The Sting 2

This story was told to me while having dinner at The Savoy. I was renewing my acquaintance with a barrister who had been my associate before the fall of Greater London. Hope you enjoy.)

It was our 25th wedding anniversary. Our friends and relatives had planned the usual celebratory dinner dance. And I must compliment the managers of the event.

Everything played out perfectly until...

Party rooms at The Excelsior accommodate 30 couples, and our set had enjoyed the night thoroughly. It was 2 a.m. and the band was leaving. Only six couples remained, sitting around a table sipping coffee.

As we all know, in every paradise there must be a snake. Certainly, we had one. And, believe me, our snake surpassed all civilized snakes in effortless deception, though I had always seen through his glossy, effortless gentility.

Yassar Venable Jones was our snake. Yass, as almost everyone fondly called him, was exceptionally wound up this party night. As usual, he was drunk and foul, but the hell of it was he held his liquor. Yass had no equal in remaining cogent, sharp as steel and cunning even after a fifth of Lagavulin Distillers Edition Scotch or even a quart of rot gut.

Oh, the piece of garbage was under all right; but he was so smooth and such an accomplished player that not one of our wives could be clued. They all bought his crap and paid retail. They would hear no evil of him.

"Yass! He's a doll," all of our wives would say. "You husbands are just jealous of his good manners and ability to communicate."

All of us husbands had heard this refrain for almost 20 years. Unfortunately, we have a long history with Yassar Venable Jones, the only one among us who had banked at least one million while "pulling himself up by his own boot straps."

To put it mildly, I literally hated the cosmetically perfect rotter.

My wife, Steffanie, and I had taken our degrees at Cal Poly the same year we had met and married. Almost all of our college friends had become our co workers and neighbors. With the exception of the snake, we were a very congenial group. Of course, I always was chagrined that our wives never agreed with us that Yassar was a rotter and a snake.

You guessed it. Yassar was at Cal Poly and took the same engineering honors as I. Yes! Yassar had dated my wife during our years in school at San Luis Obispo. No! I had never asked her if she had done anything more than drink a beer with him. And, No! I will never believe that she could have considered having sex with him. Steff was simply too smart for that, I had convinced myself.

Well! There we were in the aftermath of the party having coffee like civilized citizens. As they must, all six of the women arose abruptly and moved like a covey to the restrooms. All of us husbands watched appreciatively as they moved across the dance floor to the toilets.

"Man, look at her! Steffanie has an ass on her that any 20 year-old would die for," Yass said, lowering his voice to a bass as he burlesqued a leer. "Damn, Henry. How did a pencil dick like you land a champion trout like her?"

As I came up out of my seat involuntarily, the husbands on each side of me seized my shoulders. It required all of the reserve I could summon to calm and settle back into the chair.

"You always have to rub your stink on us," I snarled. "Some day we're gonna be alone with no one to remind me that I'm civilized."

"You don't scare me, Henry," Jones retorted. "I'll be tappin' Steff when she weeps at your funeral."

Around the table went a variety of gasps and curses.

"I was boffing old Steff when you married her," Yassar said, laughing contemptuously. "In fact I did her all day Saturday while you played golf."

It was as silent as a grave yard in that hotel party room.

Well! He finally had done it! It took 20 years of his finessed hints and veiled innuendo, but now I would not be restrained.

Over the top I went scrambling across the table until I head butted his nose while still on my knees. Blood spurted. I felt the knot on my forehead immediately. Of course all the other husbands leapt from their chairs intent on preventing a catastrophic end to such a successful anniversary party.

Across the dance floor, the women had just appeared, returning from the restroom. Only seconds ticked after my assault, but it was sufficient time for Yassar Jones to drag me from the table and both hammer and stomp me into the hardwood floor.

To be sure, I awoke 24 hours later in the hospital. There were no tubes with needles or computerized lifelines, but my chest felt like a bundle of pain heated by fire from hell. My left forearm bore a cast.

"You suffered a rather severe concussion," a young woman doctor was saying, "but I think you can talk to the police now."

