Decisions and Consequences

I rang the doorbell beside the mansion's massive oak front door. I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone I knew might be walking or driving by. I had taken an Uber so I did not have to leave my car in public view. Thank goodness the driver was a redneck from across the river who did not know me from Adam nor run in my professional or social circles.

It is 11:00 am on Sunday so everybody is supposed to be in church. The street is blessedly deserted. My husband is out of town at a convention until Wednesday so I don't have to account to him for my comings and goings.

I hear footsteps approaching the other side of the door. Can I really do this? The doorknob starts to turn. I take a deep breath. Ok girl, in for a penny, in for a pound.

My God, how did I ever get myself into this predicament.

LIFE IS GOOD

We are of the deep South. It is a tranquil land where tannin tinged rivers flow through forests of moss shrouded oaks on their way to our marsh fringed sea. The social mores of our people often confound the outsider but fit us comfortably like an old shoe.

But all is not as it appears on the surface. Mighty hurricanes and tornadoes sweep across this beautiful land with little warning while venomous serpents and ancient fevers lurk in our mighty swamps. Maybe it is the enervating summer heat and humidity or the pepper laced cuisine, but things are felt more deeply here than elsewhere. Passions are more fervent, love is more fiery, and hatred is more implacable. Jesus said we had to forgive, but we remember nothing being said about forgetting.

In our little Southern town, my husband, Ken, and I were the charmed, perfect couple. He was the athlete; I was the cheerleader. Popular and lucky in high school and college, we had it made: always part of the "in-crowd," Homecoming King and Queen, invited to join the right fraternity and sorority. We had whatever we wanted.

I was surprisingly bright for a "dizzy blonde" and was the girl science nerd of our high school. I eventually finished a graduate degree in molecular biology and found a great job in a research lab in town. I am continuing my PhD studies part-time at the local university and soon will be able to add "Doctor" to my "Mrs" title.

Ken was smart but lazy in school. He was fun, easy-going, enjoyed life. He barely got out of college with a business degree. He traded on his good looks and boyish charm to get a lucrative job selling mutual funds and managing investments. That was his niche, and he was good at it.

We married after college, and afterwards, our two professional incomes let us live the good life. We had nights out on the town, travel, country club membership, and sporty cars. We wanted kids some day so we invested in a nice house, really much more than we needed or could afford. The economy was good, our job prospects were great, and everyone was moving up in the world.

DISASTER

But then the whole economy collapsed. Ken's company went under. The balloon mortgage on the house came due. Real estate was not selling. When we were finally able to arrange a new mortgage, our mortgage payments were out of sight.

With just my income, we were desperate. The nights out, the country club, and travel were all gone now. Our small investment nest egg was hemorrhaging as we tried to keep the house. All of our plans and future hopes were evaporating before our eyes as things spiraled downwards. We were hanging on by the skin of our teeth and slowly slipping.

Ken's job prospects were slim in this terrible economy. To help with expenses, Ken began working part-time at a local restaurant. He had managed the owner's investments in Ken's old job, and the owner was fond of Ken. Ken helped with the books, bartending, and anything else needed. He substituted for the regular bartender on Mondays and came in from 4:00-7:00 to help tend bar during happy hour on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. A couple of times a week, he went in to help keep the bookkeeping up to date. This all helped, but was too little, too late to stem the financial tsunami that was engulfing us.

THE BOOK STORE

One Saturday morning I stopped in at the university bookstore to pick up a used copy of the text I needed for a graduate class starting the following Monday. I was saving money finding used rather than new texts these days. My company paid for the class tuition and let me off early on Mondays for the class' 3:30-6:30 time slot. This let me keep plugging away on my degree, even though we were poor as church mice right now.

As I stood in line to make my purchase, a pleasant disembodied voice drifted from behind me, "Hi, Barb."

I turned around and saw George standing a few feet behind me. He smiled pleasantly and said, "Hey, I'm headed over to the café for a cup of coffee. Would you like a cup? We can catch up."

The bookstore had an upscale café that was popular with students and faculty. Why not? I have not been able to go out for anything lately. "Sure," I replied brightly.

