, I figured it was time to play cavalry. I excused myself from the dinner table after laying down a hundred-dollar bill for the meal, picked up my empty drink glass and headed for the pair.
"I'm sorry for not spotting you earlier," I said to the woman as I approached, "So I was having a drink with Bill and Harry. Can I get you another while I grab another for myself?"
She hesitated, which gave Mr. Forearm Toucher all the opening he thought he needed.
"Nice try, buddy. But the lady is with me tonight," he sneered.
"Well, no hard feelings then. You can't blame a guy for trying," I answered as I stuck out my hand for a handshake.
"No, we're OK bro ... ooo ... ooo shit."
He tried to yank his hand out of my grasp, but I held on tight and started shifting the bones around in his hand. He tried to push me off with his free hand, but I grabbed that wrist and twisted.
"All right! All right!" he half-whispered, half-whined.
I released his hands and he headed off.
The bartender came over and I asked for two more of what we were both drinking. I sat down next to this beauty, stuck out my hand and announced, "Allie Sanford. And no, I'm not trying to pick you up. It's a hobby of mine, saving damsels in distress. You should see me with a sword and a shield."
She put her caramel-colored hand in mine and I shook it gently, careful not to put any marks on that beautiful skin.
"Thank you for not breaking my hand, Allie," she said with a small chuckle.
She was trying to smile, but I got more sadness than anything out of the look.
"Randi -- Miranda White," she said.
"Well Randy Miranda White, that's probably more information than I needed, but it's nice to meet you."
I could see a pink flush start up her neck and wash over her face.
"That's not what I meant. Randi, just call me Randi," she choked out.
"Damn, I knew I just couldn't get that lucky," I rejoined.
She giggled this time, and I realized how long it had been since I had last heard that sound.
We talked for about an hour. Randi was a buyer for a retail chain in the area. She had come into the restaurant for a soothing drink after a tough day. She was aware that with her looks, going into a restaurant or bar alone would mean the inevitable, especially since she wasn't wearing a wedding ring.
"Same problem I have," I joked.
She giggled again, and gently punched my arm.
We briefly talked about why neither of us was wearing a ring. Seems she had one on for 23 years, before finding out that her husband was in the middle of what turned out to be his third affair.
"You were married 23 years" I questioned, sounding incredulous. "I figured you for about 35. Do you mind if I ask your age?"
"As long as you don't ask my weight," she said. "I'm 52."
"Holy shit!" I responded.
"I'll take that as a compliment," she offered.
I could have stayed there all night talking with this beauty, but I didn't want to overstay my welcome. Sometimes going home early is the better part of valor. But as I was saying my good-nights when I walked her to her car, I asked for -- and received -- her phone number. Ka-ching!
I'm not getting any younger, and the chance to date a beautiful woman doesn't come up every day in my world, so I called her almost as soon as I got home from the restaurant.
"I know this seems a little desperate ... OK, a lot desperate ... but do you want to do dinner and a movie this Friday?"
"Well, I've got to admit the desperation is charming on you. Yes, but I choose the movie," she replied.
I found out over dinner that Randi had been divorced for seven years. I tried to keep my face neutral when she said that, because I immediately started wondering ...
"Is seven years not long enough to get over my ex," she asked.
"No, that's not it," I said. "My last somewhat serious encounter still wanted to be free five years after her divorce, so I was wondering if you might also have commitment issues."
Her eyes flashed daggers at me.
"Moving a little fast here, Slick? This is our first date, and you're already thinking long-term? Why don't you relax and just let it happen. We're all different. Let's see where this leads."
"My apologies. I know you are all different. I just got hurt real bad, and I guess I'm anticipating ..."
"Don't anticipate me. Just let us happen."
"Let us happen. I like the sound of that," I thought to myself.
Randi was a calmer, quieter personality than Amy, although once I finally got her into bed -- on our eighth date -- she wasn't any calmer nor quieter when I put my tongue on her pussy. In fact, those strong legs of hers almost choked me into submission the first time I ate her pussy. By her fourth screaming orgasm by mouth, she was breathing like a freight train and I was sucking air like a drowning man with my face stuck as deep into her pussy as it could be. I quickly tapped both legs to get her to release the vice grip she had on my head.
I came up sputtering for air with KY lube and her cum up my nose.
"I'm sorry, Baby, I got carried away," she quickly apologized. "Nobody's done that to me in a long time ... and nobody has ever done that to me that good! That was amazing!"
Once I caught my breath, I flipped her over into doggy and took her slowly and passionately. She came once more before I did, then when we were finished we spooned for about 15 minutes, with me occasionally planting kisses on her lightly sweating back. Her skin felt as smooth as it looked. She moaned a lot while we were cuddling.
"Nobody's done this with me for a long time either," she purred.
When she went to get up, I rolled her onto her back, sucked for a while on each breast, then licked that wonderful smooth skin from her boobs all the way up her chest and neck to her lips. And despite the fact that my face was coated with her cum and KY, I planted my most passionate kiss on those lips. She didn't back off even the tiniest bit from the kiss, and in fact, noted she liked the taste of herself on me.
"Good, because I'd like to make that a regular thing," I chuckled back to her.
I later found out that both of Randi's parents were teachers, which, I think, explained the fact she was very precise in almost everything she did. I, on the other hand, had a tendency to wing things when it came down to crunch time. Special Forces had taught me to plan well, but be ready to be adaptive and go off-book when I needed to get things done and the plan wasn't working. My spontaneity, shall we say, sometimes irritated her, sometimes flabbergasted her, and then sometimes blew her away. For my part, I have to admit that sometimes her seeming obsession with perfection got under my skin. We'd have little stupid arguments over these differences in our personalities, and then of course we'd have to have makeup sex. And then I'd point out to her that she never had a problem with my spontaneity in bed, and she'd just get that pink flush up her neck and into her cheeks.
About the only time Randi ever showed any real spontaneity was on the dance floor. We would occasionally go out to a club, and that girl just loved to hoof it. I have pretty good stamina, but after a while I'd have to sit down and rest. She would just keep on going with whoever was around her, and in minutes there would be a group of both men and women dancing with her. I was OK with that as long as no one put his or her hands on her. I explained to her my rules about fidelity and touching, and she agreed wholeheartedly. But every once in a while, some young stud would try to hold her or take her hand and bring her to his table against her will, and then I would have to intervene. Usually I could get that done quietly, but every now and then I'd literally have to twist somebody's arm and take him over to club security for a quick ejection. I guess the word got out, though, that I was former Special Forces, because I never had anybody waiting for me in the parking lot.
