Frustrated. That's what I was. Totally frustrated. I knew my wife was cheating on me, but I had no hard evidence of it. But the signs were there.
The one in the yard galled me, particularly. "Cheating Slut!" It said. Someone thought I should know, obviously, but I didn't know anything for a fact, I just suspected.
When I asked my wife what the deal with the sign was, Madge replied smartly, "You tell me, you cheating bastard." Dammit, why hadn't the sign maker been a little more gender specific.
I took down the sign, checking it for further clues. 1' X 2' Poster board stapled on a 1" by 2" stake. Crude printing in black paint. No discernible foot prints in the grass. I remained clueless, and very frustrated.
I asked the neighbors. No one knew anything about it, but they had questions: Who would do that? Why? Do you or Madge have enemies? Is she really stepping out on you?
I knew I wasn't a cheating slut, so it had to be my wife. I mean, I had some random adulterous thoughts, but nothing I could be convicted of. Our neighbor Becky, she certainly got me thinking. Perky, often braless breasts, small waist, blonde, beautiful eyes, toned legs, and great style, Becky was spectacular, but it was very clear, she had no interest in me, even though my eyeballs were her dedicated fans. She rarely said as much as hello, and when she did, she didn't follow it up. She and her husband, Todd, said they knew nothing about the sign.
Madge and I had been married for 20 years. She liked to brag to our friends that we weren't just soul mates, we were inmates. Ha frickin' Ha. I liked to brag to my friends that she wasn't just a ball and chain, she liked to chain up my balls. We were cards, the two us.
So, like I said, I took that sign down. I tried to confront Madge. "Madge," I said, "who do you suppose put up that sign in our yard?" She frowned at me and said, "I have no idea. Maybe someone was trying to give me a strong message. About you." I responded, riposte like, "NosirreeBob. That was a message to everyone that you've been up to some dirty business, and when I find out with who, you and he are in for it." She was not cowed. "Bill," she said, "if I ever decided to try anyone else on for size, that sign would say, 'Thank You, Angel.'"
She had a point. Madge was, to put it succinctly, HOT. I don't mean she was feverish, I mean she knew how to cook the old eggplant. When she finished with it, it was done, done well, and by a gourmet, without a doubt. I loved her skills and her artistry. And, not to toot my own horn, but she, at least to my face, appeared to be very much satisfied by my third leg, the one I called "Thor." He wasn't epically proportioned, but he did like to hammer it, just like his Nordic namesake.
And Madge wasn't just good in bed. She was a good looker. Not in the way that had men turning around to gawk, but in the way that you thought to yourself, "I'd do her, most happily." She was no more than 5'2" tall, curvy, well proportioned and nice, with dark curly hair past her shoulders, she looked darned good. And ripe. No middle aged hair-bob disclaiming her femininity, she kept it long despite the effort required to maintain it. She knew what looked good on her, and she looked great.
So, anyway, there I was, with someone having planted a sign proclaiming she was a cheating slut, and me, having other, less literary signs that said that the "Cheating Slut!" sign might know a thing or two.
The clues already at hand? My wife was staying out late with her friends. Not every week, but at least every other week. She had a password on her phone. Yeah, I had checked. She dressed up to go out. Not overtly sexually, but she was looking good as she passed me and as our front door closed on her shapely butt. She actively discouraged me from joining her on her nights out with the girls. She had smelled of cigar smoke when she came in on more than one occasion. And yeah, I asked about it. "Some asshole lit up a stogie when I was on the patio with Luanne." I believed her, the first time. Next time it was, "I was in the elevator with Luanne, going up to the bar, and some jerk thought he could smoke there. We both told him to douse it." "Same guy?" I asked. "I dunno," she replied, "but I can tell you it smelled like the same stink." Third time, "So," I asked,, "Madge, have you taken up cigar smoking or what?" Her response; "Some guy, outside the club, walked up to me, puffed on his cigar, and then blew cigar smoke out at me, saying: 'Smokin'!' What a fricking asshole." All of her responses seemed spontaneous, but still, that was a lot of smoke.
There was one clue that cut to the quick, and told me to look very closely at the others. She was tapering off on her desire for me. Our chimes weren't ringing as regularly as they had been. Now, with the addition of a placard in the yard virtually screaming I was a cuckold, I needed to get my game on. Who was he, or they, and what were they doing with my wife? Better yet, what was she doing with him or them?
My job at Spacely Widgets gave me a lot of latitude. I could work at home part of the time, though my direct input at the office was required fairly regularly. I spoke to my boss, J.P., and said I needed to deal with some neighborhood matters that would keep me at home for the next two weeks. J.P. said he'd let me know if in-office time became essential, and asked me to make it up thereafter.
Once out of the office I began to plan. First, I bought a super soaker. Not because I thought it would help me catch her, but because they were on sale and I always wanted one. Next, I told Madge I'd be in the office a lot over the following week on a project. She asked me what it was about. I told her they liked the way I pushed buttons, and if she played her cards right, my button skills would be put to use for her benefit later on. She smiled, and said she'd like that. The sparks weren't all gone.
We lived on a cul-de-sac. That made it hard to hang out there in a car to spy on her, even in a rental. Madge worked as an investment counselor, and had an office for client meetings, yet she worked more often than not from home. I was hoping she would be gone the next day so I could set things up.