I did talk to the police. They made notes on their computerized devices. Before they left the room, one of them informed me that I was being charged with some kind of misdemeanor. He was kind enough to say that I would likely get off with a fine, deferred sentence and community service. For the record, that is what happened.

Steffanie had not come to the hospital during my three-day residence there. Of course, I was disturbed by this news. I experienced a mixture of anger, fear and humiliation.

My life became even more problematical when I was released and made my way home alone by taxi. All of the locks had been changed, and my clothes were in boxes in the garage.

Seffanie did not answer the doorbell. Since the house was dark, I assumed she was with friends or worse.

My car was in the garage, and I had found my keys and billfolds among my effects returned to me at the hospital.

So! What else could I do? Well! I would find a perfect steak and go back to The Excelsior and take their penthouse Bridal Suite. I felt like a fool so why not act like one. This was gallows humor. I had always wondered about gallows humor.

At least my five-year-old Mercedes started. Loading the three boxes and two large suitcases into the trunk, I paused for a moment and smiled without humor. Had I simply been spinning my virtual wheels?

I had little or nothing in which to take pride, and my exemplary wife had turned out to be freaking whore.

"Was this all I had accumulated in 25 years." Then the gravity of my situation struck my brain like the pain that had slammed my chest under Yassar's foot. Obviously, I had lost Steffanie in some fool's dream; but, and I actually felt a twinge of guilt, I was suddenly overwhelmed with concern about my bank accounts, investments and seven rental properties.

Here I had lost the love of my life, and I was driving like a mad man toward my bank to attempt to salvage my assets. My cell rang as I was talking to a bank officer, learning that Steffanie had taken exactly half of everything. It was my best friend, Norm.

For a moment, I felt a strange relief. I was being reminded that I had friends. Norm was asking why I had not called him and Julie and the others. They had been denied access at the hospital, and I had not responded to their cell messages.

"We're all dumbfounded and stupefied," Norm howled. "We could at least understand your attacking the creep; but Steffanie moving him into your house after Jordan kicked him out has simply brain damaged all of us."

Norm insisted that I come stay with him and Julie until I could find an apartment.

All went as expected during the next month. My lawyer insulated me from Steffanie and her lover. He had quickly filed a lien on my behalf against the house. Freezing the assets was routine. Fortunately, I had stashed enough.

Exactly 30 days from the night of our 25th anniversary party, Norm and three other husbands from our old set asked me to meet them. Our secretly conference at The Excelsior opened a bizarre chapter in my life that I find incredible even after three years.

Norm opened the meeting after we were served some very good food and drink by room service. I was puzzled for a moment as I sensed the depth of their anger. Then I realized that this meeting encompassed much more than just my depression and tragedy.

"We're gonna get these malignancies," Norm hissed.

"Malignancies?" I repeated. "What's this, Norm?"

Protesting that I would participate in no more violence, I expressed my deep appreciation for their having such deep commitment to a friend. I was feeling warm and contrite to learn that I had truly good people for friends. Norm, however, shocked me. He dispelled the notion that their anger was about me and my Steff's terrible betrayal.

"Henry! We love you like a brother, but this isn't isolated to your experience," Barry said. "This is about our wives."

Shock and awe! About them? This could not be about these women I had held in such high esteem? No way! Sombitch!

"It's true, Henry!" Norm said, his face set in a misery mask I had never seen. "We all failed to make the appropriate estimate of the snake."

"All of you?" I asked, my voice weak from incredulity. Now it hit full force. I asked timorously, "Not Julie, too?"

Norm nodded, his lips compressed in bitter control of his rage. I met Barry's smoking eyes. Helen, too? Barry nodded. Creighton nodded before I asked.

Incredible! Yassar had done all of them and not one of us detected a stink. Our wives had played us like dimwit sophomores.

"We don't have time for recriminations, Henry," Norm said with resignation. "We all feel this undeserved guilt, thinking we must have done something to cause the girls to do this."

But time had refined our mission. We knew what we must do.