As had become the tradition since Traci and I split, my oldest daughter, Lauren, made family Christmas at her house. That, and a few other family times during the year, were the only times Traci and I were together. It took great restraint on my part just to be civil to her, while she continually tried to get back in my good graces. Lauren had told me once before that Traci figured that she and I would eventually get back together, once I got over my wounded pride. Lauren had the good sense to look sheepish when she told me.
I had been dating Randi for about nine months, so I asked Lauren in a phone conversation if I could bring her to Christmas. Lauren hesitated, then asked me how serious I was about Randi. When I responded "very," Lauren simply said OK. She told me that she was going to warn Traci that I was bringing someone so hopefully there would be less drama.
"If there's any drama, I can guarantee it won't come from Randi," I stated.
Randi never had children. It seemed that her ex was shooting blanks. But judging by the way she took to my children and my grandchildren, she would have been a natural as a mother. My kids, by the way, were as taken with Randi as I was, and Lauren asked me why I was waiting to pull the trigger.
"Man up, tough Special Forces guy, and ask this woman to be your wife before somebody else steals her away," Lauren said. "We all love her, and I think the grandchildren would love to have her become Grandma Randi."
For her part, Traci was rather standoffish for the two days we were at Lauren's, which was probably the best I could hope for. She was not quite civil when I introduced her to Randi.
"I didn't realize you were fishing in the kiddie pool," Traci said to me as Randi frowned.
"Believe it or not, Randi's just a couple of years younger than us," I said quickly trying to defuse the situation. "It's that perfect skin that does it, I think. I, too, thought I was stealing someone's youngster."
Traci looked disgusted and walked away. I gave Randi one of those eyebrows raised looks that says, "What are young going to do?"
But the best part of the holiday came when Traci's mother, Linda, was leaving early after the Christmas meal. I had always gotten along great with Linda, and I know she had hoped I would stay with her daughter despite "Traci pulling a rock," as she put it. When she came up to me for a good-bye hug, she leaned in close and whispered, "I like her. Get this deal done."
I waited three more months, and on the anniversary of our first official date, I handed Randi a diamond ring and asked if we could make this a permanent thing. She jumped into my arms, gave me the best hug I'd ever had in my life and then outdid that with the most passionate kiss I'd ever had. Then she broke down in tears, completely soaking my left shoulder. All in all, I'd have to say it was a pretty positive reaction.
"Well it's about time, Slick," she said, calling me by the nickname she used on me on our very first date. "I thought maybe I scared you off when I told you that you were moving awfully fast. But just maybe you knew something that I didn't."
++++++++++
I sent Dick Reed a bottle of 18-year-old Jameson Irish Whiskey the other day as a belated thanks. Randi and I just celebrated our 10th anniversary, and, in truth, Dick had a hand in that. If left to my own devices, I would have become a hermit after my divorce from Traci. But Dick just wouldn't shut up about how much pussy a single guy in his 50s could get, so as much as anything I went back into the dating scene just to shut him up. And the rest, as they say, is history.
William Shakespeare once wrote, "The pen is mightier than the sword."
As someone who once faced a sword-bearing warrior while a member of the Special Forces, I can tell you I greatly disagreed with Mr. Shakespeare at that moment. Fortunately for me at the time, I also held a sword in my hand, or else I wouldn't be here today writing this.
So I was one up on The Bard when life jumped in and handed Mr. Shakespeare a cheap win.
The fountain pen was invented in 1827, in France. The first ballpoint pen patent came 61 years later, in 1888.
Throughout the latter half of the 20th century and into the 21st century, pens have been used to great success as simple marketing tools. Even in this day and age where cellphones rule, many companies still put their names on pens to get their message out.
And those pens travel. A salesman hands a customer a pen. He later gives it to one of his kids. That kid takes it to school and loses it, where it's found by a teacher who puts in his pocket. Three weeks later that same pen is three states away, tucked behind the ear of a delivery man.
As I relate this, I have four pens with company names on them in my pen cup. You get the idea.
So it wasn't exactly a surprise that when I asked my wife for a pen at a dinner the other night, after discovering mine was out of ink, that she handed me a pen with a company name on it. As one of my responsibilities at the bank I work at is marketing, I always look at the names on pens, letterheads, etc., so I noticed the pen was from The Waltham, a hotel on the other side of town from where we lived in a large Midwestern city. I quickly made a note on the back of one of my business cards, put the note in my pocket and handed the pen back to my wife. Unlike a lot of people, I always return pens when they are loaned to me. Just one of my quirks.
We were sitting with two other couples at one of the nicer restaurants in town when I just had to write down a "note to self." Yeah, I know most people leave themselves an email on their phone, but another one of my quirks is that I prefer the old-fashioned method of writing a note. It seems to stick better with me.
Drink was flowing, the food was great, the conversation was light and jovial, but then I got a brain itch. While I'm fully aware that pens travel, it just struck me as funny that my wife would have a pen from The Waltham. The Waltham was a mid-level hotel clear across town, and I couldn't for the life of me imagine Traci running into anyone who stayed at The Waltham recently.
I make very good money and Traci only worked part time in a corporate law office. I know she was active with several groups in town, so it was improbable, but not impossible, that she could have gotten it at work or from one of the people in the historical society or the English Literature Society. I always thought those people were a little stuffy, though, and would probably consider The Waltham well below their standards.
The next morning when I was getting ready for work, as I stuck the card with my note to self on it in my shirt pocket, I remembered the pen. Just out of curiosity, I grabbed Traci's phone off her bureau and went to look at her calendar. It's highly unusual for me to touch her phone at all, but I figured a peek at her calendar wouldn't hurt anything and would clear up this pen thing in my mind. She was still asleep and would be for another hour, so there was no sense waking her to ask what I thought was a simple question.
To my complete surprise, Traci's phone was locked. I didn't believe it at first, so I actually tried it three times before it hit me. While I don't touch her phone very often, I have used it on occasion, and it's never been locked before. This was a new wrinkle.
Now that the challenge was thrown down, I accepted it. I thought for a few seconds of all the passwords she would probably use, and punched several in unsuccessfully. Then I punched in several more unsuccessfully. It wasn't until I entered in our younger daughter's Social Security number that I was able to unlock the phone, and by that point I was mad and losing my cool. So instead of going to her calendar, I went to her messages and started to scroll down. At this point, it was "fuck her privacy." I was going to open anything that didn't look familiar to me. The sixth contact down wasn't listed by name, just by initials: RJ. Bingo!
There were about a dozen exchanges discussing what only an idiot wouldn't assume was an affair. The last discussed a meeting this Thursday afternoon, again at The Waltham. Ah shit! Fucking Shakespeare just tied the game at one.
With trembling hands, I put Traci's phone back where I found it, and headed off to my job in a daze. Hard to believe that 27 years of marriage could be gone just like that.
