"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
Or so the saying goes. What most people don't realize however is the fact that it refers to your money rather than your reputation.
"Whatever amount of cash you bring to Vegas stays in Vegas."
Oh well. What is cash for, if not for burning while having fun? After all you only live once. Which was exactly what I had told myself a few weeks ago when I picked up my Dodge Charger SRT8 at the dealer. Among the things a man need in order to maintain his testosterone level is a good set of wheels and...
"HONK!"
Huh? Somebody dared intruding on my inner monologue by honking.
I glanced to the right, and noticed a group of giddy kids in a Mustang convertible in the next lane. I rolled down the window.
"What's up guys?"
The girl at the wheel sent me a seductive smile. She was hot in a sultry and slightly artificial way.
"My oh my." She cooed. "That's a mighty beefy car you have there daddy. Whatcha been feeding it?"
"Mustangs." I answered with a predatory smile, and stepped on it as the light turned green. The kids disappeared in my rear view mirror like drops of water on a hot surface.
"Yeah, it definitely works," I though to myself.
I could practically feel my balls growing by the minute by the sound of the powerful V8. All I needed now was a hairy chest and a Tom Selleck mustache to go with it and my ascend to ultimate manhood was assured.
But first things first. I had a little psychological issue to deal with and needed to enlist some professional assistance.
****
Consequently I later found myself in the tastefully furnished office of doctor Laci Horowich; allegedly one of the leading experts in behavioral psychology in the area. I've gotten the name from my secretary who ensured me that she was good.
The doctor turned out to be a fairly well preserved brunette about my age with an annoying habit of never looking directly at the person she was talking to.
"Welcome Mr. Connor," she said to the desk lamp with a bright smile. "Please have a seat."
"Dave," I said. "My friends and my shrink call me Dave."
"Dave it is then. And how can I be of service to you Dave?"
Yeah, I know what you're thinking. But you might as well pull your mind out of the gutter right now. I'm into feisty redheads and happened to be married to one, so I had no room for brunettes in my life. My need for doctor Horowich was strictly in her professional capacity. I was still struggling with making sense of my reaction to watching my wife getting ravished in her sleep by a drunken stranger. I needed some sort of scientific explanation before going in sane.
"This is quite embarrassing to talk about doc, so you'd better be serious about that patient-doctor confidentiality."
"Don't worry Dave. It's one of my professions most sacred principles. Unless you reveal a plan to commit murder or an act of terror, everything – and I mean, everything - said in this office is privileged information."
She looked reassuringly at the penholder.
"Ok doc. Well, it all began when I received an invite to a family wedding in Las Vegas..."
And I then proceeded to tell her the entire story that I shared with you a while back under the title "Soap on a Rope." If you have no fucking idea what I'm babbling about, you should go read it now and continue with this story later.
Still here? Ok, well the doc never interrupted me, but was scribbling away on her iPad while I was telling my tale. Or maybe she was playing Angry Birds in Space, who knows? As long as I got my answer she could dance a Scottish Jig while gurgling Gershwin for all I cared.
"So what do you say doc? Am I a sick fuck or do you hear this kinda shit all the time?"
She put down her iPad and nodded thoughtful at my coffee mug.
"That was quite an engaging tale Dave. No, I do not hear something like that every day. You are not an ordinary man."
"And what does that mean? Give it to me straight please. Am I one of them wimpy-ass cuckolds you hear so much about?"
"No, far from it." she said and added, "Not that there is anything wrong with choosing a cuckolding lifestyle Dave. Different folks, different strokes you know."
"Yeah whatever. But then, what the heck am I doc?"
"I could lecture you about Herne's syndrome for hours, but if you want it in clear text: You are a hunter Dave."
I had to laugh at that. Doctor Horowich didn't seem offended and sent the intercom a warm smile.
"No offence doc but I friggin hate hunting. And fishing too btw. Last time I was out with my cousin I fell asleep in the boat and dropped his three hundred dollar fishing rod into the lake. He hasn't spoken to me since, and I even paid him for it."
"You misunderstand Dave," doctor Horowich said. "You are a hunter of women. Not fish or animals. Your story has all the hallmarks of Herne's syndrome: You watched another man lay claim to your wife, you out-maneuvered him, took your wife back and punished the usurper. It was the thrill of competing with another man for your wife that gave you such a high. The thrill of the hunt. Not the humiliation."
I felt a deep sense of relief.
"Not a cuckold, eh?"
"No," she assured her laptop. "A cuckold thrives on humiliation and will typically react with submission when faced with a threat to his relationship. You, on the other hand, would see it as a challenge and fight back."
Doctor Horowich continued.
"Actually your personality is closer to that of a voyeur. Stalking the prey is part of the hunt after all. That's why you got aroused watching your wife being engaged sexually with another man. I suspect you would have enjoyed it almost as much, if it hadn't been her but two complete strangers. Where you differ though is in your desire to be physically involved and not merely watching. Had you been a true voyeur you wouldn't have had the need to have sexual intercourse with your wife after watching her. Masturbation would have been enough for you."
****
On the way home from the doc I felt pretty good about myself despite being a couple of hundred bucks poorer. So I was a hunter? A ferocious tiger on the prowl. A shark in a fishbowl. King of the jungle. Ruler of the food chain. Yeah, I could live with that.
"Tarzan Kreegah Bundolo!"
Though I did not expect to get the opportunity to 'hunt' anybody ever again. What happened in Vegas was a fluke. A conjunction of multiple unlikely events coalescing into a once in a lifetime experience. And it would be a cold day in hell before Marie knowingly would agree to any kind of swinging or hotwifing . Not that I'd want her to anyway. Even amazing orgasms aren't worth risking the love of your life for.
But maybe I could do the voyeur thing solo sometime. Like stalking the neighborhood and peep in on other people fucking? Naah, better forget it. It would be too damn embarrassing if I got caught.