Yes! From that nanosecond, we were on a mission, a venture not unlike a military stealth assault. No, not one of us had been a Seal or a Ranger. But we were as goal oriented as any professional assassin unit. We were angry cuckolds.

Never having heard of a con man's game called "The Sting," I was in a state of high tension during the ensuing days. Learning how to "Swindle" in the most creative, prosaic and poetic senses, was both frightening and exhilarating.

Pauline Newman was quite wealthy. At 35 she had never had a job, and she lived in cramped quarters behind the stage of an abandoned theater.

Having made good money in merchandising had justified my pride in accomplishment. No small measure of ingenuity and moral cunning had gone into my success. Our products were the residual complex of arcane cyber engineering that did not simply spout legs and sell themselves. After our initial afternoon with Pauline, being lectured, instructed and crafted into a manageable unit, I realized that no Wharton MBA in merchandising was equivalent to Pauline's mystique.

We trained for two weeks in skull sessions and seminars. Then I was sent out to rent a clean warehouse for two nights. Norm conferred with elite pimps in hiring six sex workers, three females and three males, who were infected, each with a different STD. Since Norm was a medical technologist, this was his natural brief.

Barry was a social psychologist, a vice president in a visual arts advertising consultancy. He designed and supervised the printing of the exquisite brochures. He had designed the type of media our supercilious quarry would find interesting and pleasant to the touch as well as aesthetic to the eye.

"We are certain you can qualify to compete for a prize of $100,000. You are invited to participate in a delicate erotic competition. Only experienced persons who have succeeded in the tedious and nuanced art of seduction and erotic competitiveness have received invitations. If you return the attached application within three days, you may be invited to participate. In the meantime, we will research your remarkable history of successfully seducing anyone you choose."

Once I had contracted for the theater, I was to seek and secure sixty actor types, both male and female. I was to school them in portraying average homemakers and husbands seeking the thrill of the forbidden. They were to create the image of normal, though intelligent and attractive, persons seeking to "spice up" their bedroom performances. Sampling the bizarre and kinky apparently had become the fad of the day..

Finally it all had come together. Pauline outlined the program in its incredible entirety.

"Let me compliment all of you for the brilliant performance of your assignments," she said. "Now 'The Sting' will be felt by the supreme seductionists, Yassar Jones as well as his enthusiastic adulteress mistresses."

As Pauline explained it, our targeted spouses and Yass had applied to participate; and they had been duly accepted as candidates for the $100,000 prizes. Now Pauline was absorbed in her element. She glowed almost as one might expect after she has been perfectly "F"ed. Stinging was more than a profession for her.

It goes without saying that I liked Pauline. Any designs of an intimate nature, however, must be deferred. At the moment, "The Sting" had center stage.

"The Sting" was taking form. All was well and progressing toward a savage result that would satiate our need for revenge.

"All five of our proud players extraordinaire will appear at the appointed hour at the warehouse, the secret location of this surreptitious and clandestine spectacle," Pauline intoned, sounding very much like a professor of perfidy. "All of our partners in 'The Sting' will appear also as the audience, each bemoaning having failed to make the 'F'ing finals.' "

Essentially, Yass would be required to have intercourse with our panel of judges, the three diseased women. As judges the trio would be required to vote, and they must be unanimous in declaring Yass the "The Best" for him to receive the prize.

"Your wives will be competing for a second prize of $100,000," Pauline said. "They will each be fastidiously 'F'ed for 30 minutes by our three male prostitute judges; and to win, the trio of judges must be unanimous in declaring one of the wives 'The Best' before we will payout the $100,000."

"We're going to hand out $200,000 just to infect these rats with an STD?" I responded. I realized at once how stupid I must seem. It was a fine time to be asking that question.

Pauline sighed and her shoulders drooped in disgust.

"Why do you think you're paying me $25,000 to produce this silly putty extravaganza," she said, clearly exasperated with my ignorance. "Just watch closely when I hand over the certified checks."

Thank heavens! We'd get our $200,000 back.

"Your $200,000 will never be at risk!" Pauline said, demonstrating a wealth of reserve. "Your money will be deposited to the special account on the assumption that Yassar Jones will verify."