At 50, the same age as me, Traci is still a beautiful woman. She has long blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, and at 5-7, 130 is only about 10 pounds heavier than when I first married her at 23. Her 38DDs are still a thing of beauty, even after breastfeeding all three of our children.
And thinking of the children, how was I going to tell them if my suspicions were confirmed? The girls at least are both out of the house at 25 and 23, and the youngest child, our son, 21, still lives with us when he's not at Michigan State. Traci's been a great mother, I have to admit, and this will probably be an ever bigger shock to them than it is to me.
I worked like a zombie the whole day. At 4:30, I went in to the bank president's office and asked for Thursday off for a personal day. I'd worked with and for H. Dave Knight for 17 years, since I got out of the service, and he could tell by my face that something big was wrong. He walked around from his desk and closed the door before returning to his seat behind his desk.
"What's wrong, Allie?" he asked, calling me by the nickname that my close friends and relatives used for me.
I debated for a second how much I was going to tell him, before I got choked up and started to cry in his office. Nobody -- and I mean nobody -- had seen me cry since I was about 6 years old and I broke my arm falling out of a tree. I tore up a knee playing football in high school, I took a couple of bullets and a knife on assignments in the Special Forces. Never cried. And there I sat blubbering like an idiot.
I told him what I found and all of my suspicions. As I talked, I started getting angry, and animated. H-Dave, as I called him in good humor, knew of my background, and started getting a worried look on his face.
"Allie, you need to calm down and think this through," he said. "Don't go doing something stupid and maybe wind up in jail. If this turns out to be what you think it is, don't ruin your life over this. You've faced much tougher situations before in your life than this."
"That's true, H-Dave, but I always had a clear objective. She's ripping my heart out. And it wouldn't be that difficult to make both of them disappear."
"Jesus, Allie! You can't be talking like that to anyone else! If either one of them gets a hangnail, guess who winds up in prison?"
"I know you're right, H-Dave, but I still need to take Thursday off to confirm my suspicions."
"First promise me on the lives of your three children that you won't do anything to harm either one of them."
H-Dave knew me well. He knew I would never make a promise on the lives of my children that I didn't intend to keep. I agreed.
My mind was going in a hundred different directions while I was driving home. I knew I needed to look at Traci's phone again to see if I could get a timeline on how long the affair was going on. I racked my brain for anything she might have said or done that might have given me a hint about what she was doing. After slowing everything down in my mind and carefully looking at the last few months, I had to tip my hat to Traci: she was one stone cold bitch. She never even gave me a clue. So now I had to be careful to return the favor and not tip her off to my suspicions.
Traci was her usual self that night, and the next night, Wednesday, was more than up for our usual Wednesday night romp in the sack. I carefully but discreetly cupped her pussy to see if she was trying to slip me seconds, but while she was wet as usual, it wasn't excessive and there were no other secretions that I could see.
Traci and I usually had sex three times a week. Depending upon our mood, sometimes we made love, sometimes we fucked. I made sure to always bring her to multiple orgasms with my hands and tongue as well, so I have to admit to being at a complete loss as to what I was doing wrong, and I have to admit, it just didn't make sense to me that she would just turn slut on me after so long.
It was difficult, to say the least, to feign interest when Traci started getting amorous Wednesday night. For the first time ever, I faked it with Traci at the beginning, but then anger took over and became my ally. I really laid it to her, probably as rough as I ever had, and yet she seemed to really like it and came multiple times before I finally shot my load inside of her.
Traci worked a half-day on Thursday, then went to the gym -- at least that's what she always told me. I got up my usual work time but didn't get into my usual business attire. Since she was still asleep, she wouldn't have any idea of what I was wearing and why. Before I left the house, though, I made sure to take her phone off the bureau again, and this time I knew exactly what to look for. The messages with RJ started about nine months ago, I ascertained. I put her phone back exactly where she kept it, grabbed my gym bag, then left the house.
Even though I knew she wouldn't be looking for me and my car, I still took no chances. After eating a good breakfast at the neighborhood IHOP, I went over to a Budget rental place and rented something nondescript. I then picked up a newspaper and read it before heading to the gym for a good, but certainly not strenuous, workout. I then changed back into my jeans and sweatshirt and headed over to The Waltham, parking where I could see the entrance and yet still be inconspicuous.
The message on Traci's phone had the "meeting" with RJ at 1. At 12:50, Traci's car pulled into the parking lot. She was wearing her work clothes, which today was a tasteful burgundy suit with a skirt that went to just above her knees. With her white blouse showing from inside of her jacket, she looked every bit professional, tasteful, and classy. She got out of her car, took a look around the lot and went inside.
Five minutes later, RJ arrived. Turned out to be Robert John Hall, the attorney son-in-law of Mark Templeton, the first name in the firm of Templeton, Oates and Scripner, attorneys-at-law. Shit, not only is Traci cheating on me, but she's fucking the boss's son-in-law!
RJ, as everyone called him, was a New York University-trained attorney who joined his father-in-law's firm about four years ago. He's 32, handsome and well-built, with short light-brown hair and brown eyes. He and his wife, the boss's daughter, Jasmine, have three little ones.
I've met Jasmine a few times through the years, and while my wife is a beautiful woman, Jasmine is probably her equal in looks, although her tits are noticeably smaller. But still, I'm not sure why RJ would even consider stepping out on something that looks as good as Jasmine, who's about 5-2, 110 pounds, with long dark hair and twinkling blue eyes. Unless the woman is a total bitch to live with, she's a total babe from where I'm standing.
I couldn't image Jasmine sitting still for this liaison, when I decide to tell her. Better yet, I can't imagine Daddy sitting still for it. They'll both be looking for new jobs when this gets out.
But first things first. I waited about 30 minutes before heading into the hotel. I asked the desk clerk in which room Robert Hall was registered. He couldn't find the name in the registry, so I asked if he had a room registered to Traci Sanford. As a matter of fact, he did. I asked him for a key to the room since I was her husband.
"I-I-I don't think I can do that, sir, without calling Mrs. Sanford first and confirming," he said as sweat suddenly formed on his upper lip.
I pulled out my wallet and showed him my driver's license: Allister Sanford.
"But unless you have your wedding license with you, I have to confirm with Mrs. Sanford," he insisted.
Next I pulled out my Sig Sauer 320 from my waistband holster.
"Richard," I said slowly as I read his nametag. "You've got five seconds to hand me the room key before I take my gun butt and pop you upside your left temple."
He slowly reached for and handed me the electronic key.
"Now wait two minutes before you call the cops," I said. "If the cops get here any sooner than five minutes, I will come back here and shoot your ass when I get out of jail."
