Cuckolded and Cold

I had parked my car at a meter on East Carson. They check the meters until 6pm. It was 5:50 with no meter cops in sight. I figured it was a safe gamble to save a quarter. I was on my way to meet my wife for dinner at a Thai place down the street and then see a show. It was well below freezing on the street that night. Single digits, with the wind chill factored in. About three car lengths down, sitting on the stoop of a closed storefront, was a homeless guy. He was dressed relatively warmly, and sitting upright. He had his knees tucked up to his chest, and he was politely asking passersby for anything they could spare. I walked off in the other direction to hit an ATM, because I’m an asshole and I needed cash for dinner and the show. I took out about $80. With 4 twenties and a single in my wallet, I walked back to my car to get my hat. I hadn’t thought I would need it, but walking a block to the ATM convinced me otherwise. As I returned to the car, I saw the homeless guy still sitting there. He didn’t say anything. I pulled out a dollar, walked over, and gave it to him. I suggested that he go get warm, feeling ridiculous as I said it…like my dollar was going to warm him up. He said, “Thanks man. I wasn’t gonna ask again. I’m holed up under the bridge tonight, just tryin’ ta get warm. I caught my girlfriend cheatin’ on me and beat the shit outta the guy. So she called the police and kicked me out. I spent two months in jail, and lost my job. I used to detail cars at Don Allen Chevrolet. I just need a new job. I’d rather be workin’. I’ll be all right though. I won’t be out here long. You have a good night, man.“ I thanked him, smiled, and repeated my suggestion of, “Try to stay warm.” It was all I had the energy to say. It was freezing fucking cold. I grabbed my hat and walked down to the Thai place.

My Cousin’s Fourth Birthday

My little cousin’s birthday is on January second, which fell on a Wednesday in 2008. He was turning four, and my aunt and uncle elected to celebrate his birthday on Saturday the fifth, at their place at 5pm. We normally spend the entirety of our Saturdays in town. Their place is a 25 minute drive from ours, in the opposite direction of the city. Given that we already live about 25 minutes out of town, this would put us a solid 50 minute drive out of the city. Despite the interruption that this presented to our normal weekend plans, we went.

The event was nice. It was a typical family function, with lots of food and lots of people. My wife and I ate, and planned to stay until the gifts were opened, maybe have dessert, and then leave. About halfway through dinner, the doorbell rang. My dad answered it, and I could see there were two youngish women at the door. There was a great deal of talking happening between them, and everybody was polite and smiling. I could see that my dad was using his amiable diplomatic persona. He’s the superintendent of a school district, and can become that character in an instant. I was curious what had brought that out. In a few moments my dad turned around and delicately announced that the girls had just backed into somebody’s car. It turns out that it was our car. There were so many cars at my aunt’s house that when we had showed up, we had had to street park. The women had backed their giant Isuzu SUV out of their driveway straight into my wife’s VW Jetta, putting a substantial crease in the rear passenger-side door. They were friends or acquaintances of my aunt. Apparently, one of them went to high school with her. My wife’s temper can be a lot to handle, and she was immediately muttering things under her breath. The girls were being very polite, and obviously had had the courtesy not to just drive off. Clearly they intended to pay for any damages. So I did my best to play the role of diplomat (a trait I inherited from my father), doing most of the talking for my wife. The woman who was actually driving the SUV never got out of the vehicle. The two women with whom I was talking were her friends who were riding with her. She remained in the vehicle with one other woman, and was digging frantically in her purse and glove compartment to produce her insurance information. After a while she shouted out the window that we should just call the police, and they could get her information for us. Her friends were visibly put off by this, but offered no objection. My wife went back in the house to call the police, while I waited on the front porch and memorized their license plate, watching, making sure they didn’t drive off. Eventually one of the girls ran back with the insurance card in hand. She apologized profusely, giving me the card to write down the necessary information. I immediately shouted back to my wife to cease calling the police, if she hadn’t done so already. While I wrote, she apologized for her friend’s curtness, explaining that she had just lost her three-year-old daughter to leukemia about two months before. This was the first time that they had been able to get her out of the house since then. That would have been good contextual information to have at the start of all this, as it may have helped subdue my wife’s reaction. Regardless, I took down the information, assured them that all would be fine, and wished them a good night. They smiled and left. My cousin opened his presents. We had dessert and left for our favorite bar.