"I'll put in our order and see you over there." With that, he slipped off in the crowd.

I kicked myself as he disappeared. I hadn't told him what I wanted. I hoped he wasn't getting me one of those foo-foo coffees laced with a million calories. I like my coffee simple and black. I heard the cashier call me forward to pay for my text.

George had been in the high school class with Ken and me. He was the real science and math nerd. Small, pudgy, and nearsighted, George had been the butt of much teasing and continuous pranks, especially by the jocks like Ken. Before we had to quit because of our financial woes, we saw George at the country club now and again but never really spoke beyond a "Hey, how's it going."

George received a scholarship to Georgia Tech after high school and apparently did brilliantly there. He returned to our hometown, worked for a local software company for a spell and then opened his own software company. The company flourished and was eventually swallowed up by a Tech. giant. Now, George was rich as Croesus from what I heard from my girl friends.

I always felt sorry for George and kind of liked him - not to date or anything like that, of course. In eighth grade we were assigned to do a science fair project together. That's when I found out that this boy was seriously brilliant. He also had an obvious crush on me all through school, which was flattering - but nothing else. At the country club, I often caught his furtive glances checking me out. That's ok; I always enjoy male attention!

George had finally matured physically and was a nice looking guy - not a hunk like Ken but certainly an attractive, rather dapper young man. He had ditched his glasses for contacts and developed a poise that he lacked as an awkward adolescent.

THE LIFELINE

I wandered over to the café and saw George sitting at a table by the window. He rose as I joined him, and he held out my chair as I sat. Well, his momma certainly raised him right! She'd be proud.

I saw he had two steaming black coffees and two warm, almond-creme filled pastries waiting on the table. The pastries were the cafe's specialty and my favorite when I indulged in pastry. George had certainly made a lucky guess on my order!

I told George about my job at the lab and working on my PhD but glossed over Ken's loss of his job. George told me about the success of his first software company. He had bought a house in a ritzy new development; it was a real mansion from the sounds of it. He was now working from home consulting and writing a new security software package that he hoped to sell soon for a major financial success. Just two old high school chums catching up on lost times.

The congenial atmosphere chilled when George said, "Barb, you and Ken are really in financial trouble. You have no resources left, and your house will be foreclosed in three weeks."

This was way too personal. Maybe his momma wouldn't be so proud of him after all. I replied stiffly, "George, that is none of your business."

George gave a smug, self-satisfied smirk and replied, "Come on Barb, I am in the computer technology world. If I want, I can find out more about a person than their own spouse knows."

I felt very uneasy. He was dead on with the financial assessment. And come to think of it, how in the hell did he know the perfect café order for me. I gave him a stony stare and said archly, "I think I had best go now."

George stood up and gave me a smarmy smile, "No, No, finish your pastry and coffee, I will go. Barb, I have lots of money and can solve your financial crisis. Of course, I would expect some appropriate thank yous in return." He laid his business card down. "Just think on it. You are out of options." He turned and walked off.

If I had any drink other than scalding hot coffee, I would have flung it in his face like in the movies. I could not believe the arrogance and nerve of that jackass. The coffee and pastry had lost their appeal. I let George get clear and then left myself. I don't know why, but I picked up his business card and slipped it in my jeans pocket. Unfortunately, he was right; I was really out of options.

THE DILEMMA

The rest of the day drifted by in routine Saturday grocery shopping, laundry, and other mundane chores. George's preposterous offer kept popping unbidden into my mind. Incongruent thoughts clashed and whirled like a kaleidoscope and would not stay away:

- Could I really do that?

- Let's call a spade a spade, girl; "that" is fuck for money.

- Hey, it is only sex. Nobody ever accused you of being a prude.

- But nobody said you were a whore either.

- Could I keep something like this secret from Ken?

- Momma would tan my hide if she ever found out.

- What about the girls in the sorority and folks at church?

- I could never hold my head up in this town again.

- But we really need that money, and we need it right now.

So it went, back and forth. First no, then yes, then absolutely not, then well, maybe. Once I made up my mind one way or the other, my mental debate started all over again. It was driving me mad.