When I got up to the room, I could hear the pair going hard at it. I listened to the unintelligible grunting and moaning for about 30 seconds before slipping the key card in and quietly opening the door.
RJ was on his knees facing away from the door, doing Traci doggy. He was pulling back almost all the way out and slamming back into her, making her moan each time he drove forward. She was also facing away from the door, and I was able to pull out my iPhone and snap several photos for evidence. When I put the phone away, I again pulled out my Sig.
"Pardon me, but I seem to have misplaced my wife," I said in a voice a little louder than the grunting going on. "Oh, look, there she is, at the end of your dick."
The pair almost dislocated their necks as they twisted their heads at the sound of my voice. RJ came to an immediate stop, and Traci quickly crawled forward off of his dick.
I stood there pointing the 9 mil at RJ. I'm sure I was smirking. Both of them looked at me with deer in the headlights looks on their faces.
"It's not what it looks like, Allie," RJ said while Traci curled up into a small ball.
"Really, RJ?" I queried. "I expected so much more from an attorney. Aren't you guys supposed to be good under pressure?
"This is exactly what it looks like. You're fucking my wife -- at least were fucking her until I interrupted. The way you've been doing for the last several months."
I looked down at RJ's dangling cock, which appeared to be shrinking at a rapid rate.
"Jesus, Traci, if you were going to cheat on me, couldn't you at least have done it with a guy with a big dick, instead of a guy who is a big dick?"
Traci just sat there curled up, making small choking noises. I don't know if she told RJ about my 10 years in the military, but she knew what I did, and what I was probably capable of doing to both of them.
"Stand up," I said to RJ as I walked over toward the bed.
He slid off of the bed and stood facing me, with his hands in a surrender position in front of his chest. I transferred the gun to my left hand, and in the blink of an eye lashed out with a straight right that caught him square in the nose. His face exploded in blood with an awful crack and he fell back on the bed, out cold.
I heard the sirens pulling up in front of the hotel. I looked at Traci, who looked like a frightened little girl.
"You need to be gone from the house when I get out of jail tomorrow. I will get my stuff out and you can come back and live there until we sell the house in the divorce. I've already split our financials down the middle and taken my name off everything we owned jointly, including the credit cards. You car is bought and paid for, and so is my truck. We each keep those.
"You will be served as soon as possible.
"Got to run. See you."
I walked out of the room, went down to the lobby and turned myself in to the four cops who watched me with guns drawn. I made sure not to give the nervous young guys any reason to shoot me accidentally.
I called H-Dave and asked him to bail me out in the morning. They booked me on battery charges for laying out RJ. H-Dave said he could hurry up and get me bailed out yet today, but I told him that I probably needed to spend a night in jail so Traci could be clear of the house when I got home.
"Well, I suppose it could be worse," H-Dave said to me. "I can probably smooth this over with the board much easier than if you had shot the bastard."
After I got out of jail, I rented one of those storage spaces and got most everything I wanted out of my house. I found a cheap motel and settled in, figuring I could get a more permanent place once I found out if I was going to have to serve any time in jail on the battery charge. I guessed I would need an attorney for that in addition to one to handle the divorce, when out of the blue I got a fortuitous phone call: seems that H-Dave was a friend of Mark Templeton; yep, the very same Mark Templeton whose daughter was being cheated on by RJ Hall.
According to my new attorney, RJ called in sick on Friday and did not tell anyone about his run-in with me. Templeton only found out when H-Dave took the initiative to call and explain my side of the equation to his attorney friend. Templeton said he'd be glad to handle both cases, although he hadn't done a divorce in several years, and told H-Dave that both RJ and my wife wouldn't have jobs come Monday morning.
I didn't hear a word from Traci until Sunday morning, when she invited me over to my own house to talk about "our problem."
"I didn't realize 'we' had a problem," I responded. "I didn't break my marriage vows. Only you have a problem."
I hung up.
Two minutes later, a tearful Traci was back on the line.
"OK, I have a problem," she sobbed. "But can't we talk about this like reasonable people? I screwed up. But I still love you and I don't want to get a divorce."
"Maybe you should have thought about that months ago," I replied. "Maybe we could have fixed things before you decided to make RJ a regular thing. What did I do to deserve that?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone for an eternity ... actually about 10 seconds.
"You didn't do a thing, Allie. It's all on me. I was taken by the attention a handsome, young man gave me. At first it was just innocent flirting, then some touching, and a few lunches. I knew it was wrong. And then we started having sex, and while I felt guilty at first, I rationalized that away by thinking that if I gave you all the sex you wanted, I wasn't taking anything away from you, especially if you never found out. I never denied you sex any time you wanted it, and I never gave you sloppy seconds. I made sure I was always clean for you.
"It truly was just sex. There was no emotional attachment. We were just two friends who enjoyed each other's bodies. I suppose it was somewhat exciting because it was illicit, and it was exciting because it was the first time in almost 30 years that I had another man take me. But we never shared the intimacy that you and I share ...
"Shared," I corrected curtly. "You forfeited that intimacy when I found out you were cheating. You gave up us when you added him."
"Don't be like this, Allie. We can work on this. We can be us again. I'll go to counseling. We can both go to counseling."
"What the hell do I need counseling for?" I snapped. "I didn't cheat. You mean I need counseling so I can learn to live with what you have done?"
She flinched at my statement. I got up and left.
On Monday, Templeton fired both Traci and his son-in-law. I heard from H-Dave later that Jasmine also threw RJ out of their house.
Although H-Dave was in my ear constantly about not being stupid and trying to get revenge, I was still considering those options when the police showed up at the bank about a month later. Seems that someone with martial arts skills had kicked the shit out of Traci after she left a movie theater by herself one evening. Whoever it was must have been pretty good and/or pretty angry, too, because they knocked out most of her front teeth and gave her a concussion. So naturally they came to me first.
I shrugged my innocence to H-Dave as the police led me out of the bank. I knew he would call Templeton for me.
I didn't say a word to the police until Templeton got to the station about 30 minutes later. I really didn't have an alibi because I was sitting at home watching TV in my apartment by myself. Then I remembered I was texting with my son for a while at about the same time Traci was getting hammered. Templeton persuaded the cops to turn me loose, and I called H-Dave immediately and told him I would be back as soon as I visited Traci in the hospital. After all, she was still my wife -- for the time being -- and you just don't turn your back on somebody after 27 years of marriage -- at least I didn't.
Hospital security wasn't sure about letting me in to emergency until they called the local police station. Then I got escorted to Traci's room. Wow. What a fucking mess. Both of her eyes were purple, her nose appeared to be broken, and her mouth was a bloody mess. The few teeth that I could see were broken. This was very personal, and since I knew I didn't do it, I knew who did. But I wasn't saying a thing to anybody.