Traffic into the city was minimal, because there was a Steelers game in progress. It was the first playoff game of the season, and everybody in the city was watching it. When we arrived at our favorite bar, it was relatively empty as well. Kumar and Greg were the only two people there, though they had the game playing on both TVs. It’s not really a place that people often go to watch sporting events, so it was odd to see sports on the TVs. Strangely, Greg and Kumar both follow the Steelers. I don’t understand it, though they’re not fanatical or obnoxious about it. Greg was clearly loaded already. It was about 8pm. He greeted us in his usual big-spirited style. He’s amazing. We asked him how his New Year’s was. He said that it had been terrible. On Monday, his best friend from high school had committed suicide. Greg’s about 33 now, and this friend lived in Seattle. He explained that they were still great friends, and had stayed in close touch ever since high school. When he returned to his day job, he learned that there was going to be a merger or something, and his whole office would be getting laid off at the end of the month. On top of that, his boss’s two-month-old niece just died of SIDS. At that point, 2008 wasn’t looking so good to any of us. So I ordered shots for the whole bar, all four of us. We drank to 2008. Conversation improved, and we got on to lighter subjects.

Eventually it came up that my wife and I are both atheists. Kumar seemed surprised by that fact. He and I discussed religion for a while, and it reminded me of a news clip that I had watched online that week. In California, a good-looking young surfer guy was attacked by a shark, nearly died, recovered completely, and subsequently found Jesus. He attributed his survival to God looking out for him. I think that’s just about the most self-serving, shitty logic there is. So God wanted the three-year-old girl to die of Leukemia, the two-month-old infant to die of SIDS, and Greg’s best friend to kill himself…but wanted to save the life of this surfer guy who was deliberately swimming in the ocean (which obviously contains sharks)? Am I supposed to believe that this is a decision made by an all-powerful and all-good, loving and benevolent God? I’m glad that surfer guy lived to surf another day, and I don’t fault him for enjoying what is a necessarily risky pastime. Life isn’t worth much if you don’t live it on your own terms. Calculated risks are part of that. However, the notion that God decided to intervene and save him, in the context of the thousands of people dying in Iraq, for example, is so self-absorbed it’s fucking offensive. Fuck you, and fuck your God. Kumar laughed when I told him all this. He was raised Hindu.

At one point the other bartender, whom we had only met for the first time on New Year’s, dropped by and dropped something off for Greg. He left quickly, with a big smile and a wave. Greg came over and showed us the bud he’d just been given. It smelled wonderful. He asked if we’d like to help him smoke it. We didn’t need much convincing. We just needed a location. We drank more. The bartender working the next shift showed up. She was mousy and quiet and totally straight. She was much more concerned about not getting fired than Greg had ever been. Her boyfriend showed up with her. Greg counted out his register and came around to the other side of the bar with us. He asked us if we wanted to see the basement, we said sure. The new bartender chick’s boyfriend came down with us. We locked the door and went down the steps into the basement. You could tell it was an old building, because the basement ceiling wasn’t high enough that I could stand upright without leaning my head to one side. The boyfriend had a bowl with him. Greg packed it and we all passed it around. When the bud was done, the boyfriend re-packed it with his own stuff. We passed it around some more. When that was done, we all went back upstairs to drink. From that point onward, my wife was done drinking. She had to be able to drive at the end of the evening. I didn’t have to worry about that, so I got hammered without restraint. Strangely, I don’t mind watching football when I’m drunk and high. Any other time, it makes me feel like my brain is atrophying. After we determined that she was sufficiently straight to drive, we left and went home without incident. Our dog was immensely happy to see us, and I poured myself a small glass of a 12 year old single malt Scotch, just to keep the buzz up. We played with Chalupa on the couch for a while, and only put her away when I felt like my passing out was imminent. Then we went up to bed.

