Nobody Lies Being Cheated On

The doorbell rang me out of my nap in my La-Z-Boy on a Friday evening, and I noticed my wife Traci still wasn't in her usual spot on the sofa in the den. So instead of Traci going to the door and me continuing to sleep, I had to put the recliner upright and get the door myself.

Heading to the door, I noticed through the window that police lights were flashing in the street from at least a couple of cop cars. Through my nap-induced fog, I didn't realize that they were pulled up in front of my house until I actually got the door open and glanced past the man at the door and into the scene in front of me.

The man at the door had a gun drawn, and identified himself as Sgt. John Kerrigan. He was backed up by two uniformed officers, their guns drawn, too, and as I was to quickly find out, there were two more uniformed cops at my back door.

I did what any sane person would do with three guns drawn on them: I put my hands up and stepped back further into the house, with the cops following me in.

Seems there was an incident earlier tonight at a local motel, and they want to know where I was for the whole evening.

I told them I got off of work at 6, went straight to the gym and lifted until about 7:15, grabbed a quick Arby's on the ride home and had been in front of my television since about 8 watching "Burn Notice" reruns and waiting on my wife to get home from an evening out. And by the way, considering it was about 12:15, she was late.

"So you have no one who can verify that you were here between 8 p.m. and about 11:30 p.m?" Kerrigan inquired.

"Just the two cats," I said, trying to use humor to disguise my growing discomfort. "What the hell is going on?"

"Mr. Easterling, it seems your wife and a friend were shot and earlier this evening at the Safeway Motel on Grand Street, and since you have no alibi for that time period, you'll have to come with us."

"Shot ... dead?" I stammered. "Holy shit. Was she with that piece of shit, Pete Lombardo?"

"Exactly. How did you know that?" Kerrigan asked, looking at me kind of sideways.

"Because she was having an affair with that piece of shit, and that's where she probably was!"

My brain did a quick reset while the police looked around my house. They looked through a bunch of our closets and drawers, with my permission, because, honestly, I didn't have a clue what they were looking for, until they found my Sig 9mm and bagged it. Then it hit me: they think I killed my cheating whore wife!

Fortunately for me, I hadn't fired the Sig since the last time I went to the range, about two weeks ago, and ballistics tests would bear this out. But the fact that somebody killed my cheating whore wife and her lover at their motel room, and me having no alibi ... this didn't look very good for old you know who.

Down at the police station Kerrigan insisted on hearing the whole sordid story of my marital status. Up to that point, the only one who knew was the private investigator I had hired when I found out Traci was cheating on me ... and the anonymous neighbor who left an envelope with a note in it attached to my car one morning about six months ago, telling me of the affair.

I had long since thrown the note away, but it basically told me that this neighbor had seen my wife coming out of a north side restaurant with a handsome young man in tow, then give him a quick peck on the lips before they got in their respective cars and drove off. I must have read the note a dozen times, not believing it at first, then memorizing it the more I re-read it. Traci was the love of my life; I just couldn't believe she'd ever step out on me. We'd been married 24 wonderful years, had two kids in college and one graduated and I was figuring that this was the woman with which I was going to grow old.

At 47, the same age as me, Traci was still a woman who could turn heads when she entered a room. Long blonde hair, alabaster skin, twinkling blue eyes, 40 DD tits and a good ass to match in a 5-foot-2 package of intelligence and class. I consider myself charming and delightful, but honestly, I'm not sure how I landed this catch.

The note shook me to my core. I thought our life together was perfect. We enjoyed an active and vigorous sex life, and while I'm just average-size in the penis department, I enjoy "bringing the house down" with active fingers and tongue, and I can't tell you how many times I've left Traci completely wiped out after some incredibly intense orgasms. She's incredibly responsive in bed, and I will do whatever it takes to please her. So why is she cheating on me?

That's where the PI came in. I hired him to tail Traci for a month, from the time she left the house in the morning until she came home to me at night. Normally, Traci was home before me because she worked a normal 8 to 5 job, but she did occasionally run some errands, have a drink with the girls or need to stay at work for an extra half-hour. I trusted her completely, and never gave it a second thought, even when drinks with the girls got her home after 10.

Well, apparently I am an idiot, because many of the errands, extra work and drinks with the girls were hook-ups with this Lombardo character, the PI informed me. We live on the south side of a rather large city, so a north side hook-up at a bar and then motel was usually the order of the day. And judging by what he could uncover from talking to several of the north side motel desk staffs, the affair had been going on for about a year.

