Chivalry Is on Life Support

The evening did finally end, of course, but not until quite late and not until I had experienced still more humiliating moments. Brooke and I discussed it the next morning at the kitchen table after Luke left for football practice in anticipation of a game the following Sunday.

"What am I going to do?"

"Why are you so worried? It wasn't that bad."

"Wasn't that bad?! One of my best friends, who also happens to be my colleague, now knows that I'm a submissive cuckold who is kept in chastity and punished by his wife's ex-husband. Not to mention your friend, Laura. How much worse could it be?!" When I was upset, my voice was annoyingly (even to me) high pitched.

"With Luke? A hell of a lot worse. I thought he was remarkably restrained, if anything."

She was probably right, but that was little consolation. "I can't believe this." I cupped my forehead with my hand in despair.

"Calm down. You can trust Neil, can't you? He's not going to tell anyone if you ask him not to, I'm sure."

"I hope you're right. I'm going to talk to him on Monday. But how can I ever look him in the eye again? We're peers. How can he ever respect me again?"

"Neil is an intellectual. He respects you for your mind. Like I do. And he'll continue to respect you."

"You really respect me for my mind?"

"Not when you ask me stupid questions like that, I don't."

"Great."

"Look, Walter, we've been over this 100 times. I love your mind. I love you. But, physically, it's a different story. When it comes to the physical, the sexual side of things -- even your ability to stand up for yourself -- you're a complete beta. But Neil isn't going to care about that. As far as Laura is concerned, I'll make her promise not to tell anybody. And even if she does, it's not like she travels in the same social circles as you. I don't think she has any other connections to the college besides me."

"I sure hope you're right, Brooke. Otherwise, I'm completely screwed."

I silently cherished her phrase "I love you," believing it and yet thinking how complex a thing love is. There are supposedly eight different types of love. I believed then (and still do today) that I hold the central place in Brooke's heart when it comes to Philia (deep friendship), Ludus (playful love), Pragma (longstanding love) and even Storge (family love). Unfortunately, it is Luke who owns her heart with respect to perhaps the two most uncontrollable types of love, Eros (sexual passion) and Mania (obsessive love). It seems to me that those two, arguably lust more than love, go hand in hand, usually.

"You need to chill out. Everything's fine. I can tell you one thing, though. I think my matchmaking experiment might've been a resounding success. Laura really likes Neil, and I think he feels the same way. In fact, he's already asked her out on a date."

"Well, that's good, at least," I replied. Even though I wasn't sure it was good at all, to be honest ("Where did you two meet each other?" "Oh, we met at the dinner party where I learned that my good friend is a submissive cuckold. He waited on us all night like a servant." "Wow, that's interesting. Who's your friend?"...).

On Monday morning, I ran into Neil in the hallway of the English department. He had just finished his lecture class on the Bloomsbury Group novelists as I was walking to my Male Masochism in Medieval Romances class.

"Hi, Walter. Saturday was a lot of fun."

"Yeah, I'm glad you enjoyed it. Neil, I need to talk to you for a few minutes."

"Sure. Why don't you come by my office around 3:30?"

"Thanks, I'll see you then."

"Great. Would you mind bringing me a large coffee from Corner Cafe?" Corner Cafe was our on-campus coffee shop, about a ten minute walk from our building.

"Uh, okay...how do you take your coffee?"

"Just a little milk and one package of sugar. It's just that I'm going to be coming directly from class and I always need a pick-me-up around that time of day. I won't have time to stop by the coffee shop myself. You understand, right?"

"Yes, sir. Wow, I can't believe I just said that. Yes, Neil, no problem. I'll see you at 3:30."

Neil smiled at me and said, "We all make Freudian slips once in awhile, don't worry about it. I'll see you in a bit."

As I was standing in line at Corner Cafe to get him his coffee, I wondered to myself if, after my servile performance on Saturday evening, Neil now viewed me as his gofer? Could I blame him if I did? I then told myself I was being foolish and should simply accept his explanation at face value that he didn't have time to go to the coffee shop himself. He was doing me a favor by meeting, after all.

Neil and I started teaching at the college the same year, and are about the same age (he's about 9 months older than me). We've always had a friendly rivalry, but have been professionally supportive of one another. Neil hadn't made tenure yet when we had this awkward conversation in his office (I had good-naturedly teased him about me getting tenure first), but did receive it less than a year later. As I explained early in my story, neither Brooke nor I had many close friends, but in Ohio at least, Neil was my closest. As I now look back on the surreal two years that have elapsed since that conversation, I'm pleased to say that he remains a good friend. That's not to say he hasn't partaken in my humiliation. He has, as you shall see.

"Here's your coffee," I said, handing him the cup as I entered his office and closed the door behind me that afternoon.

"What, no 'sir'?" My face must've dropped because he immediately said, "Come on, Walter, I'm only kidding. Sit down."

