Thanks to my editor Leo!
I drove my husband to Newark airport. He'd be gone ten days. He was always nervous about flying. Not nervous once he was in the airplane, but nervous about all of the rigmarole of checking in, going through security, going to the gate, etc. I escorted him all the way to security, but there I had to stop, since I didn't have a ticket. If I had been a dog, especially a comfort dog, or a guide dog, I could have continued. I wasn't though; I was just a wife.
He was flagged at security. My idiot husband had packed his handgun in his carryon luggage. In addition, it was loaded. He barely avoided being arrested, and if he had arrived in Paris with it in his hand luggage, he'd have been in big trouble. He hadn't been malicious; it was more like unthinking. I took the gun, and I had to go home with it in the car. All this created a lot of drama, more than anyone needed.
He got off okay, finally, and I was at loose ends. I had no desire to fight traffic and to go home, to an empty house, where I would reside for the next ten days. It was already 9PM, since Brad had taken an overnight flight to Europe. He was in business class. He'd probably meet some woman in a business suit and chat her up all the way to Paris.
Maybe they'd share a taxi from the airport to the city center. Maybe they'd exchange coordinates, to keep in touch. Maybe she'd go to his hotel with him? I could see it now: Really, you're staying at the Bristol? I've heard about it. How are the rooms? Are they as nice as people say? Why not come with me to the Bristol? I'll buy you a drink -- they have a great bar -- and then I can show you my room?
Oh no, I can't do something like that. How would it look? He'd answer, How would it look to who? Who's going to be watching us? She'd reply, There's always someone watching. I'm an actress, you see. We're always under scrutiny. Oh, I had no idea, Brad would say. Have I seen any of your films?
Probably not. I haven't broken through yet, and some of them show too much skin to be popular in America. There're some erotic scenes. Your country is so moralistic. Maybe just a drink at the Bristol. No room. Okay?
ENOUGH! What a scenario I was imagining! And yet, I could so easily see it happening with Brad. He can seduce a woman so easily, and without even trying. After all, he seduced me easily enough the first time. And the second time. And the third, fourth, fifth, and all of the times. The man is irresistible. Women throw themselves at him. I wonder why he chose me to marry? He tells me why, often enough.
Our divorce is in the works. It will become final around a week after Brad returns from philandering in Europe. He's there on business, but Brad goes after anyone in a skirt. Or any woman wearing pants, or shorts, or an evening gown. The man likes women; all women, and they seem to like him. Especially French women seem to like him. Lots of French women do not seem averse to being a mistress, and perhaps it's a plus over there for Brad that he's married. He's also handsome as hell, and charming. Well, he won't be married much longer.
Infidelity is the cause of our divorce, and it's not my infidelity. It's Brad's large number of infidelities. Well, that's water under the bridge, or semen under some tramp's skirt, by now. Over and done with, no need to dwell on it, right?
Maybe I'll try a French hotel tonight? Solidarity with Brad. He cheats with hot and cold running sluts in France, and I'll be at a nice, French hotel. Maybe a Sofitel? Right: like there'll be one at Newark airport. Who am I kidding?
There's a Sofitel in midtown, though. I go online; I reserve a room. Maybe I'll get the infamous DSK room? That's where Dominique Strauss Kahn sexually aggressed a maid, thereby ruining his political career in France. I wonder if he ever thinks of how Trump would have handled a similar sex scandal, hee, hee. I guess he knows. I guess everyone knows.
I used valet parking at the Sofitel. I went to my room first, to freshen up. I removed my bra. Then I went to the bar. I needed a drink. I knew I could almost certainly get a drink from the minibar of my room, but I wanted a mixed drink; a cocktail.
I was wearing a light sweater on top, and I checked before I left my room. My nipples poked at it. I'm small breasted, but I have wonderful nipples. They're long, thick, and they harden like steel and do they ever poke; I like to think of them as being sociable when they poke. Rising up to say hello, if you will.
I sidled up to the bar. The house cocktail was boring, boring, boring. Champagne with some peach liqueur. How about something that takes some skill to make?
"A Rum Martinez, please," I said to the bartender and he gave me a quizzical look. Having grown up in Contra Costa County in Northern California, El Cerrito to be precise, I take some pride in our most famous local cocktail, even if I now live in New York. The cocktail, it's said, dates back to the mid-nineteenth century. Gold Rush territory. Those prospectors knew how to drink.
"Right away. I'll have to find the Applewood chips. We don't get a lot of call for those." I could tell I had earned the respect of the bartender. That, and that he took the look down my scoop necked sweater (with a generous scoop!) at my bare boobs, when I leaned forward. I'm pretty sure he saw some nipple, too, since my nipples dwarf my breasts. I wonder if Brad knows what he's throwing away? I guess he's already thrown it away. Well, too bad for him!