"Hey, you," I said quietly to see if she was awake.
"Hey ack," she mumbled as she slowly opened her darkened eyes.
"Iv you do is to ee? I?"
I took that to mean, "Did you do this to me? Why?" so I shook my head and answered gently, "You know I would never harm you physically in any way unless you threatened my life. I definitely did not do this to you.
"The police asked me the same question. I was actually texting with Josh when you were being attacked. They let me go, although I can't leave the state."
I held her hand for a few minutes, then I went back to work.
H-Dave greeted me in my office when I got back, and he didn't look happy.
"Allie, this isn't a good thing for the bank, the cops showing up and escorting one of my vice presidents out in handcuffs. Maybe you should take a leave of absence."
"I know where you're coming from, H-Dave, and I can appreciate that," I answered, but I wouldn't do anything to hurt the bank ... or Traci. I swear to you I didn't do this."
"This has to be the last time they come for you, or I'll have to put you on administrative leave," he said. "I've already heard from two board members."
"Then you are going to want to be with me for this next meeting. I'm calling Templeton, and I -- we -- need to see him and his daughter as soon as possible."
I got right through to Templeton at his office, and told him that H-Dave and I were coming over to speak with him and his daughter. He was confused but I told him this was not a request if she wanted to maintain her freedom. He got off the phone with me and called her, then called me back and told me the four of us could meet in 30 minutes at his office. The office would be closed at that time, but if we called him on his cell he would let us in.
H-Dave called his wife and told her that an important meeting with me and my lawyer just came up, and that he was going to be late. She apparently understood, because he quickly ended the call and I drove us over to Templeton's office. H-Dave dialed Templeton's cell, and he quickly came to the door, let us in, and locked it behind us.
Jasmine was already in the conference room when we arrived, looking every bit the demure mother of three in a plain blue dress with flats.
"What's this about, Allie?" Templeton asked, looking as serious as a heart attack.
"Did you really have to beat her that badly?" I quietly asked Jasmine.
Jasmine apparently hadn't told her father yet. Maybe she was hoping that I really didn't know. She fidgeted for a minute, studied the conference table, then finally spoke.
"I suppose I got a little carried away," she said passionately. "I've got three little ones, and that bitch ruined my life!"
Templeton and H-Dave looked at each other in shock and amazement.
"How did you know it was me?" Jasmine asked.
"That beating was all about rage," I answered. "And you and I would be the only two who would have that kind of rage over this. I just never knew you had that kind of training.
"I've been doing Mixed Martial Arts training in the gym for two years. I'm pretty good at it," she said smugly.
"But you also beat a person half to death," I responded. "If it wasn't for the fact that I completely understand where you are coming from, I would have you arrested. You do realize that I still love the stupid bitch somewhat at this point, and that she is the mother of my three children?"
"You punched RJ's lights out when you caught them. Isn't that the same thing?"
"Not even close," I said. "I caught them in the act of cheating and responded, but with just one punch. You didn't catch them in the act, and you threw a hell of a lot more than one punch. Your father can tell you there is a big difference when there's intent to harm."
She looked down at the table like a little kid that's just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
"But that said," I added, "That was some nice work. And I guess now I don't have to figure out my revenge on her. You got enough revenge for both of us."
She looked up and grinned evilly. Templeton and H-Dave still looked shocked.
"Well, then, can I ask you for one favor?" Jasmine queried.
I nodded.
"Mr. Knight, could you please leave the room for a minute or two?" she asked. "My dad can stay because he's my attorney, and there's that attorney-client privilege."
"Actually, Sweetie, as an officer of the court -- technically -- I am supposed to report any potential wrongdoing, so maybe it's best I go with Dave into my office for a few minutes," Templeton said to his daughter.
When the two had gone and shut the door, Jasmine leaned in closer to me and said that she wasn't done getting her revenge, only this time she would be paying for somebody to even the score with her dickhead husband. She was telling me, she said, so I could have an airtight alibi, because she knew the cops were going to come to me first, seeing as I was the one with the Special Forces experience.
"If I tell you the date, I think you and Mr. Knight and my father should be out somewhere together in public ... and maybe be a little loud so a lot of people can see you," she said in a voice just above a whisper. "And with the police taking a good look at you, that will give my people a better chance to get clear of the situation. You'd be sort of like a decoy."
I had completely underestimated Jasmine. She was not one to piss off when it came to her family.
"You do realize of course that you are completely running roughshod over my revenge plans," I said to her.
She shrugged her shoulders and tried to use that innocent look that she did so well. It wasn't working on me, but I admired her pluck.
"Deal!" I said, sticking out my hand for a firm handshake with Mark Templeton's hellcat.
She got up from the table, opened the door to the conference room and called out, "OK guys, let's finish this up."
As they came back into the conference room, Jasmine looked at the pair and announced that they and their wives were going to take me out to dinner next Friday, and maybe do their best to get me drunk as well. Templeton gave her a look, but she wordlessly help up her hand in a signal of stop.
"I think Mr. Sanford has had enough heartbreak for a while. He needs a good night out with friends."
Templeton looked from his daughter to H-Dave, then just nodded.
"Friday night it is, gentlemen."
Saturday morning I woke up with a pounding headache. I didn't think I had quite that much to drink, but there it was -- an incessant pounding. Wait a minute, that's not my head; that's my front door.
I got out of bed, threw on my robe and staggered to the front door of the apartment I rented after leaving Traci. Two cars, lights flashing, four cops.
"Can somebody turn off those damned flashing lights?" I asked as I held my head. God, I hate hangovers.
The cops came in and asked me where I was Friday night. I told them I was at a restaurant with friends, then we went to a small concert where I wound up on stage doing the Joe Cocker part to the song "Up Where We Belong" with a gorgeous young singer named Gemma Amazing.
"Wait, let me get my phone," I said.
H-Dave's wife had taken my phone and done a video of my performance. The time stamp said 9:54 p.m. as I played it for the cops. And, if I say so myself, I did a pretty good job with the song.
I offered the police officers coffee as I set about brewing a pot.
"So what happened last night that you guys just happened to think about me," I inquired.
A sergeant Pete Bartrom stepped forward, took his phone out of his pocket, put a photo up on the screen and asked me if I knew whom it was.
"Of course I know who that is," I said. "That's the dickbreath who fucked my wife and ruined my life. Wait ... something bad happened to him and you think I got my revenge!"
I was almost smiling at this point. I had to punch it up good so they would chase their own tails for a while wondering how I could have done it and yet have witnesses as to my whereabouts. It was already hardwired into their brains that since I was ex-Special Forces, I would get my own revenge in my own way. Who was I to deny them their thinking?
