Wendy Velasquez

The Cuckold

The fuck I’m gonna do? Woman says she wants to do it with another man, the fuck I’m gonna do? Shit. I’m forty-three. I done it so many times I couldn’t even count if I tried. I been doing it since I was thirteen. Girl from Des Plaines. Real nice. Real easy going. Put on a performance for me in spite of my ineptitude. Screamed like she’d never been penetrated before. Gave me all the confidence I needed to play the field.

Now Wilma, my girl for sixteen years, well, she come out of a convent when I met her. Claimed she’d never done it before. I heard rules don’t get broke like they do in a convent, but I took her word for it. She probably told the truth. First time with her, she was real sloppy. All over the place. Enthusiastic, you bet. What twenty-two-year-old ain’t got enthusiasm? Not one I’d ever waste a moment with, I tell you. But sloppy. Well, that told me if it weren’t her first time, it was damn near close.

So, we been doing it, Wilma and me, for sixteen years. I’ve slowed down, if we’re being honest. Shit, like I said, I’ve done it so much, I don’t really need to do it more than once a month. Maybe a man my age is supposed to have more energy. Maybe I spent all mine. Shit. I don’t know.

So, Wilma says to me, she says, “You don’t seem to got it like you used to.” Real perceptive, she is. She says, “I’m still on fire, I need to do it at least once a week.” Well, I been with women in their late thirties before and they all got that in common. Like they want to make up for all that time they spent in their teens and twenties being shy and humble and not doing it because society told them to ignore their own instincts.

Well, I’m a considerate man. A sensitive guy. If I ain’t got the gump like I used to have and the woman I love needs to do it more than once a month, what choice I got? I says to her, “What you have in mind?”

She says what I expected, that she was thinking of a younger man. More energy. More gump. She says, “Got my eye on this lonely-looking boy stacks oatmeal on the shelf over there at the Walmart in McHenry.” Still got pimples on his skinny little face, she says. Reminds her of Opie, from that old show about a wholesome little town in a black and white world. She says she imagines his voice still squeaks, like his balls ain’t even dropped. Like he’s never done it. That’s what really turns her on, she says. I ask her how old she thinks he is, is he legal and all, and she says, “He works during the weekdays, afternoons.” She says, that means he don’t go to school. That means, she says, he’s old enough to do it.

So, I tell her, “Go on then, see if he’s game.”

Now, understand, Wilma’s thirty-eight years old, but she ain’t no normal thirty-eight. Sometimes I think it’s like she made a deal with God. Or maybe the devil. I don’t want to be one of them men that curses women for being able to weave a spell over any man that ain’t done it in a while. Or ever. She’s good-looking, is what I’m getting at. Big, saucer eyes, the kind you see on movie star women. Auburn hair, shoulder length. Not too short, not too long. Never gets in the way when we’re doing it. The sweetest, milkiest skin. Even at thirty-eight. Wilma ain’t the kind of woman sits in the sun, inviting cancer and skin as rough as leather. She takes good care of herself. Still tastes like a peach and purrs like a kitten after a good round of doing it. So, what I’m getting at is, how she convinced this young fellow to go along with her ain’t a part of my immediate knowledge beyond the fact I still catch men looking at me like they wanna kill me and take her away from me any time we venture out to a restaurant after we’ve done it. Because doing it makes you hungry. I mean, you ever done it, you know what I’m talking about.

So, Wilma sets it up with Tad. That’s the boy’s name, Tad. The fuck kind of name that is for a grown man, I don’t know. Makes me think of a baby frog. But, whatever. It’s Wilma’s thing, not mine. She sets it up so that she and the boy are gonna do it with a girl they meet at Mink’s, a club on Seventh Street. One of those multi-level places with dance floors on each story. Grating electronic beats thumping the walls, threatening to knock the bricks outside from their mortar and collapse the entire building. Used to love finding girls to do it with at places like that years ago. Now I get a headache just thinking about pushing through a crowd.

But I don’t want to stray from the story at hand. Wilma tells the boy her plan to pick up a girl at the club. The boy’s young enough, he ain’t gonna say no. And he doesn’t. Wilma calls me on my cell, tells me the boy can barely contain himself. She says, “He’s so curious. I just hope he doesn’t get too excited, you know, finish before I tell him to.” I tell her the boy ain’t got a better instructor.

I say, “You tell him what to do, Wilma. He’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

So, now I’m outside the Jack Four, a motel off highway 90. One of them ranch-style establishments. Single-story. Rooms lined up and down a row. Mostly semis in the lot. Some hookers in the cramped lobby. Kind of place I used to love finding girls to do it. Loved it. But goddamn, getting old is a bitch. I’m listening to Journey on the radio. That shit about not stopping your beliefs, or whatever. Last I heard, they tour with other FM dinosaurs. Foreigner. Styx. REO Speedwagon. That kind of shit. They got some karaoke singer filling in for Steve Perry. Really fucked up, what time does to the things we thought we’re supposed to do. I’m smoking a cigarette, remembering the past like things were somehow better even though people still couldn’t pay their bills twenty, thirty years ago. Thinking the world was a fucking rose garden just because I didn’t have to crawl out of bed like a demented slug in the morning. Thinking June Cleaver’s pussy tasted like a peach just because I didn’t have to wake up every hour to take a piss at night. Thinking I’d never tire of doing it on a weekly basis just because I didn’t have an ulcer just eating away my insides.