And the certified checks will be fake. But Pauline would purloin them anyway to prevent their being used as evidence. You never know, Pauline explained. Our marks could file charges against us for aggravated assault or racketeering.

Well! "F" Day came. It was Friday the thirteenth. Everyone was in place by midnight. Our faux audience could have fooled any of the New York style- setters. I actually experienced a flush of pride as I surveyed the mass of beautiful evening gowns and regal tuxes. This was my part in the event.

At center stage under intense lighting were six ornate beds. To the left stood the judge's desk. On the right were the maids who would change the sheets and provide the necessary towels and cleansing utilities. Pauline as the administrator carried a cordless microphone. It was cordless to permit her to move at will as she addressed the audience and directed the "competition."

At the stroke of midnight after a fanfare from the ten-piece band, Pauline delivered her opening remarks. All four of our wives and the rotter Yass strode onto the stage bare assed naked and stood proudly at the foot of the beds.

Pauline had explained the rules and procedures with surprising entertaining talent. Then she held her left hand above her head and pointed to the band leader with her right.

After the fanfare, Pauline blew her whistle, snapped a salute and shouted, "Begin the erotic quest for the $100,000 prizes."

In a rehearsed drill, the judges stood by their beds, the women contestants positioned themselves on their backs.

I was not prepared for the frenzy of furious "F"ing that ensued for the next two hours and 30 minutes.

I must give the devil his due, though I would prefer to give Yass an enema with sulfuric acid. Yass performed like a champion with the three infected whores. Undoubtedly he was a winner. Yes! I mean it. I know no normal male including me who could have achieved that level of "F"ing excellence. Yass most assuredly was a dirty anus of a man; but what he did with those prostitutes qualified as classic excellence.

Steff was the last of the four wives to undergo the rigorous and very effective ministrations of the three male escorts posing as judges. My heart sank and my stomach became queasy as I watched Steff squirm with athletic seriousness into the mattress, spread her legs and insert penis after penis. To be sure, Steff was the winner. My soon-to-be ex was a winner, truly a whore extraordinaire.

Finally, the exhausted prostitute "judges" huddled briefly before one of them almost wearily handed Pauline a folded paper. With great aplomb and fanfare, Pauline read the name of the winners.

"It is my pleasure to declare Yasser Jones, Esquire, the champion seducer and Master "F"er without equal," Pauline shouted, straining to be heard above the din of the crowd and celebratory effort of the band.

I watched closely as Pauline presented Yass with his certified check for $100,000. I saw nothing to reassure me she had not handed the anal rat our money. No. There I go again! I can't keep from worrying about our $200,000 in that special account. Well! If Pauline says it's safe, I'll accept her word. I have come to admire and appreciate Pauline.

Then Steff stepped into the spotlight laughing uproariously as she attempted to wipe the mixture of cum and sweat from between her legs. I'll be damned if she wasn't basking in the after glow of a hard won victory. No Olympic Gold winner had ever been more proud or pleased with herself.

Again, though I leaned forward and squinted, I could detect no slight of hand on Pauline's part. I would swear that Pauline had handed over that fake certified check for $100,000.

Well! "The Sting" was an unqualified success. At an all-night truck stop cafe, Pauline handed us our fake certified checks. We handed her a genuine certified check that included a $5,000 tip.

As Pauline drove away in her nondescript old Ford, I studied the card she had pressed into my palm. I grinned. I could use another reliable friend.

Postscript: Yasser Jones did not contract a venereal disease. In fact he used the video tape that Pauline made of his Homeric "F"ing to win leading man roles in porn films. He bought into the industry in LA and retired with a virtual fortune.

Damn it all to hell! Steff did not contract an STD, either; and she married a Nigerian brain surgeon who was in the faux audience that night.

Well the wives of Norm, Barry and Creighton didn't fare as well as Yass and Steff. They did contract a relatively minor STD that was cured in two weeks.

Well! The truth is their husbands took them back.

Me? I'm working for Pauline.

END