"So did dickhead fall down and go boom, or did his car conveniently run out of gas on the railroad tracks? Is he still alive?"
The cops looked from one to another as I poured myself a mug of coffee.
"He's very much alive, sir, but when the drugs wear off I'm sure he is going to wish he was dead," said Sgt. Bartrom. "Someone, or maybe more than one someone, beat his genitals with a baseball bat or something similar, and surgeons spent most of last night removing his testicles and stopping the bleeding.
"But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, since you were so busy making your stage debut?"
"Exactly!" I said. "But I'll tell you this. You find out who did this to dickhead and I'll pitch in to their defense fund. Now if you guys don't mind, I've got to get some aspirin and a shower."
I gave the cops the names of who I was with so they could further verify my story. They seemed impressed that I was with a bank president and a prominent attorney at the time of the attack.
It took almost a year for the divorce to go through. Traci fought it tooth and nail. She just couldn't or wouldn't get it through her head that I wouldn't take her back. She even tried to rope me into counseling in front of the judge. I calmly told the judge that I considered nine months of cheating more than just a bad decision on her part, and that I would prefer to sit in jail rather than be with someone who could throw my love away because she was flattered by the attention of a handsome younger man. The judge considered that for about five seconds, and decided against counseling.
I didn't date for at least a year after the divorce was final. But that didn't stop one of my co-workers, Dick Reed, from coming around to my office every so often to tell me that single guys my age were in the driver's seat because there are a lot more single women than men in this age group.
"It might be a little wrinkled, and you might have to invest in a truckload of lube, but there's 'mucho' fine pussy to be had, my friend," he'd typically say.
He's an ass, but he is right, I found out.
I would occasionally forage out to a decent bar or small restaurant with a band playing just for female companionship other than my co-workers at the bank. Not that there aren't several fine-looking women working at my bank, but I would never hit on a co-worker. That's just not done, and especially now with this Me Too thing.
But I started noticing the tables of women in their 40s and 50s popping up at these places, and I noticed that they weren't wearing wedding rings. You'd get the 20 and 30-somethings in the trendy places and the hot clubs, but the 50s set would show up at places that would probably be considered second-tier. I'm guessing most of them aren't looking for a hot 20 or 30-something for either a one-night stand or for a catch leading to the altar, and they apparently know that people like me aren't looking for them there, either.
I spotted her one night at Giorgio's, a little Italian bistro/bar. At first she was with a table of about four or five women, but she got up, went to the bar a few places down from where I was sitting, and ordered a shot of Don Julio tequila on the rocks. Not the usual drink for a woman, and I was curious to see if she knew what she was doing or was going to waste a good tequila by throwing it down in one shot. She studied the shot, held the glass up toward her face, and then took a sip before reveling in its warming embrace. I was intrigued, so I turned to her and mentioned it.
"You're the first woman I've ever seen actually sip a straight shot of tequila, instead of just slamming it home. And you've chosen wisely, I see," I said.
"Well thank you for the consideration of my choosing skills, kind sir," she responded with mock seriousness. "I take it you are a tequila snob."
"I am probably a snob of all things distilled," I responded. "When I was a child, I drank like a child, but now that I've matured somewhat, I like to critique the handiwork of fine distillers. And you do that by sipping, and by not putting anything else into the glass except maybe some ice."
"So you're really not trying to pick me up then?" she said completely seriously.
"Wasn't planning on it, but if you'd like to be picked up, I'm sure we could work something out," I responded, holding up my ringless left hand with the fingers spread.
"I'm Amy, Amy Umbarger to be exact, and you are ..."
"Allister Sanford. Allie to my friends as you can see why," I answered.
She took the few steps over to me since I had a plate of food that I was working on. I asked if she wanted something to go with her tequila, but she declined. I turned to the bartender and ordered myself a shot of Don Julio, also over ice. We made a small toast to the gods of agave.
Not only didn't Amy Umbarger drink like your average woman, she certainly didn't look like your average woman, especially for the crowd that usually frequents Gorgio's. She had long dark brown hair that fell to her small waist and kind of hid what I was guessing to be 36Cs in her silky blouse. She was about 5-6, with toned-looking legs in her fairly tight jeans, and those legs finished at what might have been the best ass I've ever seen live in person. I'm more of a boob man than anything, but this woman had an ass to die for.
"Do I pass inspection?" she asked, catching me ogling her.
"Oh yeah," I said while blushing over my stupidity.
I again held up my left hand, and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm kind of new at this. Haven't done this for a very long time."
She giggled, and I was totally gone. We talked for about two hours, telling each other about our divorces and our jobs among other things, before one of her friends from the table came over and said her friends were going home. She told me she had to leave since she didn't drive tonight, but she picked my cellphone out of my shirt pocket and put her number in.
"Only an idiot would lose that," she whispered to me as she bussed my cheek.
It took every ounce of willpower not to call her until the middle of the next day, and when I finally did, she confessed that she thought I lost the number. Nobody that she had ever given her number to had taken that long to call, she said unashamedly. She also said I passed muster among the four friends of hers at the table.
We must have talked for an hour. I found out she was 45 and was born and raised in this general area. Her parents, in fact, still lived about an hour from her, and that she visited them on a regular basis. My parents, I told her, had both died within the last 10 years. Her lone child, a daughter, was a senior at Purdue University in Indiana.
I let her pick the restaurant and she chose one of the better French places in town. We drank vodka with our meal once I explained to her that both of my favorites were made in France -- Grey Goose and Ciroc -- and were made out of grapes instead of potatoes.
"Leave it to the French to do something else ingenious with grapes in addition to wine," she toasted.
It wasn't until our fourth date that we had sex, and that was done with a condom. She told me she wasn't on the pill since she wasn't very active sexually, but she was smart enough to use condoms, especially since at her age she was still within childbearing age. I didn't mind using a condom although it was the first time since before I was married to Traci. Despite the fact that I hadn't had sex in over a year, I wasn't a lust-crazed Lothario, and managed to hold out for a fair amount of time before cumming, but it wasn't near as satisfying as the sex I had with my ex-wife. I could tell by her face that she wasn't exactly swooning over my performance either. I did bring her off three times with my talented fingers, but I knew I could do better.
"Let's do this again in a couple of weeks after we both get ourselves tested and bring back healthy report cards" I said. "Then you can get 'the full Allie.'" I even used air quotes.
"Cheeky bastard, aren't you?" she replied.
"We'll see," I rejoined.
Two weeks later we presented each other with clean bills of health, and I was like a man let out of prison. I couldn't wait to get at her pussy with my mouth, and my enthusiasm for the night was sky high. She was equally up to the task and incredibly responsive, and it only took about five minutes of hand-play to get her to cum hard for her first orgasm. I got her five more times with my fingers, then I slid down the bed to get my first hot meal in about two years.
