Tough Decisions 1

AUTHORS NOTE! CUCK STORY! CUCK STORY! CUCK STORY!

NOTICE! THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN FOR OLD MEN, WHO HAVE EXPERIENCED THE NORMAL RAVAGES IF TIME. IF YOU ARE NOT CLOSE TO SIXTY AND HAVING ED PROBLEMS, DON'T READ THIS. YOU WON'T UNDERSTAND THE PROBLEMS FACED BY YOUR ELDERS--BUT IF YOU LIVE LONG ENOUGH, MOST OF YOU WILL!

TOUGH DECISIONS

For several years now one of my favorite pastimes has been reading the Loving Wives section of a site called Literotica. Yes, I know the stories are fiction and that they are written by a wide variety of amateur and/or wannabe writers, but still when one theme constantly shows up, I can't help but suspect there is just a speck of truth hiding somewhere in the bull crap--especially when I start seeing signs of it showing up in my life.

So, you want to know, "Just what am I talking about?" Glad you asked. I'm referring the way married women seem to think they can play fast and loose with their marriages without their dumb husbands catching on.

I mean; really? Wifey comes in later and later from GNO ('Girl's Night Out') rushes into the shower before talking with Hubby, going in another room to talk, being too tired for loving when she finally drags her ass home two hours after their stated time that GNO ended....heck, if you read the stories you know what I'm talking about.

Crap! I was on to all these scams--problem was, my Becky wasn't doing any of the usual things people talk about.

No Sir! Not my Becky; she was always home at the time she said she'd be, always greeted me with a kiss when she came through the door, and most important of all, she never ever balked when I was horny--not even in the later years, when she was left frustrated because my dick couldn't cash the checks my Libido was writing--even with all that, she was still a willing partner whenever I got horny.

And that was before I wised up and learned the taste of pussy wasn't all that bad; especially considering the many times I brought her to screaming organisms with just my tongue. All that was back before I'd learned about calling in the Reserves' (A Strap-on) to finish her off and get mine. (Yes, Charlotte, a man can get his rocks with a dick whose stiffness comes and goes.) And if I just wanted to cuddle, she seemed to enjoy that also. In other words, she seemed to be the perfect wife.

Okay, I hear you asking, "Just what the crap are you bitching about if she's all these things?" And to be honest, I feel like a fool even thinking what I'm thinking, much less saying anything out loud--but Damn It! Things just don't seem right and I've just gotta figure it out. I don't want'a lose what I got, and I'm not under any false illusions; if I piss Becky off and she decides she can do better, it won't be that easy for a guy in my shape to find a replacement-

Okay, let me start at the beginning--sort of the beginning anyway. I was twenty -eight years old when I first laid eyes on an eighteen- year- old red haired wet dream, surrounded by three friends who were nearly as hot as she was. It was LUST at first sight.

They were all crowded into a booth at the fountain in Judy's Drug Store, smiling and sucking on milkshakes.

I made my play; the slight-of-hand tricks I'd spent so much time practicing finally paid dividends. The half dollars from behind the ear might not have been such a success, but when it disappeared out of my left hand only to reappear in my right, it got their attention. After About a dozen more of my best tricks, Becky pushed her friends over and patting the seat beside her, invited me to join them. (She later told me she was as impressed with my tropical Marine Corps dress uniform as I was with her green short shorts and yellow shirt, which she had tied under her breast so that it showed a lot of her midriff.) Anyway, before I walked outt'a the store I had my first date with the girl who would, six years later, become my wife.

Yeah--yeah--I know; you're wondering why a guy my age would mess with a girl ten years younger. All I can tell you is, "You didn't see the eighteen-year-old Becky that I first laid eyes on and if you'd ever seen the twenty-four-year-old Becky model a bikini, about one size too small, with boobs the size of small grapefruits, you wouldn't ask stupid questions.

Lust had turned to love and now, even twenty-two years later, I can close my eyes and picture the angel in white who walked down the aisle, handing onto her father's arm, that day.

I won't bore you with a lot of details about the ensuing twenty two years, except to say I had established 'Carolina Shipping," a successful trucking company that now allowed me to only check into the office about once or twice a week and Becky, who'd started working at 'Low-Country Real Estate' after our twins, Heather and Henery (we call Him Hank) entered Middle School, and is now considered indispensable to its operation.