I stood at the bar, patiently awaiting my Rum Martinez. Some people like smoky Scotch Whisky, and some like smoky Bourbon, or smoky Tequila, or Mezcal, but with the Rum Martinez, the bartender lights aflame the Applewood chips and captures the smoke in a capped glass vessel. The cocktail gets fresh smoke. It doesn't get better than that.
In the ten minutes or so, as I was standing, waiting for my drink, a man stood next to me and began to chat me up. A second man joined him a few minutes later. They were obviously competing for my attention, with the clear hope of a reward of a liaison, in my room, or theirs. I had never strayed during my three-year marriage to Brad, unlike Brad, but maybe it was high time for a little payback?
This was my big chance at adultery. Wait two more weeks, and I'd just be yet another single girl in the meat market. I'm still marketable, too, being only 25, pushing 26. Like Cassidy Hutchinson. I'm not a media sensation, however. No, I'm a nobody, but I'm a good fuck. A damn good one, according to Brad, and he's a connoisseur.
I had brought my gym bag that I keep in the trunk. I had put Brad's gun in it. God, that was irritating. The bag has my toiletries I use at the gym, plus a change of nice clothes, because you never know. I picked up some condoms at the little hotel store. They didn't have any dildos, but sometimes a girl has to make do.
Maybe I could unload the gun, and use it as a dildo? If so! I'd finally have found a useful purpose for his cherished Glock 17L. It had a long slide, making it the best Glock to serve as a dildo. Who needs gun oil when you have pussy juice by the truckload? I read the warning. Exposure to lead. I sure as hell didn't want lead to invade my sweet little kitten. The gun as a dildo was out. Maybe I could use humans, instead?
The first guy of the two who approached me, named Jack, was intriguing. He was not intriguing for his appearance, which could have been from central casting when they want a 50-something character actor to portray a bored, lecherous businessman. No, Jack's appeal was his voice. He could be a voice double for Jack Nicholson. He had that built-in sardonic twang, that everyone loves.
He was around my father's age. Well, maybe I had Daddy issues? I didn't think so, but you never know, do you?
The second guy, Tom, had the shit-eating grin of Tom Cruise in the movie
Risky Business
. You put them together and you've got the two key members of the cast of
A Few Good Men
, except you need a sexy female star, and Kevin Bacon. Demi Moore wasn't all that sexy in the movie, but at the Sofitel Bar, it looked like I was
a fortiori
put into the Demi Moore role. Kevin Bacon was the good-looking bartender, I guess.
I wrote a short note for the bartender, whose given name was Kevin, too! I gave him the note with my payment, charging it to my room, so 'Kevin' would know which room I was in, hee, hee.
Tom and Jack seemed interested in me, and were peppering me with questions. Tom reminded me of my older brother, who was also named Tom. Thomas Butterfield is his name, and I'm Amy B. Collinsworth, since I took my soon-to-be-ex-husband's name when we married. The two men, these wannabe seducers, could have taken lessons from Brad on how to be smooth; maybe I could talk him into offering a course at NYU or someplace, on how to seduce women. These two could have benefitted from such a class. Nevertheless, they were both there, and so too was I, and just being there is 90% of seduction.
They had both ordered beer, and my cocktail was finally ready for me. The three of us adjourned to a table. Tom was a chatterbox swamping the table with words, while Jack was the strong, silent type. Most men, I've found, are rather taciturn. Tom was a notable exception. It was kind of nice because there was never an awkward pause in the conversation. He was funny, too, and he had me laughing in short order.
Two more Rum Martinez cocktails later, and the men were on their third, fourth, or fifth beers, I wasn't sure, and I was a tipsy kind of toast. I was done. What's the phrase? I was thoroughly marinated in booze.
I should explain. Throughout my three years of marriage to Brad I was a faithful little wife, doing all the things a good little wife does for her man, including providing a warm and loving presence in the bedroom. I was quite accommodating to all of Brad's needs, including his sexual peccadillos, such as swallowing his cum at the end of a blowjob, giving him my ass when he wanted it, and trying every sexual position he could think of, and believe-you-me, the man had quite some imagination!
Brad was everything a girl like me could want. He was handsome, charming, solicitous of my needs, tolerant of my family, charming with my girlfriends (and no, he never tried to seduce my friends, not even the tramp Sheila Henderson who would have loved stealing Brad from me). He was a rake, a philanderer, and twice he even generously gave me STDs. I loved Brad with all my soul, but it got to a point where I just could no longer tolerate any more of his infidelities.
We'd only be married for two more weeks, and ten of those fourteen days he'd be trying to lay every slut he could find in Paris, France, and trust me: There are no sluts like French sluts. I didn't want the marriage to end with my never having cheated on him. I had ten glorious days to take my revenge and the night of his leaving town seemed as good a time as any.