The Lombardo character was apparently a fairly new co-worker of Traci's at the bank where she worked. He was 24, blond and blue-eyed, with a six-pack of abs and a pair of pretty big arms. I'm not a wimp but I'm not a real big guy either, so I'm guessing it was the arms that got her. It certainly couldn't have been a monster dick, because from viewing the videos the PI brought back, he wasn't any bigger than me, although being 24 he usually had an extra run in him per session. He also was a little more physical in the lovemaking department than I am, which seemed to really turn her on. However, when I've tried the physical stuff in the past, she's always rebuffed me, telling me she'd rather make love than just fuck. With him, though, it wasn't about making love; it was pure fucking, and from the videos it sure looked like they had plenty of fun.

Kerrigan reeled me back into the real world by telling me he'd have to have a copy of everything from the PI, including notes and observations, if I and my lawyer didn't object. I didn't see it as a problem, although I was smart enough to tell him he'd have to wait until I consulted with my attorney.

At that point I also felt obligated to let him know that I had been seeing a divorce attorney and plans were in the works. I know this just added to my looking more like a suspect, but I figured Kerrigan would find out soon enough on his own, which would probably be worse.

I waited until Saturday morning to call my divorce lawyer at his home to ask for a recommendation for a criminal attorney, giving him the rundown on the fly. He gave me the name of Steve Seavey, and said he'd call him right then and get him over to the police station right away so I could get out of there and go home.

Seavey got to the police station within an hour, and since the police really hadn't arrested me, he had me back in my own home before lunch. We talked briefly about the case at my home, and Steve said he'd clear a spot for me on his Monday schedule.

After Steve left I called all three kids and told them their mother was dead, she was cheating on me, and that I was the number one suspect. As I expected, I got mixed responses from all three, although they all agreed that while I might have had a right to kill their mother, I still shouldn't have done it. It took a lot of explaining around a lot of hysterical crying to tell them that I didn't do it, because somebody had apparently beaten me to it. I told them not to come home for the moment because things were very up in the air, and I would let them know about funeral arrangements when the cops returned their mother's body to me.

Our oldest child, Ava, is 23 years old, graduated from Indiana University and lives in California, where she works in film production. The middle child, our son, Robby, is 21 and a junior at Michigan State University, and the baby, Cheyanne, 19, is a freshman at Western Michigan. They are all beautiful children, obviously getting their looks from their mother, and are smart as well. They all had trouble even believing that Traci was cheating on me, finally giving in when I threatened to send them explicit photos from the PI. Then I think each of them felt as devastated as me, getting that sort of gut-punched, woozy feeling.

I thought back to when the PI first verified the anonymous note that said Traci was cheating on me. I literally went into the bathroom and threw up, and I must have cried for an hour. Then I played all the video and read all the notes and reports. Unbeknownst to my wife, I had taken the day off from work specifically so I could take my time examining everything, and when I was done I put everything in a box in a closet in the basement. She came home from work a few hours later without a care in the world, while from that moment on I had to play the loving husband while my insides were being ripped out. Our sex life dropped to about nothing because I usually begged off with some excuse or another, and while Traci seemed concerned at first, I guess her "side piece" kept her satisfied enough that she didn't seem to mind too much. Of course on the few times we did have sex, I kept wondering if I wasn't getting seconds any time she seemed to be a little wetter than usual. I certainly wasn't venturing down south to find out with my tongue.

Three weeks after the murders, the police returned Traci's body to me, and the next week we held her funeral. The kids, naturally, were besides themselves with grief. Me? I was more sad than anything.

Although the police downplayed it, pretty much everyone knows what it means when two people -- one of whom is married -- are caught at a motel. That just added to the weirdness of the viewing and the funeral, especially when long-time neighbors came by to pay their respects. Most of the guys couldn't look me in the eyes, while half of the women seemed to have a permanent smirk on their faces. Then it got weirder still, when one of Traci's co-workers, Alex Grimaldi, noted with absolute certainty that my youngest, Cheyanne, could be the twin sister to Mike Buttermore's younger daughter while he was visiting with us at the viewing. Buttermore was another co-worker, having been at the bank since before Traci worked there, and she had mentioned him in passing several times through the years. Grimaldi was a close personal friend of Buttermore's and had been around as both of the Buttermore girls grew up. Buttermore's younger daughter is named Leah, and is a 20-year-old attending Ohio State.

Once upon a time, that coincidence would have meant nothing at all to me, but thanks to one small note, I've become a paranoid idiot. So before the kids left for their respective homes after the funeral, I made sure to save a glass that each of them had used so I could get a DNA sample. I never said anything to them, but you just never know -- you know? I had no reason to suspect anything for almost 24 years, now I'm seeing cheating partners behind every door.

Two weeks later, my newfound paranoia was justified when the lab results of my kids' DNA tests came back, and two of them aren't -- my kids -- at least biologically. My son and younger daughter aren't mine, according to the tests. I called, they verified. Nope. Not mine. They do, however, have the same father; it's just not me. Back to the bathroom for another upchuck. This just keeps getting better.

