A Hypothetical Marital Catastrophe

(The usual proviso: This story is fiction. All persons depicted as having sex or in an erotic situation were designated by the writer to be adults, having achieved at least their eighteenth birthdays. All persons in this story are products of the writer's imagination, and any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.)

*****

Across the dance floor on the other side of the ballroom from our table, we could see and occasionally hear the party of eight men and three women. They ranged in age from early twenties to early or mid fifties. Every nuance and fiber of their existence boasted of affluence and raw power.

It was an office party in combination with a New Year's Eve celebration.

We were four old friends who were getting tired of waiting for our wives to return from the toilet. We had sat for almost an hour in companionable boredom watching the other paying guests as they claimed their tables for the New Year's Eve Gala. Tables for the annual dinner dance at this locally famous hotel were booked two years in advance. Those lucky enough to get reservations needed a second mortgage on the house to pay for a package deal consisting of two dinner dance tickets and an overnight stay.

It was only five o'clock, but we had come down with our wives to have a drink before dinner and enjoy the opulence of the luxury hotel.

At times the celebrants at the special party table would laugh boisterously, but they were not offensive. All were tailored, erudite in composure and of healthy appearance.

Commenting on the antics of the happy eleven had become our only source of conversation. We were not accustomed to nights out in such heady atmosphere. Our long established Friday night barbecues in someone's backyard had become a comfortable norm for our entertainment agenda.

One of the office party's participants, however, was proving to be obnoxious. He caught my attention primarily because his practiced magisterial image belied his strange behavior. Impudence as a strategy often is the opening gambit of an accomplished confidence racketeer. This man was expensively tanned and barbered. Obviously a natural leader, he was endowed with an abundance of salt and pepper gray hair and a thin carefully cultivated moustache.

Mister Confidence would arise at intervals, flash a smirking smile and approach other tables, apparently addressing only the women. He would hold out a bottle and a stack of white envelopes as he said something that brought obviously reluctant laughter or quick negative head shakes from the bemused women and frowns from the disconcerted men.

When one woman accepted the envelopes, the courtly intruder placed the wine in the middle of her table, bowed and returned to his party. The woman arose smiling weakly, and with nervous eyes darting about the room, she spoke briefly to her obviously distressed escort before walking briskly toward the hallway leading to the toilets.

Accuse me of being judgmental, and I would plead guilty. Just call me a limited libertarian. In an ideal world, I would accept unfettered personal liberty. The idealism always got dicey in the details. I perceived, however, that the man with the audacious bottle of wine was doing something that stressed the marriage bonds of the people he approached.

Maybe it was the cop in me. Few realized that I held rank as a detective. To do my job at crime scenes as a forensic psychologist, it was necessary for me to have the badge and commission of authority. Whatever my motivation, I was furious with the man's insidious behavior. Realizing that I was borrowing trouble, I consciously dimmed my awareness. I had promised my wife, Gail, that I would "cool it" for tonight and concentrate on having fun for a change. She was right. Sometimes even I get tired of viewing the world through forensic eyes.

Ignoring the scene was easier said than done. Something about him other than the obvious was making heat in my unconscious. It was just a perception, call it a hunch, but I was becoming convinced that his scheme ultimately would lead to the subjection of the women and simplistic merchandizing of sex. As it turned out, unfortunately, I was painfully right about his pimping, but it was not at all simplistic.

As we continued to await the return of our now contemptible wives, Gary stood and strode with determination toward the hallway that led to the toilets. My first impulse was to try to stop him. We had agreed until that juncture that finding our wives and registering our unhappiness with their lack of consideration would lead to heated if not acrimonious exchange of words. And this was supposed to be a five star weekend of incredible pleasure. We had been promised "unrestrained sex," gourmet food, sensually invigorating dancing and a reintroduction to the "sexual beast" of our honeymoon night.

"Maybe Gary will find them and they'll realize how long they'd been gone," Henry said. "I'll bet they got to gabbing with some of these rich wives and got hung up on stories of the rich and famous."

Then we watch Gary returning, making his way through the crowd with difficulty. His fury was evident before he reached out table.

"Were they in the toilet?" Bob asked.