Toys “R” Us

I have to get drunk before I set foot inside a Toys “R” Us. It’s a just a matter of fact. Some things in this world are more terrifying than one can handle sober. Every man has his limits, and Toys “R” Us is beyond mine. Five minutes inside a toy store is enough to make me want to cut my nuts off with a spoon, just to ensure that I’ll never accidentally reproduce and commit myself to even more time inside those kinds of places. With two days until Christmas, we still had to get a gift for my cousin. He was three years old, a great kid. I like getting him stuff. I’m just not good at understanding what kids like. I’m really not much good at gift giving until the recipient is old enough that I can buy him music, literature, or alcohol. Regardless, we were inside a Toys “R” Us, and I had a good buzz. Most of the women whom you see in a toy store are moms. It’s not a bad place for looking at women, because you do know for a fact that these women put out. They’re definitely kind of scary, though. The younger ones generally look angry. It seems like most of them really didn’t plan on being mothers at their current stage in life. They don’t really have the resources or patience to be parents yet, but they’re dutifully shopping for their kids. That’s love. They smell strongly of cigarette smoke and speak tersely at the men who accompany them. It occurred to me that they’re much stronger people than me. They might be ten years younger than me and they’ve already suffered more. My buzz was still holding me together, though not as well as I’d have liked. We looked at godless, battery-operated toys that had blinking lights, motorized parts, and made horrible noises. We looked at a fantastic-looking box full of drums, tambourines, bells, shakers, and other miscellaneous percussion instruments, and we both laughed out loud while commenting that this would definitely be the perfect gift to get my cousin if we wanted to really irritate my aunt and uncle. Ultimately we decided that we’d like for them to still speak to us after Christmas, so we kept looking. I noticed the older women too. It’s clear that most of them have surrendered any ambitions of maintaining their bodies into middle age. I can’t imagine what that must feel like. It must be agonizing when life breaks your spirit like that. It must hurt to give up completely. Age doesn’t necessarily have to destroy the shape of your body. I’ve seen stunning-looking women their age and older. Men can sustain it, too. I’ve seen older guys at the gym who lift heavier than me. I know it takes lots of vigilance. You have to have time for yourself to get to the gym, and discipline to diet properly. I’m sure it’s incredibly difficult, if not impossible, with kids. I really began to feel like a selfish, vain asshole, and my buzz was dwindling. I think kids are great. I’m just terrified of them and the responsibility they bring. I felt like I must be the weakest thing under this particular roof, and I just wanted another drink. Eventually we found a thing that looked like a complicated, updated Etch-A-Sketch. It had lots of extra junk on it, and I guessed that toymakers need to add that sort of crap to remain competitive in the marketplace. It’s one of the reasons that I hate the marketplace. The purity and singularity of a good idea gets trampled under the goose-stepping boots of short attention spans and profit margins. The soul of this thing looked like it was still intact, though. It seemed like the best option in the store. As a child, I had loved my Etch-A-Sketch, and I became an artist. It seemed like the most fitting gift that we were likely to find, so we got it. The line at the register was enough to make me want to die. My buzz was almost completely gone. A pimply-faced adolescent male rung us up, and I could see the pain on his face. I wanted to tip him. It must have been a long night. When we got home, I thanked my wife for not wanting kids. Then I fell asleep on the couch.

The Floridian

We found a new single bisexual female online and met her for drinks on Friday evening. Conversation was pretty safe and polite. Nobody got drunk. My wife was on her period, so nothing could happen anyway. Everybody knew this beforehand, so there were no expectations to be dashed. We sat and talked and drank in a very crowded restaurant. The topic of sex never even arose. She was a very good-looking girl, very curvy. She’s got some very cool, well-done tattoos on her legs, left arm, and the back of her neck. We had to call it a night pretty early, because it had been a very long week. My wife and I were both falling asleep at the table. It went well, and we promised to see her again.

The next day there was a message from her, and we didn’t have any particular plans. My wife was still on her period, but we agreed that there would be no harm in hanging out for beers again. We promised to broach the subject of sex this time. The evening started out at the Lava Lounge. That might have been a mistake, because we know way too many people there who don’t know that we swing. We were, however, able to get a booth and speak freely about whatever subject needed to be discussed. The Floridian is a fantastically dirty girl. She talked a wonderful game, and left me anxious to determine the accuracy of it. We shared nearly every gritty sex story we had in that booth, at least all the ones we could think of on the spur of the moment. Once the bar began to get crowded, we headed down the street to the Tiki Lounge, and found a semi-hidden little room downstairs. We told more stories, and I began to get buzzed. The tension was incredible. She was showing a great deal of cleavage, and I couldn’t look away from it. Eventually we decided to call it a night, before anybody got too worked up. My wife had to hit the ladies room one last time before we left. As soon as she departed, leaving us alone in this secluded room, the Floridian and I locked tightly, groped, and kissed deeply for a few short moments. It was nice. It was brief. It was just a sample. We composed ourselves just in time for my wife to return. Then we walked outside, down to the corner, and parted ways for the night, with solid plans to get together when everybody could fuck. During the car ride home, I told my wife about the brief interlude that the Floridian and I had had back at the booth and she seemed generally amused.

