Here's how one man dealt with it.
No sex, no RAAC, not much BTB. If you need those, please move along. Tanglosax
MAX
Sitting in LaGuardia airport in New York wasn't the most pleasant way to spend an evening, thought Max Tronder, as he watched the boarding process for what he hoped would be his flight back home to Charlotte. Max, along with his two sisters, owned a small pharmaceutical company created by their father some decades earlier. The father had developed a series of valuable but rarely used drugs that made the company profitable but never offered much growth opportunity. Both parents had passed, and Max had spent the last few days in New York negotiating the sale of the company to a big pharma concern. Max, with his lawyers and brokers, had reached a deal today so Max was leaving it to them to finish the contract negotiation.
Max hoped he would get home tonight, but it looked doubtful. The last flight of the day to Charlotte was fully booked and he was number three on the waitlist. He had not called his wife Camille because he wasn't sure what to tell her. He sat at a bar where he could watch the gate and drank his second gin and tonic, thinking about the deal and the money he and his sisters would share. Something over $10 million for him, plus a well-compensated transition period with big pharma, meant a new lifestyle for Camile and him. Their twin girls were already out of the nest, or at least on their way. Both were attending college, juniors at Duke, where the tuition was eating him alive. But that would all change when the pharma deal closed.
Meanwhile, the boarding process was finishing, and the gate agents were shooing the last passengers into the jetway. And then a bit of a miracle: the boarding sign changed, and Max saw his name appear as having cleared the waitlist. He threw money on the bar, waved at the bartender who gave him the thumbs up sign, grabbed his briefcase and overnight bag and sprinted to the gate. The gate agent handed him a boarding pass and quickly explained to him and two other waitlisters that a party of four, who had checked in remotely, had failed to show so they got the seats. Max ran down the jetway with his new buddies and as he arrived at the boarding door realized he had gotten a first-class seat. A good sign, he thought: cleared the flight, sitting in first class, home a day or so early. Maybe that means the pharma deal really will close. The boarding door closed as he sat down, and the flight attendant asked if he wanted something to drink as they taxied to the runway. He felt like he had earned one more drink, so he had another G&T, and then fell asleep, dreaming of a future for him and Camille with enough money to always fly first class.
The bump and screech of landing woke him up. He eventually got to the taxi stand to take a taxi home. He had driven his pickup to the airport a few days earlier, but now he was exhausted, a bit drunk, and it was really late, way too late to call Camille to come get him. They lived a few miles outside of Charlotte so the taxi ride was long enough for him to fall asleep again. The driver had to wake him up when they arrived. Max paid him, added a generous tip and got out of the cab, a bit sluggishly. It had been a long, stressful day and half the night; he was already thinking of snuggling into bed with Camille as the cab backed away and he turned toward the house.
What he saw stopped him and fully woke him up. A gold-colored Mercedes was parked in the driveway, in front of his side of the garage. It looked like a very fancy Mercedes to Max, but then all Mercedes would look fancy to him. The house was dark; it was past midnight by then and Max just stood there for a few minutes. He had talked to Camille from his lawyer's office about midday and she had said nothing about having overnight visitors. He was trying to avoid thinking the unthinkable, trying to create a happy scenario that would have him snuggling with a warm, sleepy Camille in just a few minutes. His mind wasn't working that way, though, so he slowly walked to the door in the breezeway between the garage and house. He unlocked it, walked into a silent house and even more slowly walked through the kitchen and up the stairs to his and Camille's bedroom.
The bedroom door stood open, obviously no expectation of visitors, and Max stepped inside. And he shut down; no other way to express it. His brain stopped working, he stopped breathing, even his heart, it seemed, stopped beating. He was seeing what he had thought was the unthinkable. Camille was sleeping, naked, splayed across her side of the bed, with one arm draped across a man, also sleeping, even smiling a bit in his sleep.
Max stood there, forever, it seemed to him. But eventually his brain did start working again. He looked again at Camille's arm across the man, with her hand was resting on his flaccid cock; no wonder the asshole was smiling in his sleep. And both of them were snoring. That broke Max's heart. Before tonight, he had loved hearing Camille snore. She snored quietly, almost purring Max thought. He had thought her snoring meant she felt absolutely safe, deep in a restful sleep that came from sharing a bed, and a life, with Max. He had often drifted off to sleep with that soft purring sound in his ears. But no more. He would never hear that snoring again, never again fall asleep next to her.
Even with a broken heart, Max did start to think again. He saw the man's clothes, folded carefully, laying on a chair Max where had sat hundreds of times. A smoldering fury was beginning to burn inside Max. He picked up the pants and pulled out the wallet and car keys, then stopped to think some more. He could get a tennis racket out of the bedroom closet and use it to beat the man, hereafter referred to as Asshole he decided. He could also beat Camille. Both of those actions, while satisfying in the short term, could cause big trouble for Max in the long term. Another idea was beginning to form; he pulled out his cell phone for a few incriminating pictures as the idea germinated and expanded.
Max finished taking pictures and then picked up all of Asshole's clothes and shoes. Asshole was a big guy. Max was five ten, about 160 pounds. Asshole looked to be at least four or five inches taller and maybe 50 pounds heavier. The tennis racket might not have been a good idea even in the short term. With the clothes and shoes in hand, Max took one last look at his wife, his loving, loved wife, the mother of his precious daughters, and hardened his heart against that love that had nourished him for more than 20 years. He left the bedroom, no tears yet, headed back down the stairs and outside.
The key fob beeped the Mercedes doors unlocked. Max put his briefcase and overnight bag inside and slid into the driver's seat. He had never been a fancy car aficionado, but as he sat inside the Benz he realized he liked it. He figured out the controls, put it in gear and drove off.
After about a mile Max pulled over and took a look at Asshole's wallet. The usual stuff: some money, business cards that id'ed Asshole as Franklin Thompson, senior sales associate at a local Mercedes dealership, a driver's license that showed an address in Charlotte. If Asshole had a family there Max thought he could cause some real trouble, certainly for Asshole and maybe for Camille also. In the meantime, Max was exhausted, and he headed for a nearby motel and a night's sleep.
CAMILLE
Camille Tronder was a very careful person. She knew she was not as smart as her husband Max, but her carefulness had let her affair with Franklin Thompson go on for almost five months, with no suspicions from Max. Max was still in New York, she thought, as she lay in bed that next morning with Franklin. He was okay in bed, maybe not quite as good as Max, but out of bed no contest. Too much of a car salesman, she thought as she was concluding that it was time to end the affair. She did love the size of a man like Franklin, like the football players she had dated in college. Big and heavy, they pinned her to the bed and she loved that feeling of helplessness as they fucked her. But Franklin was getting a bit too possessive. He had wanted to spend the night with her and she had allowed it, but this would be the last time she ever did that. She planned to spend the rest of her life with Max, and having a strange man in their marriage bed, even though Max would never know about it, was still too disrespectful. She turned to Franklin to.....
BRATTT, BRATTT, the alarm went off. Seven am, time for one last, quick wake-up fuck, this time with Camille on top, and then both of them to shower and off to work. She would call Franklin later today and gently but sternly tell him the affair was over. The fuck was quick; he came and she had an okay but not great orgasm. Then she climbed off and headed to the shower. Back in her bedroom, she was dressing when Franklin came back from the guestroom shower, with a towel around his waist. He stood there a moment, and then asked:
"Camille, where did you move my clothes?"
"What? I didn't move them anywhere. Where did you put them last night?"