This might be even more devastating than when I found out Traci was cheating on me. My kids -- not mine? I raised those kids, I gave those kids every ounce of love I have. And now I find out I've been loving another man's children. Not only did Traci cheat on me with one guy, she cheated on me with at least two guys, and had me loving another man's children for all these years.

Well, fuck that. I gave those kids the love; I raised those kids. I might not be the father, but I am their dad. Traci took this secret to her grave, and that's where it's staying.

However ... I did contact my PI. I needed to get DNA from this Mike Buttermore character. I needed to know if I need to hate this guy ... or worse.

Another two weeks later and I had my answer. Apparently long before Pete Lombardo, there was Mike Buttermore. And this affair lasted several years, or at least long enough for two children. What a trusting schmuck I was, and what a cheating slut she was!

I needed to know everything I could about this Buttermore guy, but with the police keeping an eye on me due to the ongoing murder investigation, I really couldn't afford to be a stalker. By this point, I had my PI on speed dial. Next task: Mike Buttermore's profile, going back at least 22 years.

It took my PI a month, but he got the job done. While none of the desk clerks at any of the motels who recognized Lombardo also recognized Buttermore, my PI got the names of several of the motels' former employees, and upon tracking several down, some of those remembered Buttermore, and the woman he came in with on a regular basis -- my Traci -- from several years back.

Then my PI tracked down Buttermore's long-time personal secretary with the bank, who had retired two years ago, and showed her Traci's photo. That was all it took for an afternoon gabfest of memories to come rushing forth from Winona Helvie, who was sorry to hear of Traci's murder, but apparently knew her and liked her from her years at the bank. Turns out, Traci was considered Buttermore's "work wife," helping him out on most bank projects, helping him pick out his suits for work, and apparently even picking out several of his wife's Christmas and birthday presents as well. They were inseparable, Winona said, although it never seemed to her that it might have gotten too personal.

"She was such a nice girl, very smart, and pretty, too," Winona commented to my PI over tea and wafers on her porch.

The story was a little different when my PI finally got a chance to talk with Buttermore's current secretary, who had been with him since Winona retired two years ago. Allison March noted that while the pair had been close when she first came on board, the relationship cooled noticeably about a year ago, to the point where they barely acknowledged each other in the office. Had she told the police about this when they questioned people in the office following the shootings? No, because nobody ever bothered to speak with a lowly secretary, she sniped when my PI asked.

I called Kerrigan and headed over to the police station as soon as my PI left. I gave him all the info my PI had given me, plus some DNA profiles that might prove to be helpful. I told him that I would explain the profiles if his lab people found a match.

Two days later Buttermore was in custody on suspicion of murder. The info from Winona and Allison had given the police their first real break in the case, and when Buttermore's DNA matched with that of my kids, Kerrigan was able to get him to confess: he had murdered Traci and her lover because after 22 years, she had replaced him with a younger model. He had attempted to win her back, but when she refused to even meet with him, something inside him snapped.

Buttermore told Kerrigan that the affair started soon after my wife had our first child. They would usually get together once a week, sometimes twice, for sex. When they went to business conferences together, they stayed in the same room although the company paid for two. And sometimes they just told their respective spouses they were at a conference when they just wanted a few days together. Neither spouse seemed to question anything, and when Traci got pregnant, she said her loving husband would never doubt that the children weren't his, so why ruin a good thing by saying anything. She told him she loved her husband, he was a good provider, but sex with an outside, secret partner was just too much fun to pass up.

I sat in the back of the courtroom every day for Buttermore's trial. When the district attorney found out I had no clue about Buttermore's affair with my wife for more than 20 years, he figured I had nothing to help the prosecution's case, so I was never called to testify about anything. Which was just as well, because while Buttermore may have gotten sex from my wife for more than 20 years, he also got life in prison for killing her. He'll never know it, but if he had waited just one more week, that would have been me on trial for killing the pair.

Sitting in the back of the courtroom every day also gave me the chance to watch the daily ritual of Buttermore's devoted wife, Jan, enter the courtroom, walk up to the front railing right behind the defendant's table and then give him a lingering and soulful French kiss before taking her seat. I wonder what he was thinking as his wife slipped him her tongue covered with my cum, from our daily ritual of the beautiful Mrs. Buttermore giving me head and swallowing my load in the parking garage every morning right before court started for the day. Turns out she was none too happy with Mike cheating on her with my wife for all those years, and when she approached me with her plan for some "revenge sex," what could I say?

Maybe we'll even keep this up after their divorce is final. It would only be fitting.