The following morning, Tuesday, I showed her the super soaker, and told her to get out and earn us some filthy lucre or she'd be soaked meat. "You wouldn't dare!" She said. I sprayed our German shepherd, Daisy, who tried to bite the spray, and said, "You're next, young Missy." Rather than face the waterworks, she said, "I'm leaving. Towel Daisy off, you dog-soaking cad! Daisy should bite you. I'll be back in about an hour, will you still be home?" "Probably not, but it depends on your 'about an hour' definition." She smiled, said, "It may be longer," and left.
I had purchased more than just the super soaker for my intelligence gathering. I now owned six small battery powered cameras that I could access remotely, and which would send images and sound to my computer in my home office. They were motion activated and could be remotely activated. They could be recharged and the charges lasted a few days.
I put one in the bedroom, one in the guest bedroom, one in the living room, one in the kitchen, one to monitor our front yard, and one in her office. I tried to make them all as unobtrusive as possible. They were small enough that they could be attached with a drop of adhesive, the tricky part was to hide the wire and the matchbook sized battery. Each unit had chips capable of holding up to 80 gigabytes, and they had bluetooth capability. They weren't cheap. I could've bought cameras in teddy bears, flower pots, or clocks, but figured she'd wonder why we had teddy bears, flower pots, and clocks suddenly stationed around the house. The downside was, if she spotted a spy camera that looked like a spy camera, the jig was up.
It took me longer to set up the spy tools than I thought it would, but her "about an hour" turned out to be most of the day. By the time she finally returned, I was gone, at least as far as she knew. In fact, my cameras' eyes were on her, and since my computer was on the net, I could watch her in real time, or l could peruse the files later at my leisure.
I considered going into the office since I didn't need to be at home to do my spying. I decided not to do so, recognizing that if I should find a rat in my traps I would be handling emotions that I would not want on display.
So, I spent some time at a coffee shop with free wifi, using my laptop to work while I spied on my wife. Ho-hum, another day, another chance to catch my wife skylarking with a stranger. I sipped my espresso, responded to work emails, and had my wife on camera in a small window on the computer. I saw nothing that raised my hackles on day one.
Nor on day two.
By day three I was being called by my name at the coffee shop. It pays to tip well and to be polite. I imagine they thought, "Bill's back! Great tipper, nice guy." How right they were.
Day three, the drama began to unfold. Who should appear in our front yard? Our neighbor, Becky's husband, Todd. Unlike with Becky, my eyeballs had no particular allegiance to Todd. Not that Todd wasn't an attractive fellow, I just hadn't interacted enough with him to label him "friend," or for that matter, "enemy." He was just the guy who had snagged Becky, and while that gave him some cachet, it was not enough to rise to the level of any genuine significance for me.
I watched him as he walked in our front yard. He walked to where the sign had been posted, looked down and then looked up and about. Next he walked to our front door and rang the bell. Madge got up, I saw her leave her office and head to the door, which she answered. She invited Bill in, and they moved to the living room. They sat down, she on the sofa, he on the chair next to it, and they began to talk. I could not make out a word. The mic in the camera was not close enough to register more than what sounded like broken up murmurs. Fuck. But, the video was good. It was a semi-fish-eye lens, with 4K resolution. The conversation appeared animated, with gestures and occasional laughter and grimaces.
The scene, even without dialogue, was a surprise. To my knowledge, Madge had never spoken to Todd beyond a "hello, how's it going?" Their conversation continued for at least a half hour. Madge occasionally reached over and touched his shoulder or leg, apparently emphasizing a point or perhaps sympathizing with him. Or worse, perhaps the touches were indicative of a greater intimacy than that.
Todd left, and Madge returned to her computer. If I had learned anything, it was that I needed to up my ability to surveil. I headed to the store, thinking it of it as 'Walmart Surveillance and Beyond,' to buy some new goodies. Sound gathering paraphernalia was available in abundance, and I contributed more of our lucre to the economy to secure my purchases.
When I arrived home from my time at the coffee shop, while Madge made dinner, I placed various mics around the rooms, paying special attention to the living room. We ate, and I did the dishes. I tried to elicit a confession from Madge that Todd had been by, but she made no response to my open ended query about her day. It seemed too much to ask if anyone had stopped by, even that question seemed too specific. I wanted her unconcerned and without suspicion that I was checking on her.
The weekend was without incident. No new signs on the lawn. No visits from our neighbors, no contact with Becky or Todd. Like I said, without incident. On Saturday I did see Becky get in her car and drive off around mid-day, and then Todd left in his car, minutes later, but it had no discernible meaning. Madge was cheery, if not motivated to ring my chimes. I, however, was motivated to ring hers, since from my point of view she had the moniker of "cheating slut," and I was hoping to keep those cheating activities to a minimum. So, at my urging and with my persistent attentions, we engaged in the age old rhythms of life, and I made every effort to see to my wife's satisfaction and pleasure. Until I knew for a fact otherwise, she was still my love of more than 20 years.
On Monday, I headed out to my coffee shop, or, as my wife believed, to my office. She gave me a kiss as I headed out the door. Todd must've been waiting for my departure, as his arrival at our doorstep came not too long after I had my espresso in hand and my computer fired up with all cameras and mics at my disposal. He rang the front doorbell, and Madge answered. Once again, they seated themselves in the living room. This time, I had sound, enabling me to listen in on their verbal tete a tete.