Two weeks elapsed. The following week, I had a few paintings in a group show that was opening in a Boston art gallery, and I was going to be there for it. We had plans to meet up with her on the following Saturday evening for whatever might happen. As the date approached, my anticipation grew. My wife didn’t really speak of it. I knew that she wasn’t quite as excited as me. She and the Floridian didn’t click especially well, but they certainly didn’t clash either. I thought that if she had any serious reservations that she’d voice them.

That Saturday morning, my wife told me that she wouldn’t be having sex with the Floridian. She said that she just wasn’t into it, but that I could still proceed if I wanted. We’ve never swung that way before. We’ve always swapped evenly. Any time that we’ve had sex with a single woman, we’ve done it together. Any time that we’ve had a single man involved, I’ve always been present and participated. The only times we had ever slept alone with other people had been with our friends from State College, and that had been a strange and unique arrangement. I explained that it had never been my desire to fuck the Floridian alone, and would never agree to my wife sleeping with another man without me present. I wanted to make certain that she understood that I hadn’t planned on such an arrangement, and would not be able to make the same concession that she was making. She insisted that she was fine with it. I explained that if she didn’t want me to have sex with this girl, then I wouldn’t. I double- and triple-checked to confirm that she meant what she was saying. She did.

That evening we met the Floridian for drinks. My wife didn’t waste time explaining the change of plans. She faked illness to avoid any bad feelings, and told the Floridian that she’d still like her to fuck me. She asked if that would be okay. The Floridian replied that she would. After a couple beers, we left the bar and headed back to our place. The Floridian had never been there before, and had no idea where we lived. It was December, and the roads were terrible. It wouldn’t have been easy for her to simply follow my wife and me the whole way home. One of us needed to ride with her. Since my wife drove that evening, we had her car. Thus, it would be me who rode with the Floridian back to our place. When we got to her car we groped and kissed heavily for a few moments, then drove off. We did this each time we hit a traffic light.

Back at our house, we all sat in the living room downstairs and talked and drank some more. After a while, my wife excused herself and went up to bed, betraying no indication of misgiving. She even took the dog with her so we wouldn’t be disturbed. As soon as my wife had ascended the top step and turned the corner, I was upon the Floridian. Things escalated quickly. Clothes were shed in an instant. Remarkably, none were ripped in the process. We fucked aggressively and in every way that a man and woman imaginably can, for about an hour and a half. She was even more dirty than I’d anticipated. We were done around 12:30am, and the roads were getting worse with the mounting storm. The Floridian dressed and left. I had given her directions back to roads that she knew. I agreed to leave my phone on and beside the bed in case she got lost or had any trouble. I went upstairs to bed. My wife asked if I’d had fun. I replied, “Yes.”

In the morning, I awoke to go to the gym. I still smelled like the Floridian’s perfume. Interactions with my wife seemed a little tense. At one point I hugged her and asked her if everything was alright. I could see her hesitate. I suspect it was the smell of the other woman on me. We talked about the previous night, sparing the gritty details. It was somewhat strained. I felt bad, but I hadn’t done anything that I hadn’t had explicit permission to do. I did nothing wrong, aside from taking my wife at her word when perhaps I shouldn’t have. We came to the conclusion that we wouldn’t be sleeping with any more singles in the future. We decided that couples were the only fair and balanced way to go.