I put that gorgeous ass in both hands, then laid the flat of my tongue over the opening of her pussy, causing her to shriek my name. Traci used to just scream unintelligibly, so this was the first time in forever that I heard a woman scream out my name during sex. What a fucking turn-on! I went absolutely nuts after that, and used virtually every mouth and tongue trick that I ever knew on her.
"Jesus Allie!" she screamed. "Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!"
She then squeezed her legs together as much as possible with my face buried in her pussy and started to convulse wildly for about 30 seconds. She was yelling for me to stop, I think, but I wasn't sure because for a few seconds there she had cut off my air supply and I was fighting for a breath. She then stopped moving for a few seconds while I took my face out of her cunt and got some precious air back into my lungs.
"Whoa, whoa whoa, you fucking monster!" she suddenly yelled out. "How long have I been out?"
"About 10 seconds," I panted back.
"That was fucking amazing! That's never happened before! But you have to come back up here now and fuck me hard because I'm running out of steam."
So I did what the doctor ordered. I even got her off one more time on my cock before she finally got me, and I came as hard as I ever have in my life. What a fucking woman!
"Amy Um," as I began calling her, and I became exclusive that night, and were for the next six months until I blew it with one simple question.
"Will you marry me?" I asked her one night while she was coming down after about a dozen hard orgasms in my bed.
I could feel her body tense up in a completely different way than she did when she was sexually excited, and I knew that it wasn't going to go well for me. She hesitated, and I answered negatively for her.
"I'm sorry, Allie, I really am, but I'm just not ready to do marriage again this soon," she said as she started to choke up. "And I know that's what you want and really need: a firm commitment. I get it. And I know we're exclusive and everything, but if I can't do marriage then I think I need to let you go find a woman who can. Sooner or later, I might not want to not be exclusive, and it gets really complicated when you're married. And I love you too much to ever cheat on you, but I don't want to make your life miserable by waiting on me to make a commitment. I don't want you to look back on this 15 years from now and blame me for deceiving you."
I felt gut-punched. Next to finding out that Traci was cheating on me, this might have been the worst moment of my life. But if nothing else, being in the Special Forces taught me that sometimes you had to take a bullet and keep moving forward.
I didn't date again for about six months, and then I jumped back into the game, as much to shut up Dick Reed as anything else.
"There's good pussy out there, bro. You're just letting it walk right by you," he'd say when he saw me.
I wasn't really looking when I first saw her, but circumstances changed that. She was sitting alone at the end of the bar in Stewart's, a favorite hang-out of the office crowd in downtown. I almost never go in the place, but I was in the neighborhood at a meeting, and when one of the guys in the meeting with me suggested we go over after we finished, it sounded like a pretty good idea. What else did I have going for me on a Thursday evening?
As my two companions and I were eating, she walked in, wearing a classy jacket and knee-length skirt combination, took a quick look around and walked over to the end of the bar. I'm not sure what the conversation was about anymore, because I stopped participating and became engrossed with this woman. Her outfit and the way she carried herself said "total confidence, complete control," but she moved haltingly, like she was expecting to meet someone she didn't see.
As her skirt was somewhat tapered, I could tell she had a tight ass and strong-looking thighs, so I guessed her to be, or have been, a volleyball player, especially since she was about 5-10. On her head was a mop of longish, unruly brown ringlet curls, which I found rather attractive. What I also found attractive was her beautiful face framed by all those curls, and her absolutely flawless caramel-colored skin. I guessed her to be about 35.
She sat down at the bar, spoke to the bartender and was served a white wine. The sharks started circling immediately. Maybe this was why she looked so reluctant coming in.
She rejected the first three guys that came up to her, but guy No. 4 seemed to be a little more persistent. When he put his hand on her forearm and she shook it off, I figured it was time to play cavalry. I excused myself from the dinner table after laying down a hundred-dollar bill for the meal, picked up my empty drink glass and headed for the pair.
"I'm sorry for not spotting you earlier," I said to the woman as I approached, "So I was having a drink with Bill and Harry. Can I get you another while I grab another for myself?"
She hesitated, which gave Mr. Forearm Toucher all the opening he thought he needed.
"Nice try, buddy. But the lady is with me tonight," he sneered.
"Well, no hard feelings then. You can't blame a guy for trying," I answered as I stuck out my hand for a handshake.
"No, we're OK bro ... ooo ... ooo shit."
He tried to yank his hand out of my grasp, but I held on tight and started shifting the bones around in his hand. He tried to push me off with his free hand, but I grabbed that wrist and twisted.
"All right! All right!" he half-whispered, half-whined.
I released his hands and he headed off.
The bartender came over and I asked for two more of what we were both drinking. I sat down next to this beauty, stuck out my hand and announced, "Allie Sanford. And no, I'm not trying to pick you up. It's a hobby of mine, saving damsels in distress. You should see me with a sword and a shield."
She put her caramel-colored hand in mine and I shook it gently, careful not to put any marks on that beautiful skin.
"Thank you for not breaking my hand, Allie," she said with a small chuckle.
She was trying to smile, but I got more sadness than anything out of the look.
"Randi -- Miranda White," she said.
"Well Randy Miranda White, that's probably more information than I needed, but it's nice to meet you."
I could see a pink flush start up her neck and wash over her face.
"That's not what I meant. Randi, just call me Randi," she choked out.
"Damn, I knew I just couldn't get that lucky," I rejoined.
She giggled this time, and I realized how long it had been since I had last heard that sound.
We talked for about an hour. Randi was a buyer for a retail chain in the area. She had come into the restaurant for a soothing drink after a tough day. She was aware that with her looks, going into a restaurant or bar alone would mean the inevitable, especially since she wasn't wearing a wedding ring.
"Same problem I have," I joked.
She giggled again, and gently punched my arm.
We briefly talked about why neither of us was wearing a ring. Seems she had one on for 23 years, before finding out that her husband was in the middle of what turned out to be his third affair.
"You were married 23 years" I questioned, sounding incredulous. "I figured you for about 35. Do you mind if I ask your age?"
"As long as you don't ask my weight," she said. "I'm 52."
"Holy shit!" I responded.
"I'll take that as a compliment," she offered.
I could have stayed there all night talking with this beauty, but I didn't want to overstay my welcome. Sometimes going home early is the better part of valor. But as I was saying my good-nights when I walked her to her car, I asked for -- and received -- her phone number. Ka-ching!
I'm not getting any younger, and the chance to date a beautiful woman doesn't come up every day in my world, so I called her almost as soon as I got home from the restaurant.
