There might be a grand plan. But, nobody’s shared it with me. As far as I know, life’s nothing but chance encounters woven into meaning by the choices we make. Nonetheless, karma’s a heartless bitch, and, sometimes she’ll make you wonder why your life sucks.
I was in Chicago because conventions are big business. Every convention needs speakers. I’ve been inside at DHS. So, I get requests to talk. That’s why I was in the lineup at one of those godawful events, where nothing makes sense. But everyone feels “informed.” My topic was, “National Security, Why I Sleep like a Baby.” The punch line is, “Don’t babies wake up crying and wetting themselves every two hours?” You get the message – right?
It was at the Thompson, which is convenient to ORD. So, I flew in late in the afternoon. The aim was to do my thing and fly out early the next day; while pocketing a hefty “honorarium” for my services. I hate air travel. So, I head for the nearest saloon when I arrive. I’d noticed Gibson’s across the street.
The place was packed but there was one seat at the bar. It was located next to a species of varmint that I particularly loath. I ordered a cold Gamma-Ray Pale Ale. I’m into craft beer. It’s a weakness. The bartender set 20 ounces in front of me. He also looked totally disgusted with my two neighbors. They must have been there for a while.
If you spend time in upscale bars you’ll recognize the breed. They are youthful, trim, good looking. Their style is impeccable and their come-on, failsafe. They were in with the in-crowd in high school. They pledged the best fraternities. And their degrees are from the most elite schools. They just hadn’t lost enough to have common sense.
These two sounded like technical sales support for a vendor who just happened to be from where I live in Maryland. Most of the companies pay a premium to the guys who are willing to travel. And that usually includes a generous expense allowance. It’s a gypsy life. But if you’re young and have no attachments it can be fun for a while.
Like every OTHER member of the genus, these fellows were eternally on the prowl. Their need for sex had nothing to do with warm-and-fuzzy. They were there strictly to run up the score. Their random copulating was like crack cocaine. Each conquest gave them a fantastic high. But they crashed and burned if they didn’t keep it coming. So, they were always on the hunt. Women were nothing but prey for them.
When I sat down they were in the process of recounting their hottest conquests. Both of them were drunk. So, short of putting in ear plugs I couldn’t avoid overhearing the conversation. It was an enlightening peek into the tree-house.
They seemed to be rank ordering the candidates based on looks and general degree of hotness. The most revealing part was that neither of them knew any names. They just used tags, like “the redhead in San Francisco with the big jugs”, or “the Latina from Orlando with the butt.” It was like listening to a couple of guys talk about zoo animals.
The dude directly on my left was telling the guy on the far side about his most recent discovery. He said, “The one that gets my vote was the chick I met in Atlanta. I didn’t fuck her but my buddy did and he said that she was the hottest piece of ass he had ever had. He ought to know since he’s fucked them all.
The d-bag added, “She was maybe five-two but she had tits that were easily Ds. They’d look huge on a woman six inches taller. But they were monsters on her.”
The other guy chimed in with, “Yeah, I like them really big. Could you see her nipples?”
Brilliant conversation. And remember, half the bar could hear those two drunken morons. This was getting so bad that I was thinking of standing by the window, anything but listening to them blow smoke up each other’s pantleg.
The douchebag on my left continued with, “I knew the guy from school so I sat down with them. They were having a romantic little dinner. She was really quiet. You know how subservient women get when you’re fucking them.” They both chuckled lecherously. I nearly retched.
The guy added, “We really looked up to my buddy in school. Wasn’t much in the classroom but DAMN was he EVER successful with the ladies. You know the type; totally dominant. I never actually saw it. But, I heard that his dick was huge.”
The idiot continued with, “Some guys would be pissed if you joined them. But not this guy. Whit could care less. He knew he had her under control. And he wanted me to appreciate what a stud he was.”
That was accompanied by lewd chuckling about the guy’s stud-hood. In the universe that those two cretins inhabited that accolade probably ranked up there with winning the Nobel Prize. The guy next to me continued with, “We talked for a while and I noticed she was wearing a ring. I asked them if they were married. That got a big laugh from Whit. He said, Janet’s married all right, just not to me.”