Second Boston Trip

We took a second trip to Boston. We flew this time. I had a few pieces of my work in a group exhibition at the Bromfield Gallery, in Boston’s Back Bay area. The flight from Pittsburgh to Boston is pretty brief. When my wife and I travel, we normally rent a car (to spare our vehicles the mileage) and drive. Only this time did we finally realize that the cost of a rental car, gas, and toll roads exceeds the cost of air fare. Neither of us excels at math, though even we can figure such things out, in time. We don’t mind flying. We’ve flown before. The time saved, in contrast to driving, is wonderful. It’s convenient. The only aggravating aspect of the flight was the couple in front of us. They looked very affluent, sophisticated, white, and faux self-effacing. They looked like the sort of people who had generally decent taste in music, literature, and movies. They most likely drive some sort of European import luxury car. Perhaps a smaller BMW, as a larger one would be so obnoxious and overbearing. Their clothes were unassuming, but peppered with very expensive logos in subtle, tasteful places. They sat down and began to flip through the magazines and catalogs in the back of the seats in front of them. That particular flight had no first class section. We were all riding in coach. It was incredibly confining. The couple in front of us each reclined their seats as far back as they would go. It crushed my knees. I gently pushed back, to give polite indication to this guy that I’d been compromised. He paused, then pushed back again with equal force and distance. He didn’t budge again for the duration of the one hour flight. No big deal. It wasn’t hard to let it go. As we flew over the city at night, I looked down at it through the window. Everything man-made glowed. It was beautiful and hideous, all at once. The patches of development looked like luminous scabs, or lesions weeping light instead of infection, into the quiet inky black of the landscape. We landed without incident, and arrived at our hotel via a shuttle bus and two subway trains. We checked in and slept.

At 6am, we awoke to the sounds of loud young men returning to their room, the one next to ours. They were excited, alive, and probably drunk. I can admire all of those things. They had likely been out all night, and were simply not quite ready to end their party. I understood, and appreciated their right to that. They spoke very loudly, badly, and about very dumb things. It was piercing. It was aggravating. Sleep had ended. These young men were in every way the opposite of the couple from the plane. Both the couple from the plane and the group of young partiers returning to their room were apes, from my perspective. None of these people had any courtesy, regard, or consideration for their fellow man. None were cognizant of their surroundings or the people they were affecting with their behavior. Very few people are actually civilized. Most just try to look that way. At least the young partiers had youthful naivety as an excuse. The couple from the plane didn’t have that. Our trip had gotten off to a bad start.

Later that day, we found our way across town to the Bromfield Gallery. It was a beautiful-looking place, sandwiched between two other galleries. Two of my paintings were displayed up front, on the right wall. They were easily visible from outside through the giant glass front wall. They must have really liked my work to display it that prominently. It’s an artist-owned and -run gallery, so everybody working there is also an artist and a member. I’m 29 years old, and all of the other members appeared to be at least ten years older than me. We entered and I introduced myself to some of the women working in the back. They looked at me like I was insane and on fire. I told them that I was the new National Member of their gallery, the guy from Pittsburgh. They still didn’t seem to get it, and I gave up trying and just went and stood by my paintings in the front area, somewhat flustered, waiting to answer any questions that anybody might have. My wife and I walked around to the other nearby galleries which were also having openings that evening. We returned to the Bromfield a few times, dreading it each time. Every time we walked through the door, they looked at us like we were radioactive and stricken with leprosy. I noticed some new women on our third visit, and thought that I’d try introducing myself again. This time I was immediately identified by my name, and this woman took me around re-introducing me to the other women who had previously been confused by me. Their look of recognition was a relief. They apologized for not recognizing me the first time. All was well. We made idle chit-chat about the art world and the struggle involved with showing. It’s interesting to hear other peoples’ philosophies on it. I always pay very close attention when I’m talking to somebody 15 years my senior who’s still hanging in there, regardless of whether or not I like their work.

The opening was scheduled to run from 5:30 – 7:30pm. Our friends John and Kiarna, who both live in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, had said they’d come down to Boston to see the show and hang out for the evening. We hadn’t seen them in about two years. I was really looking forward to seeing them. At about 7:15, I got nervous that they wouldn’t make it. At 7:30 we assumed they weren’t going to make it, and that the opening was about over. My wife and I each had our phones on, and John and Kiarna have each of our numbers. So we figured if they were going to make it out, they could call us. We left the gallery and went to get some dinner at a restaurant about two blocks away. I was really getting bummed out, thinking that they weren’t going to make it. At 7:45, my phone rang. They had made it to the opening. Apparently it was still going on, and they had just gotten there. I explained where we were, and they came over to meet us. We hugged them as they entered the restaurant and promptly rushed though the rest of our dinner. The rest of the evening was spent at Bukowski’s Tavern. We walked over. It wasn’t a great distance, and it wasn’t insufferably cold. We sat and drank and talked for a long time. It was magnificent. My wife and I have known John for almost ten years, and I love him like a brother. It was good for me to see him. After a while, they walked back to their car for an hour’s drive back to Portsmouth. We jumped on a subway back to our hotel. The rest of our long weekend in Boston was cool but generally uneventful.