"I know this seems a little desperate ... OK, a lot desperate ... but do you want to do dinner and a movie this Friday?"
"Well, I've got to admit the desperation is charming on you. Yes, but I choose the movie," she replied.
I found out over dinner that Randi had been divorced for seven years. I tried to keep my face neutral when she said that, because I immediately started wondering ...
"Is seven years not long enough to get over my ex," she asked.
"No, that's not it," I said. "My last somewhat serious encounter still wanted to be free five years after her divorce, so I was wondering if you might also have commitment issues."
Her eyes flashed daggers at me.
"Moving a little fast here, Slick? This is our first date, and you're already thinking long-term? Why don't you relax and just let it happen. We're all different. Let's see where this leads."
"My apologies. I know you are all different. I just got hurt real bad, and I guess I'm anticipating ..."
"Don't anticipate me. Just let us happen."
"Let us happen. I like the sound of that," I thought to myself.
Randi was a calmer, quieter personality than Amy, although once I finally got her into bed -- on our eighth date -- she wasn't any calmer nor quieter when I put my tongue on her pussy. In fact, those strong legs of hers almost choked me into submission the first time I ate her pussy. By her fourth screaming orgasm by mouth, she was breathing like a freight train and I was sucking air like a drowning man with my face stuck as deep into her pussy as it could be. I quickly tapped both legs to get her to release the vice grip she had on my head.
I came up sputtering for air with KY lube and her cum up my nose.
"I'm sorry, Baby, I got carried away," she quickly apologized. "Nobody's done that to me in a long time ... and nobody has ever done that to me that good! That was amazing!"
Once I caught my breath, I flipped her over into doggy and took her slowly and passionately. She came once more before I did, then when we were finished we spooned for about 15 minutes, with me occasionally planting kisses on her lightly sweating back. Her skin felt as smooth as it looked. She moaned a lot while we were cuddling.
"Nobody's done this with me for a long time either," she purred.
When she went to get up, I rolled her onto her back, sucked for a while on each breast, then licked that wonderful smooth skin from her boobs all the way up her chest and neck to her lips. And despite the fact that my face was coated with her cum and KY, I planted my most passionate kiss on those lips. She didn't back off even the tiniest bit from the kiss, and in fact, noted she liked the taste of herself on me.
"Good, because I'd like to make that a regular thing," I chuckled back to her.
I later found out that both of Randi's parents were teachers, which, I think, explained the fact she was very precise in almost everything she did. I, on the other hand, had a tendency to wing things when it came down to crunch time. Special Forces had taught me to plan well, but be ready to be adaptive and go off-book when I needed to get things done and the plan wasn't working. My spontaneity, shall we say, sometimes irritated her, sometimes flabbergasted her, and then sometimes blew her away. For my part, I have to admit that sometimes her seeming obsession with perfection got under my skin. We'd have little stupid arguments over these differences in our personalities, and then of course we'd have to have makeup sex. And then I'd point out to her that she never had a problem with my spontaneity in bed, and she'd just get that pink flush up her neck and into her cheeks.
About the only time Randi ever showed any real spontaneity was on the dance floor. We would occasionally go out to a club, and that girl just loved to hoof it. I have pretty good stamina, but after a while I'd have to sit down and rest. She would just keep on going with whoever was around her, and in minutes there would be a group of both men and women dancing with her. I was OK with that as long as no one put his or her hands on her. I explained to her my rules about fidelity and touching, and she agreed wholeheartedly. But every once in a while, some young stud would try to hold her or take her hand and bring her to his table against her will, and then I would have to intervene. Usually I could get that done quietly, but every now and then I'd literally have to twist somebody's arm and take him over to club security for a quick ejection. I guess the word got out, though, that I was former Special Forces, because I never had anybody waiting for me in the parking lot.
As had become the tradition since Traci and I split, my oldest daughter, Lauren, made family Christmas at her house. That, and a few other family times during the year, were the only times Traci and I were together. It took great restraint on my part just to be civil to her, while she continually tried to get back in my good graces. Lauren had told me once before that Traci figured that she and I would eventually get back together, once I got over my wounded pride. Lauren had the good sense to look sheepish when she told me.
I had been dating Randi for about nine months, so I asked Lauren in a phone conversation if I could bring her to Christmas. Lauren hesitated, then asked me how serious I was about Randi. When I responded "very," Lauren simply said OK. She told me that she was going to warn Traci that I was bringing someone so hopefully there would be less drama.
"If there's any drama, I can guarantee it won't come from Randi," I stated.
Randi never had children. It seemed that her ex was shooting blanks. But judging by the way she took to my children and my grandchildren, she would have been a natural as a mother. My kids, by the way, were as taken with Randi as I was, and Lauren asked me why I was waiting to pull the trigger.
"Man up, tough Special Forces guy, and ask this woman to be your wife before somebody else steals her away," Lauren said. "We all love her, and I think the grandchildren would love to have her become Grandma Randi."
For her part, Traci was rather standoffish for the two days we were at Lauren's, which was probably the best I could hope for. She was not quite civil when I introduced her to Randi.
"I didn't realize you were fishing in the kiddie pool," Traci said to me as Randi frowned.
"Believe it or not, Randi's just a couple of years younger than us," I said quickly trying to defuse the situation. "It's that perfect skin that does it, I think. I, too, thought I was stealing someone's youngster."
Traci looked disgusted and walked away. I gave Randi one of those eyebrows raised looks that says, "What are young going to do?"
But the best part of the holiday came when Traci's mother, Linda, was leaving early after the Christmas meal. I had always gotten along great with Linda, and I know she had hoped I would stay with her daughter despite "Traci pulling a rock," as she put it. When she came up to me for a good-bye hug, she leaned in close and whispered, "I like her. Get this deal done."
I waited three more months, and on the anniversary of our first official date, I handed Randi a diamond ring and asked if we could make this a permanent thing. She jumped into my arms, gave me the best hug I'd ever had in my life and then outdid that with the most passionate kiss I'd ever had. Then she broke down in tears, completely soaking my left shoulder. All in all, I'd have to say it was a pretty positive reaction.
"Well it's about time, Slick," she said, calling me by the nickname she used on me on our very first date. "I thought maybe I scared you off when I told you that you were moving awfully fast. But just maybe you knew something that I didn't."
++++++++++
I sent Dick Reed a bottle of 18-year-old Jameson Irish Whiskey the other day as a belated thanks. Randi and I just celebrated our 10th anniversary, and, in truth, Dick had a hand in that. If left to my own devices, I would have become a hermit after my divorce from Traci. But Dick just wouldn't shut up about how much pussy a single guy in his 50s could get, so as much as anything I went back into the dating scene just to shut him up. And the rest, as they say, is history.
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