As embarassing as it is to be caught with porn, it's more embarassing when the porn you get caught with isn't even yours.
When Leon Meyer stuck his head in my office, I knew immediately that something was up. My wife who, for all of her faults, is not a violent person, once said that he had a smile that made her want to punch him in the face every time she saw it. He was wearing it now.
"Corbin, m'man," he said, "you might want to check your presentation notes for this afternoon. You've got a typo."
This is from the man who once deliberately let me stand in front of two thousand people with a PowerPoint presentation with the title, "Data Security Using Pubic-Key Encryption," on the bottom right-hand corner of every single page, so I knew it was going to be bad.
"What page?" I asked.
"Right after page eight," he said.
"So, page nine?" I asked.
"No," he said, "between page eight and page nine."
There are few things that put fear in a presenter's heart as much as the idea that something inappropriate has slipped into one of their presentations. Even a blank page can be a cause for conversation for a day or two. I flipped open my presentation, thinking I was steeling myself for the worst.
In between page eight and page nine was a six-page story called, "My Slut Wife." My heart sank into my feet. If Leon had the notes, that meant that every person scheduled to be at the two p.m. status meeting had them. I looked at the clock. It was already twenty-five minutes past one. I tore the extra pages out of the notes and proceeded to try to try to bolt down to the printing office while making sure there were no other surprises. I managed to twist my ankle on the stairs, knock over an intern, and get laughed at when I asked if they could do a fresh run in twenty minutes.
So, back up the stairs I went, favoring my now-twisted ankle, to use the good photocopier. There were only eighteen people coming to the meeting, so it wasn't really like I needed the fucking printing office anyway. I could have done the original batch on the good copier, but that's not The Way Things Are Done Here.
I thought for sure that the photocopier wouldn't be working or some stupid bitch from HR would be making ten thousand copies of a birth announcement. The fucking women at our firm pinch off a flesh loaf so often that sometimes the copiers can't keep up. I'm always afraid to walk into strange rooms at work in case there's some woman squatting there, popping out another one on her cigarette break.
But, either the gods had decided to take mercy on me at that point or they were all laughing so hard that no one got around to smiting the copier. Twenty-five copies, collated and stapled later, I limped into the meeting, ten minutes late.
As soon as people had taken their seats and quieted down, I said, "I've got some revised presentation notes. Pass back the ones you got via interoffice, please, and I'll hand out the new ones. There were a few knowing chuckles and I only got back nine copies.
Surprisingly, I got through the presentation without any wise-ass comments. It took about ten minutes for me to catch my stride and twenty to start thinking that I might get out of today alive and employed. After I wrapped up my forty minute presentation, I'd put the unfortunate events of the morning behind me.
"Any questions?" I asked.
Paula raised her hand. I pointed to her, "Corbin," she asked, "do you really get off on watching other men fuck your wife?"
Good old Paula. The only woman on the information security team, she usually pushed the envelope to prove that she was "just one of the guys." She got a good laugh and I let it die down before I spoke.
Once I had everyone's attention again, I said, "Actually, no. I don't even get off watching me fuck her."
I got a bigger laugh. If Paula was miffed at being made my straight man, she didn't show it. I know the comment was a little harsh, but here's what you have to understand: The story wasn't mine. I'd printed the presentation out at home, to save time. There are only three people living in my house and, while my boy will certainly show an interest in porn if he has any of my genetics, he's not quite four years old.
The porn was my wife's.
I think I'm a pretty open-minded guy. I understand that a woman has a need for an active fantasy life. I have to admit, I even found that particular fantasy to be kind of a turn-on, at least in the abstract. Unfortunately, by that point, sex had become a bit of a sore subject between my wife and me, being that we hadn't had any in almost two years. And, it hadn't been exactly red hot before then, either. We'd had sex twice after my son was born and maybe six times the year before. After eight years of marriage, we'd just sort of given up.
It's not that I didn't try. Due to an unfortunate habit of having screaming nightmares that went back to her childhood and often caused her to flail uncontrollably, I had fled her bed to take up a base camp in my home office about three years previously. But, I still made plenty of overtures, some romantic, some pleading, some insistent. Our last successful coupling had bordered pretty close to rape, which had seemed to get her off better than anything I'd tried before. But, when I tried again, she gave me a split lip for my trouble.
In case my deductive reasoning didn't extend to process of elimination, I'd also had to fix a printing problem for my wife the previous night. She'd accidentally set her printout to go to the network printer, the one in my office. I fixed it and didn't bother to explain what had gone wrong. We'd had a fight a few years back about my "lording over" her with my computer knowledge when I tried to explain things. So, I'd stopped explaining.
When I got home, I went through the print basket in my office for anything else my wife might have accidentally printed to my printer and came up with another copy of the story with some changes made. That's when I had my second revelation of the day.
My wife wasn't reading porn. She was writing it--under the byline "The Watchful Cuckold." Up until that point, I'd always respected her privacy. But, something broke inside me that night and I installed a packet sniffer on our home firewall. Soon, I started to get the whole picture. She was writing not just as "the Watchful Cuckold," but also as "the Willful Wife." She had a whole online community believing that her two personae were a married couple that actually occasionally hosted small, exclusive parties where men would be invited to fuck the Willful Wife while the Watchful Cuckold watched and enjoyed. Both personae got a ton of e-mail via addresses she'd set up on AOL, the Willful Wife outdrawing her "husband" by about three to one. A few of her fans had become bold enough to suggest liaisons.
Once it became obvious that she used the same password for everything, it was to wait until she was at the market, log in to her system, and set it up so that I had access to her file system, not just her incoming and outgoing traffic. It soon became evident that she had been writing for over two years and received dozens of propositions.
Whatever understanding I'd had up until that point when I started to find that she had accepted at least a dozen of these liaisons. By my figuring, she was carrying on at least one affair and maybe a second. She'd had another and ended it. Three had been one-night stands. Most disturbingly, she had chosen a half dozen men with whom she arranged to be in some secluded place at night where they could "happen upon" her and have their way with her, ostensibly with her cuckolded husband watching from a hidden place.
Some of the information I found maddeningly incomplete. At some point, she would take each relationship to the phone and I would lose track of it. For months, I watched and considered, my anger growing. I started to deliberately prod my wife.
"Brenda," I said over breakfast one morning, "We should get rid of America Online. With the DSL, we don't really need it."
She scowled at me, "All of my e-mail goes there."
"I know," I said, "and it looks unprofessional. I have a mail server here. I could set you up with an e-mail address there."
I could see the gears working for a few seconds before she said, "Corbin, you know I hate when you lord your vast technical knowledge over me."
"I know, dear," I said meekly, "but, I also know how you hate to waste money and it's costing us more than two hundred fifty dollars a year."
Trapped, she said, "I need those e-mail addresses."
"More than one?" I asked.
Now, she sounded angry, "Corbin, mind your own business."
"Considering that I make all the money," I said, feigning a rising anger much less than what I actually felt, "I would think the budget would be my business."
That started a real rip roarer of a fight. Every time she started to get the upper hand, I brought it back to the AOL account. Unable to explain that she couldn't get rid of it because she would then have to ask me to set up her identitities on the new server, she was soon reduced to incoherent screaming. Our son came running out of his room to see what was happening. I made sure that I looked scared then, like his mother was trying to hurt me, and refused to fight back.
For the first time that night, my son told my wife that he hated her and she burst into tears. I felt like the biggest, most self-satisfied bastard on the planet. I'd used our son to get back at her, but considering how many times she had used him as an anchor, asking me to stay home and watch him while she went out to fuck someone else, I couldn't feel too badly about it.
.... There is more of this story ...