Infidelity by D.I. Jolly

It’s been said that the guilt of sleeping with another man’s wife comes at the same time you do. Frank stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar and finally felt the guilt of a years’ worth of adultery all at once. He downed his third shot of whiskey and chased it with half a beer, then wave a finger to order another round. The problem had started not so innocently enough, when his boss invited him to a boozy business lunch that ended with the old man clapping him on the back, ordering another bottle of champagne and saying in his outside voice.

“Son, I’d like you to fuck my wife for me.”

The comment had drawn the attention of the other patrons and had made Frank blush.

“I’m a 76 years old millionaire and I’m married to a 22-year-old porn star. You didn’t really think I was prudish, did you?”

Frank blinked a few times and tried to take a deep sobering breath while searching his mind for words. Hoping to find something sensible to say, but nothing came out. The old man just laughed and leaned in close to whisper.

“The doctor said I need to slow down on the penis pills or it’s not just my load I’ll blow all over her face.”

He laughed again, while the combination alcohol, oysters and mental imaginary made Frank’s stomach do a backflip and he muttered.

“Fucking hell John.”

The old man just kept on laughed and slapped him on the back again.

“And you know her, if she doesn’t get a good seeing too regularly, she’ll start shopping elsewhere and I don’t like that. One must be in control of these things or they start to get out of hand. Besides, if it’s you doing her, then when I pop my clogs my kids will have someone to testify against her, if she tries to take more than she’s due. My lawyers say that if they can prove she cheated she’ll get nothing. So it’s not just me you’re helping out but my family.’

The old man down his glass of champagne then said,

‘You don’t mind fucking on camera do you boy?”

At the time Frank had looked at the old man like he was crazy, but when you combine sex, drugs and alcohol almost anything can seem like a good idea. So Frank downed his own glass and agreed.

He met up with Tiffany the next night and was so drunk when she arrived that she had to drag him to the bathroom, blow coke up his nose and performed an oral exam to make sure he was still man enough for the job.

And the day after that the old man found him in the bathroom peeing and loudly announced.

“No wonder she had such a big smile on her face when she came home last night, same time next week good for you?”

Part of Frank thought of himself as a whore, part of him thought of himself as a rock star, and after watching the old man leave without washing his hands, all of him thought he should get tested.

He then picked up a casual day drinking habit, a pension for performance-enhancing drugs, and a slowly growing guilty conscience. Which all got worse in the year it took for the old man to finally take one too many penis pills and pop a valve in his heart. The old bastard came and went at the same time, falling on top of Tiffany and lying there dead for 3 hours before a maid found them.

She may have been a gold digger, but she knew what she was doing when she only took as much as she was promised. Which meant that Frank’s debate in adult filmmaker never had to see the light of day. He was suppressed, however, to discover that he too was left a sizable sum of money, and a written letter of recommendation the secured him a three-level jump in the company’s hierarchy. He had effectively fucked his way to the top, and it! Felt! awful!

It was one that day that he decided to end things with Tiffany, which proved to be a mistake, or at the very least a massive misconception. He’d had to call her seven times before she answered, and only managed to get halfway through his breakup speech before she hung up the phone laugh as she did. Leaving him mentally recounting the dictionary definition of a whore:

A person who engages in sexual activity for money.

Frank stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar and wondered, was this really the person he’d set out to be when he decided to be somebody? He’d managed to get rich, to achieve his career goal long ahead of schedule. He’d even had fun getting there. But was this really the man he wanted to be? He downed another shot and another beer, and another shot after that, then stared at himself through one blurry eye and said.

“The most important step… is the next one.”

The barman eyed him sideways and decided to cut him off, but Frank didn’t need or want anymore to drink anyway. So, he staggered out into the night, fell into a taxi and paid double what he should have to get home. In the morning through a skull-splitting hangover he looked back on the night before and through the haze and the booze and the shame, managed to only remember one thing. That,

“The most important step, is the next one.”

Thoughts? Comments? Questions?

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