I was instantly on alert. The thing that caught my attention was the description of the woman and her name. My wife is tiny with big tits and her name is Janet. Worse, she had recently been in Atlanta with a guy named Whitley Reynolds. He was one of the lawyers she does consulting work for.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Maybe it was sheer coincidence. Janet’s a pretty common name, isn’t it? I was now hanging on the moron’s every word. At that point, the other dude interrupted to ask the narrator who this Whit fellow sold for. That wasn’t as strange a question as you might think. the ONLY thing those two dipwads lived for was sex and selling.
The guy next to me said, “She wasn’t in sales. He’s a lawyer and she’s some kind of accountant!!!” THAT tore my heart out. Janet is a consulting CPA. And she and Reynolds had been in Atlanta last month. They had been there sorting out the dealings of one of Reynold’s clients. Meanwhile the twit next to me was regaling his friend with a detailed description.
His buddy Whit had been trying to fuck her for a couple of months. He said that when she finally gave it up she was an absolute beast. The guy on the far side, who was obviously drunker said, “So did he give you a taste?”
The first guy said, “Not a chance. He said that she was totally in love with him. And she was so hot that he wouldn’t even think of sharing her. I told him to call me if he ever got tired of her. Man!! She was smoking hot!!!” That was the point where I tossed a twenty on the bar and exited the building.
Okay, admittedly it was an unbelievable coincidence. Those two idiots were just passing the time in their omnivorously horny fashion. But things are always within six degrees of separation.
They were from the same area. They were in the same business. This was a must-attend event in our mutual field, and we all had the same preconference time on our hands. The bar was just across the street. Most people don’t meet all those criteria. So, it didn’t seem odd that I would end up in the same place at the same time with those guys.
It would be an extreme understatement to say that the next twenty-four hours were stressful. Public speaking is all about stage presence. My stock in trade is affable redneck, with deep IC roots; and it has served me well. But it is hard to convince a room full of people that you are a gregarious good-old-boy, when all you can think about is whether your cherished wife is a duplicitous whore.
I have worked audiences so long that the 50 minutes on stage was the usual amalgamation of laughs and nebulous information. But I was purely on automatic pilot. I was FAR too upset. I had not bothered to call Janet the night before. I knew that would upset her. When we are apart we always talk once a day. But I had not even come close to getting a grip on my fevered imaginings. And I didn’t want to take the chance of tipping my hand.
It was long odds that Janet was the bitch in question. But even the remote possibility had me freaked out. It was really just random talk. Most of the connection was in my head. And I was aware even as I listened to them that the narrator was exaggerating; in the way that all those juvenile types do. Nonetheless, until I found out whether Janet was the woman they were talking about the situation was going to get my “A” game. I knew that I needed a plan.
First, I had to play things like our relationship was nothing but puffy clouds, rainbows and unicorn shit. If Janet thought I suspected her, it would drive her underground. And she is smart enough to bury evidence of any alleged extra-marital shenanigans. So I had to be cool.
I also understood that I was suffering from the “hot wife” syndrome. Every man wants the hottest woman in the room; the one every other guy lusts after. A woman as striking as Janet could have any man with a sultry glance. Which can induce an inordinate amount of insecurity in a regular fellow like me.
My insecurity stemmed from the fact that I KNEW that Janet bound wasn’t bonded to me by my overwhelming animal magnetism. She was with me because she CHOSE to be with me. But, the problem with freedom of choice is that the world is full of temptation and people can always change their mind.
So, no matter how secure your bond might be. You’re constantly aware that your happiness is dependent on your wife’s willingness to honor her commitments. After fifteen years of marriage I sincerely believed that Janet’s character was unimpeachable. She had personal integrity and a robust set of values. Her personal sense of self-worth would prevent her from violating any of her closely held beliefs; wouldn’t it?
.... There is more of this story ...