"I'm sorry, my sense of humor is not so good these days. I wanted to talk to you about Saturday, obviously. I'm so humiliated. I want to ask you -- no, beg you -- to please not tell anyone else. Especially not Benkins." Andrew Benkins was our Department Chair.

"Don't be silly. Of course, I won't. I'll admit that the whole situation is strange to me, but I have to admire the lengths you're willing to go to do research on your book."

"Thank you. But that's not the real reason."

"I didn't think so."

"Look, I really do want to better understand the psychology of submission and masochism in cuckolding relationships. I really do believe there are fascinating parallels between these relationships and the love triangles in medieval courtly love. Maybe Luke is helping me understand the dynamics of this kind of relationship better. I'm certain he is, in fact. There's a big difference between the fantasy of it and the reality of it."

"There is with most things."

"Yes. And Luke is also helping me with my diet and fitness, I suppose."

"That's super important! You know how I've been on you for years about taking better care of yourself."

"I know. But none of those are the real reason. The real reason that I'm...submitting myself to this...humiliation...the real reason is that I don't want to lose Brooke. She is the best thing to ever happen to me. I love her."

"Brooke is awesome. So, she wants this?"

"Yes. She doesn't want to be married to Luke again. She wants to be married to me. She doesn't have much in common with him intellectually. But physically, she is addicted to him. To his...you know." I stared down at the floor.

"His cock, you mean."

"Yes. He's hung like a walrus."

"I see."

"But it's not just his cock. It's his dominance. The way he dominates her, and...the way he dominates me. It turns her on like nothing else. And not just sexually. It turns her on mentally. Brooke thinks of it all as a game, in some ways."

"And you? Does it turn you on, too? Do you also see it as a game?"

"I don't know. Yes, and no. I'm terribly conflicted, to be honest. It turns me on that it turns her on. The fact that it turns me on, turns her on even more. It's sort of a vicious cycle. There are many aspects to it that do feel like a game, but a very serious one, with high stakes. And the game is exciting sometimes. It's also incredibly humiliating, not to mention painful, much of the time. But sometimes that makes it more exciting. This is probably not making any sense to you. You probably have to be true masochist to really understand. I guess that's what I am."

"Look, I can't say I personally understand what you're talking about, but I've read Krafft-Ebing and Albert Moll, and Wilhelm Stekel. I have a general idea of what you're getting at. I don't judge you for it, Walter. Either of you."

"Thank you, Neil. I truly appreciate your keeping it quiet."

"Don't mention it. You don't need to worry about me." Then, almost as if reading my mind, he added, "How about that Laura? She's a lot of fun. I'm taking her to a movie and dinner next Thursday."

"Good luck with her. She's very pretty."

As I started to leave his office, Neil said, "You probably could do a lot worse than Luke as your dominant bull, you know."

"You really think so? To me, he's an arrogant, anti-intellectual, autocrat-loving, grievance-filled, misogynistic brute. Not to mention a dumb jock, the kind I used to hate in high school."

"To me, he seems like a pretty nice guy. He's also very successful, so it sounds to me like you're underestimating his intelligence. Maybe he has a bit of a point about your elitism, Walter."

"Maybe you're right. But you don't really know him like I do. You've only spent a few hours him, one evening. Believe me, Luke is a textbook asshole. Anyhow, thanks again. I really mean it."

"I know you do. See you later."

So, overall, I felt somewhat better about things after that conversation. Still, I also had a feeling of unease--one no doubt exacerbated by Neil's unbelievable remark that Luke seemed like a nice guy.

The following Sunday, Brooke and I attended Luke's team's second home game. Brooke dressed in her skimpy cheerleading uniform, much to the delight of Luke's teammates (as well as their opponents, no doubt). I'm sure Brooke was humiliated, but seeing her erect nipples pushing out the top of her uniform, she was clearly aroused as well. Observing her with Luke these past several months, I had concluded that Brooke must be a switch of sorts -- so in control with me, so acquiescent with him.

In public, I was spared from having to wear my matching pink uniform that I wore at home to send off and greet Luke before and after his away games. Instead, I wore a male cheerleader's uniform Brooke and Luke ordered for me from some on-line retailer that made customized uniforms. It was in the colors of Luke's team (white, blue and gold) with the name of his team emblazoned across the chest. The pants and shirt were long but tight, a clingy, synthetic, uncomfortable fabric. The shirt exposed about an inch of midriff (more when I jumped or stretched, in mid cheer) and the gold was glittery (unlike the players' uniforms). It was about as emasculating as it could possibly be for a nominally male uniform, especially on an overweight, 38 year old wearing a chastity cage. This effect, of course, was made much worse by the fact that, with Brooke, I was required to wave pom poms in the team's colors during several of the routines we had rehearsed. The field was only about a half hour's drive from campus, so I was constantly in dread of being seen by one of my current or former students, or someone else who knew me through the college.