"Yeah! I got a quick scan as the door opened, and I saw Margie," Gary sighed as he fell into his chair. "There's a mob of women in there. They're having some kind of sales demonstration or trade show, but a bruiser in a uniform blocked me before I got more than a quick eyeshot."

"You got to be kidding!" Henry said. "How could there be a show in the women's toilet?"

"It's not like any toilet I've seen," Gary responded. "They call it the women's lounge. It's bigger than the Shriner's auditorium. And it has this big stage and a bar a mile long."

The uniformed bruiser did tell Gary that the event in progress in the women's lounge was a "merchandising event." The lounge portion of the facility had been reserved by a government agency; and It was by invitation only.

Our frustration was turning into anger, and I knew we couldn't let that happen. There were no obvious options; so, in desperation, I called the cute waitress over and asked for a deck of cards. I was seeking comic relief and she was smart. She laughed spontaneously, quickly catching on that we were experiencing a dilemma wrapped in an absurdity.

"If I were a good looking guy like you guys," she said. "I'd go over to one of the tables where there's a woman aching to dance and get me a dance partner."

"No music," I pointed out. "The band hasn't started yet."

"My god! You don't need music," the girl giggled as she walked away flipping her short skirt. "Do I have to draw you a picture?"

Our collective depression deepened as the waitress disappeared into the noise and semi darkness of the ballroom.

"I'm ready to taker her up on her suggestion," Gary fumed.

"No you're not," I laughed. "They'll be back soon, and they'll be so apologetic and embarrassed that they'll be like puppy dogs on a leash the rest of the night."

"The hell you say!" Gary muttered.

Predictably, we all continued to sit and nurture our anger. We stared at the entrance to the hallway that led to the toilet.

Another 30 minutes passed. Unfortunately, the absence of our wives had become even more malignant.

As Henry was commenting absently about some news story on the internet, the supercilious man scored another success in giving away his bottle and envelopes. There were two more women buying whatever he was selling. The responding women paused this time as one of the men had become hostile. After a heated rant by the offended man, one of the women laughed as two men, apparently their escorts, arose in protest. Unruffled, the woman kissed his cheek, giggling with a patronizing wifely indulgence. Both women waved to their companions, shrugged with mock diffidence and strode away behind Mister Personality toward the hallway leading to the women's lounge.

My growing anxiety was not observed immediately by my friends as they attempted indifferently to guess who the imposing man could be. Of course, they had never in all our years as acquaintances understood or even questioned what I did as a forensic psychologist. Enhanced perception, always present with a "violent crime specialist," had prompted the feeling that I had met or encountered the man under less than favorable circumstances.

In my business, such memory flashes were expected as a necessary part of an investigation. But I had promised my wife to turn off the perceptive impulses. This was an important personal event, a party that our wives had planned with extraordinary anticipation for months. And incredibly costly it was. No lapsing into professional "hypothesis mode" would be tolerated.

Watching the strange dramatics of the enigmatic stranger had diverted my friends' attention from their growing concern about the prolonged absence of our wives.

"Whatever voodoo he's up to," Henry said with a rare effort to be clever, " he's doing it in the women's lounge.

Maybe he's transgender, Gary contributed. It was unconscious hyperbole, but, considering the perfected and comprehensive masculinity of the man, we all laughed at the faulty oxymoron.

He looked more like a dildo model, Gary added.

We all laughed again, once more thankful for a diversion from sitting half an hour awaiting the return of our wives. But my growing conviction that I had met the man before was dampening my enthusiasm for this once in a life time New Year's Eve party.

Bob was more circumspect in his speculation. Like most auditors, he was suspicious.

"Come on Bob," Gary joked. "Even you couldn't believe all four of our wives would allow themselves to get seduced at the same time by the same man in the same public toilet."

It was funny. Bob did not joke often. We all laughed and sipped more of our New Year's Eve fool's juice.

There was a lull in our conversation and the episodic activity around the ballroom had slowed momentarily. It was early. I pitied the poor pianist whose pop tunes were lost in the hubbub. The New Year's Eve band was not scheduled to begin until 8 o'clock.