We were about to lose everything but our pride. Oh my God, we would have to move back in with one of our parents. Even our pride would be gone.

Ken left at 3:45 to help with happy hour at the restaurant. Normally, I would study for a few hours, and when Ken returned shortly after seven, we would grill steaks as a Saturday treat and have a romantic evening. Today, I poured a gin and tonic and debated my options.

Two gin and tonics later, I dialed George's phone number.

He picked up after the first ring and said "Hi, Barb." This was creepy. I had never called him or given him my number, but he recognized my private cell phone.

"Okay, George, what are you really proposing?" I had finally made up my mind.

"Cash for sex."

Well, that's pretty clear cut, I thought. I waited a couple of beats. "Lets not beat around the bush. How much cash, and how much sex?"

I had spent some time since Ken left for work researching on the internet what call girls charge. Rates for top end escorts in the city could run around $600 to $1,200 an hour so I had some vague idea of the value of my ass on the open market. However, I have a very cute ass and a rich customer who wants to buy. That should get me a premium price, even in our little town.

George was a successful entrepreneur, and the discussion quickly acquired the tones of a business transaction. We hammered out the verbal contract for my adultery: (1) I would be available every Monday after my class from seven until nine, (2) the deal was for blocks of six Mondays at $2,500 per Monday, (3) payment for the whole block would be in advance and in cash, (4) at the end of the block, we could agree to renew or either of us could terminate the deal, and (5) George was sworn to absolute secrecy - "cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye" kind of thing.

I took a deep breath, "Okay George, it is a deal. See you Monday."

I needed the block of six paid for right away to forestall foreclosure on the house so I would embark on my adulterous sojourn two days hence. I will deposit the cash in different small accounts at several banks to avoid catching the attention of the tax man. That triples the net take for my adultery.

Once you have taken the first step into debauchery, you might as well whore enough to get ahead financially. I'll see how it goes for the first six, but I could see this running for a little while to rebuild our cash reserves. Sweat equity so to speak.

We also developed a plan to prevent my getting caught. The assignations would be at the Hilton located on the edge of campus. The hotel catered to the tech businesses that had sprung up in the campus area. I finished class at 6:30, could drop my books in my car, and then it was a five minute walk to the back entrance of the Hilton. That entrance required a guest key card to enter, however. To get around that obstacle, George would drop an extra key in the cracked window of my car in student parking after he checked in.

I would use a back elevator by the Hilton's gym to go upstairs to minimize the chance of being seen or noticed. At the room I could grab a quick shower and be available for George's sexual pleasure by seven. At nine I would shower again, dress, and be home by 9:30. My excuse for being away from home, if needed, was I was doing research for my class at the university library which was open until nine. On Mondays Ken worked a full bar-tending shift from four until twelve so he would not be home. Nothing is foolproof, but this plan looked pretty safe.

THE FIRST MONDAY

On that fateful first Monday, we followed the plan. By five to seven, I was showered and slipping into fresh clothes I had brought in a backpack. I removed my wedding and engagement rings and dropped them in my purse. I will not have sex with George wearing my wedding ring. It is silly symbolism, I know; but still.

I took a deep breath and went out into the suite George had rented.

When I came into the sitting area of the suite, George handed me a courier bag and a glass with a stiff bourbon on the rocks. "Your fifteen thousand and a drink."

I smiled coquettishly, "Why, thank you. I'll have to be sure you think it is a worthwhile investment. You know it has been a long time since I have been with any man but Ken. I might be rusty!"

We continued our silly, flirtatious commentary until our drinks were drained. I blew out a breath and mumbled an embarrassed "Okay, it's time I earned my keep."

I walked back to the spacious bedroom and turned facing George. Nervously, I began slowly unbuttoning my blouse, watching George closely. George stood stock still at the bedroom entrance watching. I began to build confidence under his obviously interested male gaze and put on my best clumsy and embarrassed rendition of what I imagined a stripper does.

I pulled back the bed covers and laid back waiting as George undressed. I had been thinking I might approach this like the old Victorian advice to new brides: cross your arms, spread your legs, and think of Britain.