As is so often the case and it happened in our case also, the wife is conscious of her looks and works like hell to keep her body fit and trim while Hubby--well, not so much. At first many of the after-work hours Becky spent at the gym, I spent jockeying paperwork. Later, when I could afford proper help, too often I could be found in front of the TV with chips and a soda, either pulling for my Tigers or watching 'The Duke kick some western ass.

Now, as I think back on it, it's sad--I mean the cruel way life slips up on a guy to kick him in the teeth. It's the perfect example of the fabled classic tale of boiling the frog by slowly turning up the heat. You know what I mean--park as close as you can to the mall entrance instead of leaving the closer spot for the fellow who really needs it and you park far enough away to have a good walk.

Also don't overlook the old axiom, "Never take one when two will do." I worked that to perfection, be it Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, cake, or my favorite candy, a Butterfinger. And for lord's sake always have a good excuse ready when the wife asks if you didn't want to meet her at the gym after you both get off work.

Yep! I had all that down pat and with the inevitable results--a belly that started hanging over the belt--oh yeah, also the few times I used to catch women giving me the 'ole second look' went away. But what the hell, I had Becky and she loved me; life was 'goooood.' Then the 'Other Thing" happened. You know--the 'ED' thing; I suppose they call it that to prevent making us old farts feel bad about ourselves--and it sounds more professional than 'Limp Dick'.

Now, if the first time Ole John retreated in the mist of battle, he had run away and hid never to answer the call to arms again, I'd have been knocking the Urologist's door down, but it wasn't like that at all--it was probably another month or so that Ole John dominated the battlefield--I mean he was a 'take no prisoners' kind of warrior--and then it happened again.

I'm sure all you guys will understand my being reluctant to admit I wasn't up to the job--especially since it was a 'once in a while' thing. So, I soldiered on, studying up on everything I could find about oral sex and alternate ways to satisfy a woman.

Bottom line is, between my tongue, my finger and a variety of strap-on dongs, I thought we had a damn good thing going. I still didn't have sense enough to look in the mirror and of course I walked around the bathroom scales like it was a rattlesnake. (Shows just how stupid a guy can be!)

Anyway, during the first few years after Ole John couldn't be depended on, I got pretty good at satisfying Becky even without him in the fight; and to be truthful she gave every indication she was having a great time also; especially after I ordered the seven inch strap-on that was just a bit heftier than Ole John.

Heck, when the urologist told me they had developed a new pill I might be able to tolerate, I didn't tell him a Doc from Charleston had already tried them and I was allergic. Instead, I said, "I don't know about that, Doc. I'm scared if I tried to replace her new toy with Ole John she'd throw rocks at me." The way Becky carried on during sex I really thought she was enjoying it that much--guess later developments showed how much I know about anything.

By now I'm sure you must be yelling, "So what the hell happened? I thought you said she was the perfect wife."

I did and I stand by my word; I couldn't have asked for a better wife or helpmate. The more out of shape I got the less I could supply the physical effort to support our mind-blowing sex, so Becky stepped right up, or should I say crawled right on top, to take up the slack. When I needed surgery that required four weeks of rehab time--time I had to almost be waited on hand and foot, Becky was right there with never a complaint. I really have no idea what I'd have done without her.

7

Really, between taking care of me, and working enough to keep her boss happy, she had filled her days and always seemed to find a way to 'put on her happy face' every time she had to do something for me that no man ever wants to need someone to do for him.

To this day I still think I owe that woman a medal for 'service above and beyond the call of duty' and still now that I'm 'fit as a fiddle' as Grandpaw used to say--except of course for the extra weight and the ED thing, I'm still trying to show her just how much I appreciate her. She says, "forget it, that what wives do," but still... Why did I have this feeling something just ain't right.

Well, time has a way of flying by and the older we get the faster it flies, so when whatever it was about Becky that had me uneasy didn't turn into anything drastic, I kind'a shoved everything to the back of my mind and went back to being fat, dumb and happy with a wife who, when everything was considered, really treated me like a king. I say that taking into consideration the differences in circumstances as we both got older. (At least that's how I sold myself that bullshit about 'I'm not as good as I once was, but I'm as good once as I ever was.) especially with my seven-inch strap-on.

