Cheating Wife & Cuckold Husband #09

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I dedicate this story to Walter from Southern California.

*

Ruth confesses the sexual affair she had with Jack, Jay's older friend and neighbor.

The final leg and the culmination of a long, tiring trip home from Japan, Jay's taxi drove down his street and neared his house. A quiet street with a lot of mature trees and in a good neighborhood, despite having to contend with his wife's lunacy, he always looked forward to coming home whenever he traveled. At least he'd get to see and catch up with things with his daughter, Kim.

A long flight home with movies he didn't want to watch, people he didn't want to talk to, and magazines he didn't want to read, it was a boring flight. Except for the pretty, Japanese stewardess and some of the attractive female passengers, there wasn't much to do other than ogle the women while imagining them in there bras and panties, topless, and/or naked. Probably not, but he wondered if any of the woman imagined him naked. No doubt, even the women he paid to have sex with him didn't imagine him naked before having sex with him. They just wanted to get it over with so that they could accept his money and go to their next customer. Where men think about sex, women think about money and security. No doubt, if he walked down the aisle fitted with a suit made of money, he'd have women all over him telling him how sexy and how handsome he was.

'They should have naked airlines,' he thought. 'Then again with many of the bad bodies flying in this plane, the last thing he'd want to see is them all naked.'

Forced to fly business class and to sit in seats that have less leg room than first class, feeling cramp and feeling more like cargo than he did a passenger, he was tired and cranky. He wished he was flying first class. With him the president of his company, he'd think that he'd be worth the price of a first class ticket. Now he wondered how much a first class ticket cost over a business class one. Too tired to think about such stupid things, he closed his eyes and slept during most of the flight home.

'Note to self. Remember to ask my secretary how much a first class ticket to Japan is, should he have to return there to sign contracts.'

A challenging week of negotiating with clients through an interpreter, while hoping his messages were received and his meanings were properly interpreted, it had been a difficult trip, especially when having to contend with the language barrier. A telling and seemingly insightful sign in this country meant entirely something else in Japan, especially back then, before the advent of the Internet made the world a smaller and less mysterious place. Then, when trying to play hardball with prices and terms, he ran the risk of insulting his host. He ran the risk of not only ending their negotiations and their open line of communication but also their business. That was the last thing he wanted to do. With all of the traditions so very different between the two countries, it wasn't just the language that he needed to learn but the customs that he needed to master.

Japan was a country so different than his own. With everyone unfamiliar and everything strange, albeit with so very many people seemingly all looking the same, he had a difficult time recognizing one person from another. Seemingly, everyone had black hair, brown eyes, and yellow skin. Seemingly, all the women were the same shape, size, and height. Some Japanese people looked very different, of course, but when trying to recognize and pick out a Japanese man or a Japanese woman in a crowd, it was virtually impossible.

He'd have nightmares of eating bowls of rice and raw fish with chopsticks while kneeling on mats, sitting on giant pillows, and suffering in silence from the pain of his aching back. Why the Japanese don't all have back problems, he'll never understand. Why the Japanese don't have comfortable chairs is another mystery he'd never understand either. Walking on his aching back in their bare feet, no wonder why nearly every Japanese women he's met is a licensed massage therapist in addition to being a prostitute, a hooker, or a call girl.

After being their guest in Tokyo for nine days instead of ten days, cutting his trip a day short, he just wanted to go home. He just wanted to sleep in his own bed. He just wanted to get back to his familiar routine, such as driving his new car, a new Cadillac that he bought just before he left, and returning to the office. Then, later, after he got some much needed rest and adjusted to the phenomena of jet lag, before returning to work, he just wanted to flop in his recliner, flip channels, and not be bothered for a day.

In the nearly 6,000 mile, 15 hour flight home from Japan, he'd think that in this modern age of space travel of 1986, there'd be a faster way to travel from the Far East to the United States. He wished his company had booked him on British Airways new supersonic Concorde SST but the plane didn't fly to Japan. Flying twice the speed of sound, at a flight speed of 1,350 miles an hour, he'd make it home from Japan in less than two hours, a fraction of the time it took to fly cross country in a conventional airliner.

'Wow. Forget about jet lag, I'd have supersonic lag,' he thought while laughing to himself.

Actually, his visit to Japan was not all bad, the lifestyle in Japan was more relaxed than the lifestyle in America. Most times, instead of feeling that he was on a business trip, he felt as if he was on vacation. No matter what language they spoke, the two universal sports that he was invited to watch, baseball, and to play, golf, were the same. His Japanese host was gracious enough to show him a good time. Should his Japanese counterparts ever come to America, he'd be pleased to return the favor and entertaining them.

Unless he was in a meeting with other men speaking a language he didn't understand and giving him looks he didn't appreciate, he was less stressed in Japan than in America. Now that he was leaving, instead of being in a hurry to head home, he wished he could have stayed longer in Japan. He wondered how different it would be to live on an island instead of being landlocked. For the most part, even after we destroyed so much of their country with nuclear bombs, they were a kind, gentle, and friendly people.