We were old friends. There was no need for strained conversation, but I heard myself idly responding to something that Henry had just said about un committed sex on the internet.

Proudly, I had just said that my wife, Gail, and I had never "fucked" in the 26 years we had known each other.

"Never?" someone at my table asked.

"We've been together 24 years and married 22 years," I answered, "and I can safely say neither of us has ever "fucked."

"Charlie, must I remind you that you purport to have sired three of the best kids in God's kingdom?" Bob said, almost giggling. "And you say you never fucked your wife?"

"Charlie, I do not lust after my friend's wives," Gary said, laughing under his breath. "But I have noticed that Gail is one gorgeous female who would never put up with that idiocy for 24 years."

"Charlie, you have left open all kinds of sinister implications," Bob said seriously. Bob, the world's best CPA, was always carefully determining fact from fiction. "I think you need to make an amendment or two."

"I know Gail would never screw around, Charlie," Gary snickered. "So that leave you screwing around and Gail having three kids by immaculate conception."

"Neither Gail nor I has ever had sex with anyone else," I stammered, my face flushed. "Okay! Cut it out, you guys."

All three friends mockingly contorted their faces tauntingly, but it was friendly.

No! My friends and I do not make a practice of discussing our sex lives. But Henry had just summarized a Literotica story about a husband who made a distinction between "fucking" and "making love." Without thinking, I had blurted that Gail and I apparently had always made love. Since I had never had another sex partner, I reasoned that I had never experienced "fucking."

We four veteran husbands were lazily sipping the second of our carefully rationed New Year's Eve drinks as we awaited the return of our spouses. They were making their first trip to the Carstairs Hotel's legendary women's lounge that I, uncultured husband that I was, had called a toilet.

Our wives, who were enjoying our infrequent "high end" night out, had considered visiting the Carstairs toilet to be at the top of their list of the hotel's exquisite attractions.

"I understand that it's nothing less than spacious luxury with 19th Century gold fixtures," my wife had enthused during her campaign to convince me to buy into the $1,200-a-couple New Year's Eve package. "The toilet seats are always warm; and they have uniformed attendants who hand you warm wash cloths and soft towels; and they have samples of the most exclusive cosmetics and perfumes."

Also, all of our best friends, couples we had known since college, had indicated that they were interested if I connected the circle and agreed. It was up to me. I confess that the price tag staggered my perception of a "good time," but I owed Gail. I had not neglected her, but during the past few weeks I had been worried about a commission that would rank as my most challenging analysis. This distraction was temporary but a distraction nevertheless.

It was, however, the 24-piece orchestra playing "Big Band" hits from the historic "World War Two Era" that clinched the sale for Gail and the wives. They all loved to dance while none of us husbands enjoyed more than a few slow, nipple rubbing numbers. To their credit, moreover, the girls never complained; and there was never any demand for a "girl's night out."

"What happened to those wives?" Bob asked casting his eyes across the room toward the hallway to the toilets.

"Must be some toilet," Gary said with a concerned laugh. "They've been gone an hour."

Stopping the passing waitress, I asked her if she would enquire in the toilet about our wives.

"Oh! They'll be awhile," the waitress said. "There's a marketing presentation in the women's lounge, and for the women who stay to the end, there's a basket full of luxury goodies."

As the crowd noise had lulled momentarily in the ballroom, we had concentrated on Bob's account of a meeting with the contractor about the new roof for the sanctuary. He had captured our attention when he said the bill would be $43,872. We all contributed generously to the church, but this was going to take a painful bite out of our church's maintenance fund.

Suddenly, Gary's eyes widened. I had turned away from the ballroom crowd as I listened to Bob. At first I didn't understand Gary's gestures and head jerks. He was vigorously redirecting my attention toward the dance floor behind me. Obviously, something had shocked Gary.

Though I had neither seen nor heard warning signs, my world was about to crumble like a week-old birthday cake.

"Charlie!" Gary said, theatrically sotto voce. "I think you are about to meet Mister Hair Do Supreme."