Anytime I was naked, I embellished my fantasy by avoiding all full-length mirrors. Somehow, in my mind, I was still the man who'd won her heart all those years ago.

Now the earth had taken another circle around the sun, it was summer again and the Harrison Hotel and Restaurant, which had been under construction for over a year, had finally opened. Apparently, the Harrison was everything it was promised to be and everyone who is anyone has at least had lunch there--if they haven't taken their 'Honey' there for a night of dining and dancing.

Everyone except us--Becky and I still haven't taken the time to join the throng who crowd the place for lunch and dinner--but after today that won't be true. Today just happens to be the eighteenth anniversary of the day I asked her to be my wife; we've never celebrated that before but today and I'm going to surprise her with lunch at the Harrison. (Ain't I a romantic devil?)

Well, I was the one who got the surprise. When I showed up at her office to pick her up; her assistant looked like she'd swallowed a golf ball, but she finally managed to stammer, "Mrs. Long just left for lunch."

"Any idea where she was going?"

She looked like I'd just asked her to explain the universe and give three examples.

"I heard them say something about the Harrison," a guy who, for some reason, was standing around looking like he either had big news or was about to pee himself, said.

As I looked from one to the other, wondering what was going on, the PA's phone rang. She answered saying, "No sir. Mrs. Long won't be back today." There was a pause, then "She said she'd left a leave slip on your desk--that she'd cleared it with you this morning." Another pause--"Yes Sir, I'll tell her first thing in the morning."

I wondered about the co-worker's strange attitudes, while I stopped by the water fountain before heading back into the sun. While I was sipping on my second cup I looked back at the PA; she was frantically dialing her phone. Apparently, she didn't get an answer because she slammed the phone down.

Looking back with 20-20 hindsight, I realize enough unusual stuff was happening that I should have been asking myself questions, but I was so much in love and so sure of Becky's love for me I just hurried to catch her at Harrison's.

I arrived before her, so explaining that I wanted to surprise my wife, I asked the greeter for a seat close to the door but not too obvious. The one she led me to was just a bit hidden by a houseplant that would have been at home in the forest. Perfect, I thought, she'll never spot me, and I couldn't wait to see the look on her face when I surprised her.

I was right, she didn't see me; not even when I stood to call her over to join me. Of course I didn't open my mouth because at the instant I was about to call out a hand slipped around her waist pulling her close--too damn close not to be my hand.

"Behave." I'm not sure if I actually heard her or if I was reading her lips, but she did push his hand away, but just as I was starting to breathe a sigh of relief I pretty sure she said, "Later."

7

Oh Shit! My pulse jumped into overdrive as I ducked back down. This was a time to see and not be seen.

They sat only three tables away, but she was so wrapped up in him, him being Dan Cole, who I recognized as being her immediate supervisor, that she never looked my way--not even once the entire time we were there.

I was just far enough away I couldn't catch what they were saying but I could tell it wasn't a conversation that would have taken place had I been at the table. They fell silent after the waiter took their order; just sitting there, hands joined, silently looking into the other's eyes, obviously in a world of their own.

Then it struck me--I noticed her smile--the smile that once was reserved for me--the smile I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen. In my mind's eye I saw and heard the rumble of an avalanche; the remnants of my happy life crumbling, burying me under the residue of what I thought I once had. How could she do this to me?

Every fiber of my body wanted to go over and flip the table and slap the shit out of both of them--I even pushed back to rise, when reason caught up with me. "Think, Jay," I told myself. "Don't go off halfcocked. What ever happened to the guy who plans everything out before making a move?"

All this and more ran through my mind as I eased back in the chair; Right now, I needed to keep my wits about me, not act like a young hothead. 'Just sit here and watch; maybe it ain't as bad as it looks, maybe they're just really friendly and just having lunch.' At a time like that a fellow can try to convince himself of a lot of crap that he knows damn well ain't true.

I clung to hope all the time they were finishing lunch and even as they took their time finishing off the bottle of wine 'asshole' had ordered with lunch. My heart must have been beating triple time and I'm not sure I was remembering to breathe when they stood and started walking out the dining room. They were walking toward both the exit and the elevators--which door would they choose? My world fell apart when I saw Becky clinging to his left arm while he pushed the call button with his right hand. My last view of the couple was of his hand cupping her ass as the elevator doors closed.