Because it was a brisk, windy fall afternoon, we both wore jackets when not cheering; Brooke's completely bare, taut midriff was especially vulnerable. Luke expected us to cheer at the start of the game, anytime his team scored, and especially anytime he made an open field tackle, or some other notable play. And also, of course, if they won -- which they did decisively (24-6) that afternoon. Luke had three quarterback sacks and 8 open field tackles, so Brooke and I cheered our asses off. We moved so much that we didn't need to wear our jackets for most of the game despite the temperature; in fact, we were both quite sweaty by its conclusion.

With the exception of twin 10-year-old girls, the daughters of the team's place kicker, Brooke and I were the only cheerleaders in attendance. Luke's teammates thought it was hilarious that he had his ex-wife and her new husband cheering him on, in such humiliating attire. The two girls were also highly amused. When not cheering, I did double duty as the team's towel boy-- though I was probably at least a decade older than all of them except possibly for the kicker--bringing Luke and his teammates towels and liquid refreshments throughout the game. I also had to pick up their sweaty towels and stuff them into an enormous duffel bag at the conclusion of the game, following which Luke generously volunteered my services of washing everyone's towels back at our home. Why not their dirty uniforms, socks and underwear, too, I wondered bitterly to myself. As it turned out, the following season and thereafter, after the city's new field was completed with adjacent locker rooms and shower stalls, I did indeed become responsible for collecting all of their sweaty clothes to take home to wash and dry. That's still the case today. It takes five or six loads each time, and multiple hours.

While Luke was on the field playing defense in the fourth quarter, his team's running back, a light skinned black man, probably only in his mid 20s, said to me (in front of Brooke and two offensive linemen), "Damn man. You're married to Luke's ex, and you're wearing that ridiculous uniform and cheering him on and shit? Bringing him towels and shit? With your wife dressed that way, jumpin around with her tits bouncing up and down. That's fucked up."

Before I had a chance to respond-- not having any clue what I would say to him (and basically agreeing with everything he had said to me)-- one of the offensive lineman (a huge white guy, probably 300 pounds) bailed me out.

"Leave him alone, Buckner. Luke's just up to his usual shit."

The third player (also huge) added, "Yeah, come on, Buckner, you know Hanover. He's got trophy cucks the way some guys have trophy wives."

"Yeah, but this is the first time I've ever seen him with a trophy EX-wife," said the first lineman. All three of them laughed.

Just then Luke had his third and final sack of the day. The larger of the two massive lineman said to Brooke, "Your man just got another sack, sugar tits. Time to look alive. You too, cuck." I could take being called cuck, but I resented this gigantic oaf referring to Brooke in that demeaning manner. I wanted to punch him in the face. Still, I did not wish to be hospitalized, so I grabbed my pom poms and followed Brooke out onto the sidelines.

And, so, we launched into our cheer celebrating Luke specifically ("Stronger than steel..."). I executed my moves with enthusiasm, still recalling the pain of the spanking Luke had administered with his bare hands in our living room following his team's victory in its home opener three weeks earlier, after finding my cheerleading efforts to be lackluster. At the conclusion of the game, after being named MVP by his teammates, Luke sat on the top step of the bleachers surrounded by them, sipping a large bottle of Gatorade I had brought him. Brooke and I sat on the bottom step, catching our breath after our post game cheer.

"Man, my feet are killing me," he announced. Looking at Brooke and me, he simply said, "Massage," nodding at his feet.

Brooke and I quickly ascended the steps, kneeling on the one two below where his feet were resting. We each removed one of his shoes and socks, and began kneading his soles in unison. Luke looked around with an entitled, self-satisfied expression.

His teammates were not shy about commenting on this unusual spectacle.

"Must be good to be Hanover."

"Must suck to be the cuck." General laughter.

"The way you were running around there today, Hanover, your feet must stink to high heaven.

The running back was the first to leave, while Brooke and I were still working on Luke's feet. As he walked down the steps past me, he looked down and caught my eye momentarily, saying, "Fucking pathetic. Have some dignity, man." He was like a one man Greek chorus in the sordid, surreal little drama in which I found myself. Would it end in tragedy, I wondered?

Luke and Brooke couldn't even wait until they got home. He took her from behind in the backseat of his truck, after instructing me to drive to an empty corner of the field parking lot. I sat in shame in the driver's seat, glancing several times in the rear view mirror, usually following some particularly loud moan or yelp emanating from Brooke or loud smacking of flesh against flesh. Afterwards, I drove them home (nervous driving such a huge vehicle for the first time, a very different experience than driving my 2011 Prius), thereby adding chauffeur to cheerleader, towel boy and foot masseur on my ever expanding list of servile responsibilities. And all of those on that one day alone.

Fucking pathetic, indeed.