But I had misjudged George. Some woman had taught this nerd computer millionaire his way around female anatomy. He began to slowly and gently kiss me and fondle me working his way ever so slowly and very intimately down my body. George's foreplay had me tingling all over. His agile tongue was sending spasms of shivers up and down my body while his fingers did other delightful things.

It was as though I was impaled on George's tongue and left to twist in a never-ending exquisite, sexual torture - always just on the edge of climax. But as that moment approached, George would gently ease me back from my desperately needed release, leaving me panting and gasping and pleading with him to fuck me. Time seemed to stand still as I slowly lost my mind in sexual ecstacy.

Finally, I could brook no more delay. I pushed George down flat and leapt on him. I was on top gyrating wildly, heaving, and thrusting against him as we both strove for orgasm. I peppered the air with my guttural grunts, happy shrieks, whoops, maniacal laughter, and shouts of encouragements to the male between my legs. When relief came, it was a pulsating, body wrenching set of contractions that left me gasping and disoriented.

Oh my, this was not what I expected from that little computer nerd, George. Not at all!

I lay on George's chest panting heavily and covered in a sheen of sweat. I could hear George's racing heart beneath my ear and feel him wilt and slip from me. I smiled, enjoying the thrill of the eternal female victory when we reduce the proud male peacock's timber to a flaccid toothpick.

I had been too nervous to eat all day. Now that the naughty deed was done, I was ravenous. George ordered up rare NY strip steaks and all the fixin's with a bottle of wine from room service. We chatted amiably while we dined, I showered, and left for home arriving shortly before 9:30. I was shocked to realize the adulterous evening had been fun - except for the crushing guilt I felt for betraying my good and decent husband.

I could not sleep, and when Ken got home shortly after midnight, he found me nominally reading in bed. We chatted amicably as he got ready, doused the lights, and snuggled next to me under the covers. My husband was quickly sound asleep and breathing rhythmically as one hand cupped the breast of his adulterous wife.

Sleep eluded me, and I was left to debate my moral shortcomings. I had consciously exchanged all that I thought I believed about marriage, honor, and integrity for financial security. I had crossed a sexual Rubicon, and there was no going back.

Within the male brain's primitive regions resides a fierce competitive drive that delights in victory over other males. I suspect this competitive drive is at the heart of their sports, war, politics, business, and courtship of women. At the most basic and primeval level, no victory is more total than taking another man's woman and leaving her happily writhing in carnal pleasure with the victor's sperm trickling down her thighs

If the opponent knows of the taking of his woman by his male foe, then the victory is even sweeter, and the loser is left consumed with rage and dismay. This is what makes rape such a potent weapon of psychological warfare as we often see in history: The Roman rape of the Sabine women, the Red Army rape of every female between eight and eighty they could lay hands on in Poland and Germany at the end of WWII, or the recent examples in Croatia and Syria.

Well, at least I can try to save my husband the humiliation and public shame of knowing his wife has been taken sexually by a conquering male. My poor husband is doomed to suffer George's repeated triumphs over him. I can only hope to save him from learning of such.

Morally, I stand on quicksand. But I am going to get my family back on sound financial footing come hell or high water.

ROUTINE

We fell into a businesslike routine on Mondays now. We would have a drink, engage in sex, and order dinner from room service. Then George might or might not have me for a sexual nightcap. I would shower and slip back home. Occasionally, we would run long, but I was always home by 10:30, well ahead of my husband.

George was a skillful and varied lover. Though I would never admit it, I did physically enjoy the sex with George and actually came to look forward, in a perverse way, to our steamy Monday couplings.

But my mental hatred of George also grew each time he screwed me. I could not forget that he used my desperation to force me to whore myself, and he was humiliating Ken each time he left me gasping in pleasure as he fucked me. But I renewed for another six Mondays, anyway.

I had become the budget dragon lady. Frivolous expenses ended, credit cards were paid off, and I finally found a reasonable mortgage on the house. I was doing well at the lab and had recently been promoted to research team leader.