[Note: Despite the category of this story, there is no male/male sex, or even foreshadowing of it, in this segment of the story.]
*
It was a the tiniest piece of red foil—easy to miss. So easy that my wife clearly had. I could have, too. If I'd missed it, the cleaning lady certainly would have cleaned it up the next day, on her weekly visit and, then, things would have gone quite differently—for a lot of people.
I was taking a piss just before going to bed, not thinking of anything in particular and certainly not focusing on the surroundings of the toilet. I don't know why it caught my eye. Maybe the light glinted off of it. When I finished pissing, I knelt down and picked it up.
It was the tiniest bit of foil, but enough for any guy to recognize what it was: a piece of a condom wrapper!
My wife, Marcie, and I have been married for ten years. Neither of us wanted kids, so I got a vasectomy about five years ago. We hadn't used any kind of birth control since then, and certainly not condoms. But here is was—a fresh condom wrapper in our bathroom.
I'd like to say that I had sensed something wrong in our relationship—that this answered a question that had been nagging me. But it hadn't even occurred to me that Marcie might be having an affair. Of course, we didn't have sex as often, or as wildly, as we once did, but I thought we had a pretty good sex life. And Marcie had never said or done anything to make me suspect that she wasn't happy with it.
So, this was a shock to me, to say the least.
I suppose lots of guys would have confronted here right then and there. Some would have done it violently. Not me. That's not my style. I can be decisive. (I wouldn't be a V.P. of Operations at my company if I couldn't.) But I was careful; I did my research and got my facts straight before I acted. And that's what I resolved to do now.
No more evidence of infidelity was necessary, of course. There was no innocent explanation for what I'd found. But I wanted to know more than
that
Marcie was having an affair. I wanted to know with whom, for how long, how often she'd seen him, and, if possible, when she'd seen him. I thought I had some ideas about how to sleuth that information out.
Slipping the piece of foil into my bathrobe pocket, I went back to the bedroom and climbed into bed with Marcie. She snuggled up to me as if to start something, rubbing her hands over my body. I turned away, prompting her to ask if something was wrong.
"No. I'm just really tired," I lied. It's not as if I had resolved not to touch her. I just couldn't bring myself to touch her right now.
My body wasn't particularly tired. The fatigue was really in my soul. I felt defeated and despondent. My mind, though, was revved up like a dragster waiting for the green light. There was no chance I would be getting to sleep soon, or maybe at all, that night.
I lay there plotting and worrying for about half an hour, till I was sure that Marcie was sound asleep. Then I went into the room she used as an office. Marcie's a very competent person, but she's not tech savvy. I was "tech support" for her computer and for her phone.
Never, in our ten year marriage, had I snooped into her stuff. I'd never looked at her email, her calendar, her phone log, or her diary. I didn't even know whether she kept a diary. I'd had no reason to want to ... until now.
I didn't know her passwords but it's easy enough to install a software keylogger and collect that information. After I'd done that, I checked her phone's call log and text history. Sure enough, there was a number that she called, and called her, repeatedly that wasn't associated with any name in her people folder. I tried, without luck, to get a name by doing a reverse look-up on the computer. For now, then, the identity of the caller—and almost certainly the owner of the condom I'd found evidence of—was beyond my reach. For now! But that was going to change.
Going through the text log didn't tell me much, except to move me from "almost certain" to "completely certain" that whoever owned that phone number was the same person shagging my wife. The text log was clearly incomplete. I found messages that made it obvious that some had been erased. Marcie had made some attempt to clean her text history but, like I said, she wasn't tech savvy and she didn't go about it methodically.
What text messages I could find were, for the most part, innocent enough. But it was clear that meetings were arranged. I decided to connect her phone to my computer and dump everything into a folder there for future data mining but, at this point all I really learned from the text messages is that the guy sometimes signed his messages 'D'. Probably the initial of his first name, but it could be from his last name or a nickname. No telling ... for now.
I tried to go about my business without giving any outward sign of my mental turmoil. I couldn't bring myself to touch Marcie in bed and my goodbye kisses were perfunctory—something she probably noticed and wondered about. But I hid my feelings enough that I didn't provoke her to question me, at least for now.
One day! That's all it took to get the keys to Marcie's private life. The next night, again after she'd gone to sleep, I logged on to her computer, checked the keylogger file and ... BINGO! ... I had her passwords to accounts I didn't know she had.