I knew I had a lot of thinking to do. Obviously, Dan didn't drag Becky in by her hair; no, she was a willing participant, so it looks like you've lost her.' (I was still talking to myself.) 'Now is the time for some of that thoughtful planning you're so proud of.'

Also I wasn't too mad to realize I needed wiser council, somebody smarter than me with more years under their belt. Less than an hour later I was greeting that somebody; my favorite uncle, Uncle John; (we always called him 'Unka J' or maybe just Unk, if we didn't want to be formal). His wife had left him high and dry years ago and now he could be mostly found on the front porch of his rambling old farmhouse that had been in the family for generations.

Sure enough, that's where he was today, rocking away in an ancient handmade rocking chair and puffing on an old corncob pipe. I wondered if it was the same one I'd snuck out of his 'Bib Overalls' back when I was a kid. I'd caught him sleeping one hot July afternoon; the pipe was sticking out the top pocket--just begging me to give it a try, and I did, and got sick as a dog. Naw--it couldn't be, but it sure looked the same.

"Hey Bo, bout time 'ya got chere' to see me." Uncle John's greeting was almost always the same--everybody was 'Bo' and nobody ever visited enough to satisfy him. "Go get us some of dat sweet tea out'ta 'da' icebox, Dem glasses on da sink 'probbly' clean." (I won't continue to bore you with trying to reproduce his dialect, but let's just say it was the backwoods redneck of a man who had seven years of school.

Yep, I'm not sure how they counted it back then; he did repeat a grade or two--the story wasn't very clear cause the folks didn't want me following in his footsteps, but one thing was clear--the story about him quitting school, lying about his age and storming the beach at Iwo Jima and a couple more of those Pacific Islands the Marines of that day seemed to love visiting, were true. And he had a passel of medals to prove he wasn't just a 'wanna be' Marine

Nope--in my mind Unk was a 'jin-u-wine' war hero and just about the greatest guy alive.)

Shortly we were sitting in matching sixty-year-old rockers with an even older table between us. On the table was a bucket of ice, a gallon of Ice tea so strong it did justice to the name, "Black Tea," and a box of Uncle John's private brand cigars. (I say private brand cause his old war buddy, who was some big Poo-Ba down in Cuba) somehow managed to slip a couple boxes, with no identification on them, to him every Christmas.

We sat, quietly taking in the sun as it sought its way toward the western horizon. My mind was in a whirl as I tried to wrap it around these latest developments. Finally, Unk broke the silence.

"Well, Bo--you gonna tell me what's wrong? I know dang well you didn't drive down here just to sponge a glass of tea off me." That's when the flood gates of my mouth broke through, and everything came pouring out. Unk listened without saying a word until my motor-mouth finally ran down. Then he started picking my spiel apart with fine tooth comb.

"Tell me, Bo, you say your marriage was going fine, cept you had trouble keeping it up?"

"I swear, Unk, I thought everything was great--I mean she seemed perfectly satisfied. Things were a little rough for a while there when we discovered I couldn't handle those ED pills but after we discovered the strap-on rubber cocks she couldn't seem to get enough."

"Man, she must have left some kind'a sign."

"If she did, she sure hid it well. I even studied some of the stories on this site called "Literotica," that deals with husbands discovering their women cheating on them. I was hoping to get some ideas from what others did."

"Sounds like an idea; what did you find?"

"Not a damn thing. If I hadn't seen her with that fellow in Harrison's I'd still think I was the luckiest man alive."

Unk didn't utter a sound during the time I spilled my heart out about how much I'd loved Becky and how much it hurt to know she was fucking another man, but when I had finished, he took the floor with questions which cut to the heart of the matter.

Bottom line was--after almost an hour of Unk's 'advice' I left with the answer to that age old question, "Will I be better off with her, cheating and all, or without her?"

I think the thing that finally pushed me over was Unk's answer to my question of, "How about when all our friends find out and start talking behind my back?"

Unk remained in what seemed to be deep thought before finally coming up with this answer, "How many of those 'so called friends' are you sleeping with?"