"Huh!" That was the pathetic sound I made in my throat as I swiveled my head to look across the dance floor. My wife was coming toward me escorted by the man sporting ten pounds of cultivated hair and a pencil moustache. Her escort was "bigger than life." I never had seen a $2,000 suit, but that's the first shadow of doubt that crossed my mind as turned to watch them approach.

Gail was carrying a bottle and a white envelope. Her escort walked imperiously, gracefully holding Gail's elbow. Henry's Marcie, Bob's Jeanine and Gary's June walked behind Gail and her smiling escort.

"He's six-foot five at least," Bob whispered in awe.

"Bet he's an Olympic champion bench presser," Bob said.

"What the hell is he doing with Gail!" I hissed.

Gail obviously was ecstatic as she approached guided by Mister Personality Plus, clutching her bottle and four envelopes. This was not like Gail. She had never taken flights of fantasy, and that was what I saw in her beaming face as she introduced her escort.

"This is my husband...," she said pointing at me. She moved her finger to Henry, saying his name, and concluded with Bob.

"My pleasure!" the man boomed, extending his manicured hand and seizing my hand though I had made no move top shake.

"Charlie, this is..." Gail began but became embarrassed as she faltered, looking up at the man's confidently composed face. "I'm sorry. I can't remember your name."

"Doctor William Santini Santiago! I am called Santini." The man seemed to sing his words, never losing the smile that never reached his eyes. He nodded significantly toward me.

I squinted, nodded and exhaled. I didn't like anything about this man. It was such a strong reaction to him that I recoiled. I could not connect the dots that teased my memory. Unconsciously I perceived a hazy knowledge of him; and my brain was becoming overstressed in an attempt to place him.

"And you are the husband of this vision of loveliness?" he asked, but continued without awaiting my response, "I wish you to know that it is my intention to entertain your wife and her exquisite friends in a manner historically reserved for women of ethereal beauty and royal lineage; and the reward for all concerned will be of inestimable worth."

Eyes widening in incredulity, I turned a critical gaze upon my wife. Gail continued to gaze into the eyes of this towering stranger.

Santini placed the bottle in the middle of the table.

"This bottle of wine harbors a priceless experience," said Doctor William Santini Santiago as he placed the bottle in the middles of the table. "Usually, I do not present the beneficiaries with this treasure until the formalities have been completed; however, since these exquisite specimens of loveliness have agreed to my terms in principle, you may sample at your pleasure, gentlemen."

"What the hell!" Gary snarled kicking his chair back.

"Control yourself!" Santini said, lowering his voice and focusing his words into what could be considered a threat.

It came to me.

Doctor William Santini Santiago had served time in Nevada for counterfeiting playing cards; served time in Texas for masterminding an oil lease swindle, and narrowly escaped death when beaten after ignoring warnings by Vegas bosses he had offended. He had been charged in three states with pandering but never prosecuted.

Sinister in the extreme, this man's police file contained the comment that he was almost spiritual and "frightening in the fascination his being holds for women." Giving the devil his due, though, his resume as a professor of Freudian Psychology was impressive.

Suddenly I was experiencing total recall.

Of significance for this moment, was the fact that Santini's academic history included being fired as a research professor at a top tier state university for recruiting students as prostitutes. Predictably, he incredibly had landed on his feet in $1,500 shoes.

Santini currently had been commissioned to "Study Human Sexuality as A Political Subculture." His funding came from a global association of third-world governments and some obscure Hollywood committee partnering with the United Nations .

"I know you, Santini," I said. "What kind of shit are you selling our wives?"

Santini laughed with the ease of a gifted con man. This was, however, no ordinary con man. His walls were plastered with degrees, and he had written many scholarly papers on human sexuality.

"You've caught me!" Santini said, exhaling air as he laughed. "I can't fool a fellow social scientist."

"Cut the comedy, Santini," I snarled. "What has Gail gotten herself into?"

"How dare you insinuate that I'm a moron who can't take care of herself," my wife shouted. "All I'm going to do is go to a party with Doctor Santiago and his friends."

"When did you decide to go to a party with the good doctor and his friends?" I asked, hardly able keep my mind functioning. "This is contrary to everything I know about you, Gail, and you expect me to believe that such a change can occur in one hour in a women's lounge at the Carstairs Hotel."