In addition to her regular gmail account, she had one under the name 'SL060980' using the password 'MILF69'. The password needs no explanation; the '060980' was Marcie's birthday: June 9, 1980. I didn't know immediately what the 'SL' stood for.
I guess Marcie had no concern about anyone hacking into her secret gmail account because, when I did, I found the entire history of her messages, incoming and outgoing there. These answered all my questions, except for "Why?"
The 'D' in the text messages was Devin Speaks. Devin and his wife, Kendra, were friends—not exceptionally close friends but people we'd include in backyard barbeque in the summer and other events like that.
Devin and Kendra were our age and, like us, they'd been married for about ten years. Kendra was hot. I'd fantasized about her lots of times. Kevin was good looking, too. I guess Marcie had had her own fantasies. But, unlike me, she'd decided to live them out.
I couldn't bring myself to go through the whole email record at once. It was devastating. There was nothing humiliating said about me. It wasn't as if Marcie was enjoying the idea of cheating on me—which is not to say that she wasn't enjoying the activity of cheating on me. She just didn't seem to be deriving any pleasure from the fact that she was cuckolding me.
There was no, "let's make fun of that poor sap of a husband," talk. But every cute, flirtatious exchange—the ones that no doubt brought excited smiles to Marcie and Devin—tore at my heart.
I could stand reading the messages for only so long. Long enough to learn that the 'SL' in her username stood for 'Secret Love'. And Long enough to learn that the relationship had been going on for nearly seven months and they were seeing each other once or twice a week, sometimes more.
I tortured myself by trying to recall the times that Marcie and I had shared especially intimate, intense moments during that time. The moments that had seemed so real to me then, now seemed like a lie. When she had held me passionately, screamed out with pleasure while I licked her or fucked her, or when she'd sucked my cock so marvelously, had she been thinking of Devin? Had she been comparing us? Wishing she were with him, instead of me? Fantasizing that she
was
with him, instead of me?
That way lay madness, I realized. So I downloaded the entire record to my computer and resolved to look it over a little at a time, when I felt I could stand it.
As it turned out, I went back to the record regularly—almost every night after Marcie had gone to sleep. I'd pour myself a whiskey, go to my computer, and open the log of her email exchanges and begin reading, sometimes holding in my hand the tiny piece of foil whose discovery had started me down this path.
I would feed myself a little dose of the poison in those emails, taking a perverse pleasure in the pain I was feeling. Maybe I needed reinforce my feeling of being an innocent victim in all of this (which I was, of course) in order to rationalize what I had done—by breaching Marcie's privacy—and what I was going to do—the details of which were gelling in my mind.
I created in Excel a timeline of Marcie and Devin's exchanges. (Okay, I confess to being anal-retentive.) Between the log of the phone calls, the text files, and the extensive emails, I could pretty much identify every time they'd been together, often where they'd met, and sometimes even what they'd done.
What they'd done was, mostly, fuck. They'd had a couple of dinners together. (Maybe that made both of them feel as if this wasn't quite as tawdry as it might otherwise feel.) But mostly, they'd met at hotels and motels for afternoon delights or, when they could both get free for an evening, fucking after their dinners out.
It was clear, though, that they'd also been together in our house—not just the time I found the condom wrapper, but frequently. That disgusted me. While I was at work, Marcie would take an afternoon off and entertain Devin in my house, in my bed. How often had I gone to sleep on sheets still infused with the scent of their illicit sex. I hadn't noticed anything, but it strained credulity to think that Marcie had washed the sheets after every tryst with Devin.
It made me sick to think about it. Maybe they'd taken a bath in our jacuzzi tub—probably they had. Why not? What could be better after screwing a man's wife than to relax in their tub with her, probably sipping a glass of his wine.
Maybe he'd worn my bathrobe after they'd had sex in our marital bed. And then my thoughts spread to the entire house. Had he fucked her on the couch? Over the back of the couch? On the kitchen counter? The kitchen floor? Had she met him in the entry way, naked or only in lingerie and dropped to her knees to suck him off the moment he came in the door?
And then there was Marcie. I wasn't getting any better at faking normalcy when we talked or touched. We hadn't had sex since before I'd found out about her infidelity. I'm sure she suspected something was wrong. I dreaded the moment when she would press me on this because I wasn't sure I could lie convincingly and I didn't want to tell her the truth.