The cell rings. It’s Wilma. I says, “Yeah?”

She says, “Jesus all holy hell Christ and fuck not.” Something wrong? I ask. “This little shit’s chickened out,” she says.

This makes me sit straight. The boy gets cold feet, well, that’s a problem. “Where you at in the process?”

“Trying to get the girl in the mood.”

“The boy didn’t even want to give her no foreplay?”

“He’s acting like that’s somehow worse than doing it.”

I want to tell her, What’d you expect from a man named Tad? Tad wears short-sleeve shirts with collars. Tad punches numbers on a calculator at H&R Block. Tad uses them fancy Italian words to order his coffee at Starbucks. Tad ain’t the kind of guy a woman should try to do it with. Tad ain’t the kind of guy, far as I can tell, who either knows how to do it or enjoys doing it. I says, “Maybe you got to completely take the lead?”

Then she tells me, “He’s pacing, close to the door. Threatening to leave.”

My cigarette don’t meet the pavement before my feet do and I’m out of the car. Slamming the door. Marching to room 32, clear on the tail end of the motel. Nobody seems to notice me. Angry old man stomping to a hotel room. They figure my old lady’s in there with another man. Had I the time, I’d sure tell them it ain’t a man she’s in there with. Wouldn’t much matter. They’d still think of me as a cuck. And that wouldn’t bother me if Tad hadn’t turned out to be a fucking pussy.

I bust the door open, smack Tad square in his face. Blood shoots from his nose. Unpretties the stubble he’s clearly been growing for six years. “Fuck’s the matter with you?” I slap the cleaner side of his face with the back of my hand. Boy’s fragile as Tinker Bell, I tell you. Falls right over on the bed. Falls right on top of the girl. She’s had her clothes cut off her, like Wilma likes to do, and her hands cuffed to the rail running along the shitty, crumbling wooden headboard. The boy ain’t even pulled off her panties yet. “I let you do it with my wife and you disrespect the both of us like this?”

He mumbles through the blood streaming from his nostrils, filling up his mouth. He didn’t know it was going to be like this. He didn’t know this is what we had in mind. Stupid little fuck.

So, I throw the little shit to the floor. Undo my pants and pull out old John Thomas. The girl, oh, she’s a good one. She’s got them sleepy eyes Hollywood girls these days are selling to the masses. Big, natural tits. I rip her panties off. Snort when I see what I always see these days—Bald pussy. She must have money. No stubble on her clam. No ma’am. This girl sports a top-notch wax job. I’m thinking she must have one of them self-service porno sites where women from all walks flash it for the perverts out there that ain’t got the gump to get the real thing.

She struggles a little when I force her legs apart. She can’t stop John Thomas, though. He bulls straight into her and next thing I know, I got energy I ain’t felt in a long time. Maybe getting pissed off at the younger generation was just what I needed. I fuck that girl until the tears march down the sides of her pretty little face. Next thing I know, Wilma’s licking my balls. Licking my asshole. I told her before rim jobs don’t do nothing for me. But she’s always reading women’s magazines telling her all sorts of stories about what men do and don’t like in the bedroom. All sorts of speculations written by women who should stick to putting down their fantasies in them romance books you see on the rack at the local drug store.

I’m climbing that mountain, getting nice and close to filling the girl up with my baby batter. Wilma reminds me the girl can’t be alive when I come. She hands me the fishing knife we use when we do it and as I release inside the girl, I slice through her throat from one ear to the next. Oh friends, you ain’t ever had an orgasm until you’ve arrived just when your partner’s departed. Try it sometime, if you don’t believe me.

Well, you can imagine, the boy is crawling toward the door again. Stupid little fuck. I pull up my pants. Pass the fishing knife, like my hands, like the boy’s face, just a smeared in blood, I pass it on over to Wilma. I know she’s furious. I must not have wiped so well last time I took a shit. She’s got herself a little brown mustache. She licks her lips, gets all that crusty fudge on her tongue, and spits on the boy. She drops her foot, firmly encased in her favorite red high heels, onto the boy’s back.

“You ain’t leaving here,” she says to him, “without doing it someway, somehow.”

Tad, the boy, the man who will never be a man, blubbers like someone already cut his nutsack in two. Which is something Wilma will get to, sooner or later. For now, she uses that bloody knife to cut off the boy’s belt and lower his pants. “Would have been so much better,” I tell him, “if you’d just done it the way you were told to.”

Wilma don’t give a shit about my pep talk. She yanks down the boy’s skinny jeans and tickles his balls before ramming the knife straight up his asshole. I can see the smile on her face. She ain’t quite got what she wanted from the night, but a little sudden variety, I can see, well, she seems to think that’s the next best thing.