Reader Mitch Cumstein tells thee of his saga, of his days of thigh adventure!
When I was 17, I worked for this magazine as a summer job. They hired this 30-something lady to be the face of the company in its adverts. Striking for her age. HB9. No one at work dared flirt with her, because she was “married”. However, I knew she was game when I realized 1. Her husband reeked of beta and 2. She accepted every invite to hang after work at the bars. She even rallied the troops most of the time, which is a dead giveaway.
Anyway, another coworker was getting married and HB9 RSVPd with no plus one (another sign), her husband was out of town (another) and she invited us all to come over and drink at her house after the wedding (!!!).
I was 17…the office loved me and I could see she was seeing the affection everyone had for me. People sneaking me drinks, etc. It was an “honorable little brother” type love, and she took notice. She tried chiding me at her house. “Those dance moves you had on the dance floor were inappropriate…” Agreed and amplified (“yup”, “were they? i was too caught up in the rhythm to notice”). I remember she asked, “What do all these coworkers see in you anyway?” And I was buzzed enough to say, “I’d show you, but I probably wouldn’t be invited to your husband’s birthday party if I did.” Her tongue was planted firmly in her cheek. Within five minutes, we were making out and I was fingering her.
She clears everyone out of the house. I tell everyone to go on ahead, I’m going back to get my jacket. When I opened the door, she was standing there, ass naked. She walked into her room and I followed. When we got there, I stopped. Most men would’ve gone ahead, but I realized: THIS IS TOO EASY. It was low-hanging fruit. So I kissed her on the head and made my exit.
The next morning, I get a call on my phone from her. Except when I answer, it’s her husband. He tells me to meet him outside a pizzeria a mile from my house. I go and he’s standing there, pretending to be stoic.
Him: You son of a bitch…
Him: You are scum…
Him: Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?
Me: Well…I didn’t fuck your wife…but the next guy will.
That one hit him like a sledge hammer. It was too true to deny. I guess they’d moved around a lot together, which is why they came to our town in the first place. My friends tell me he didn’t kick my ass because I was 17 and he’d be embarrassed to explain it all if he had to, but I disagree. He actually thanked me before taking off. “Thank you for being so honest,” was what he said. He was THAT beta. They were divorced within a year.
The next day at work, I was stocking sodas and the HB9 dropped a gift bag at my feet with a smile. Inside it were my sunglasses. I left them in his bedroom and that’s how he found out. It wasn’t even that she told him out of guilt; the guy found a pair of sunglasses in his room and had her dead to rights.
The takeaway: you grow up thinking married women are hard to snag, but in reality, they’re easier. It’s because most are lonely. Have relations with them or don’t, but if you do…don’t forget your sunglasses.
Bored wives are cheating wives, in heart if not in pussy. And where a woman’s heart goes, her hole is sure to follow.
Women complain that they have to keep up their looks so their husband’s eyes don’t stray, but they fail to recognize the tougher job men must undertake to keep the interest of their wives…. omnipresent charm and sexiness, to be called upon at will and dispensed in precise degrees of need as with a chemist’s skilled titration hand. The legally entangled husband’s job is made tough by the nature of women’s demands, which are psychological outgrowths of the fundamental premise. The job is tougher still in a social environment which has unleashed and sanctioned the most primitive animal instincts of women, and which offers women endless opportunities for financial and emotional exploit through the feminism-directed man-loathing divorce industrial complex.
PS I understand that there will be the usual readers who disbelieve this story. CH is not interested in the after-school job of parsing lines of code in reader-submitted anecdotes for evidence of fantasy, but we can tell you from experience that stories similar to Mitch Cumstein’s are common enough to warrant testimonial status, even if the specific, and probably poorly recalled, dialogue snippets are reconstituted in stilted or hubristic form.
Having stated the above disclaimer, I have to ask Cumstein… why would you agree to meet the husband of your near-hit illicit liaison? Teenage naivete?
PPS If your girlfriend or wife travels without you, the chances she’ll misbehave go way up.