In the way he was welcomed in Japan, instead of being welcomed home by his wife, he'd have to put up with her attitude and listen to her usual ration of shit. With her the one more important, she didn't care what he had to go through to earn a dollar to keep her shopping at the mall and to stock her with cigarettes and booze. The highlight of his trip, albeit a distant second to the young women he had sex with, was picking up a kimono for his daughter, Kim. He had fun having young, sexy, Japanese women modeling kimonos for him.

* * * * *

If he'd miss anything about Japan, he'd miss the beautiful, young women. Something they don't do in this country, unless he hired a prostitute to give him fetish sex by washing him, he'd miss young, naked women bathing him. With a bath something he never took at home, always taking showers instead, as if a ritual, bathing in Japan was so much more luxurious, relaxing, and sexually arousing at the same time, especially when surrounded by naked, Japanese women. He'd miss young, naked women massaging him. He'd miss having sex with young, naked women whose seemingly only purpose in life was to sexually please and pleasure him.

Yeah, they were all prostitutes, of course, but they were unlike any prostitutes that he ever met. Instead of having an attitude, using foul language, and rushing him to do what he sexually needed to do, they spoke softly, were gentle, kind, loving, and bowed at lot. There's something about a young, pretty, and naked woman bowing to him that he'd liked. There's something about a young, pretty, and naked woman bowing to him that he'd miss. Moreover, with him not understanding what they said most times, nodding his head and smiling a lot, sex bridged that communication gap once they stripped naked. No matter where he was in the world, sex was the universal language.

American women need to take heed and to take lessons from Japanese women. Japanese women know how to take care of a man. Japanese women appreciate their man going out in the cruel world to earn a living while they stay at home to care for the house and for the children. Not knowing if they still feel that way now but thirty years ago, when he was visiting their country, Japanese women didn't mind being subservient when today's American women want equal rights and equal pay. In hindsight, something we never should have given them, wasn't it enough that men gave women the right to vote?

There should be a college of sexual refinement where American women can go to learn how to sexually take care of a man, especially black divas who think they're all that. There should be a finishing school where women can go to learn how to take proper care of a man's sexual needs and to cater to his every sexual whim. If women took better sexual care of their men, waited on them hand and foot and satisfied their every sexual whimsy, men wouldn't have the need to wander and to have extramarital affairs as much as they do. In the way that Japanese women do, if only women would put their needs, sexual and otherwise, behind what their men needed and wanted, life would be so much better for hard working men. He could only imagine a black diva being interviewed by a newspaper reporter over her balking at being forced to attend such a school.

"Say what? Ah ha. Come again? Uh, uh. I ain't goin' to no Jap school to learn how to take care of my man," said Tanisha putting a hand to her waist and tossing back her head as if a bug just flew in her face. "I already knows what my man wants," she said accenting the word knows. "My man wants my big, black ass," she said turning and leaning forward to shake her booty and her moneymaker, while slapping her ass before pointing her finger in the air.

Then, flirting with him, Tanisha smiled at the reporter while fussing with her hair.

"Just so I understand for the record, you don't want to be submissive to your man. Is that correct?"

She gave him a look that singed his eyebrows.

"Submissive? Me?" Tanisha gave the man a look as if he was black and she was white. "Do I look like a submissive bitch to you, bitch? Do I look like I'll be getting down on all fours and barking like a dog anytime soon? Uh-uh, not me. No man will ever do me like that."

She paused in lambasting the reporter to collect her thoughts.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you," said the reporter.

With her looking as if she was going to pound his ass in the pavement, he smiled nervously at her.

"Honey, there's no need for me to be submissive when my man got plenty of that submissive shit in prison. I ain't his cellmate, I ain't his keeper, and I ain't his bitch, you dig?"

Tanisha stared at the man as if she was someone and he was no one.

"I see," said the reporter scribbling his notes.

The reporter looked at her nervously while waiting for her to finish speaking.

"Besides, my man don't want me to be no bitch. My man wants me to be my own woman, a proud, black woman, and a strong woman. If my man wants me to be anyone's bitch, my man wants me to be his bitch, but while being the queen bitch, you dig? There's a big difference between being a submissive bitch, a bitchy bitch, and being the queen bitch. You feel me?"

The reporter opened a new page in his pad.

"Yeah, I think I do," said the reporter taking notes.

By the confused look on his face, he eyed Tanisha seeming unsure if she wanted him to actually feel her or if that was just an expression asking him if he understood. Obviously, unless he wanted two black eyes, he'd never reach out and feel Tanisha's double D breasts and big, bubble behind. Obviously seeing that she was such a strong and outspoken woman, he looked at Tanisha with a renewed respect.

"My man wants me to suck his big, black dick," she said putting a hand to her mouth and moving it back and forth while her tongue pushed her cheek out as if she had a cock in her mouth. "You dig? When my man's not cumming in my pussy or cumming in my ass, my man wants to cum in my mouth and all over my face. I don't have to sit in class to knows that. I already knows that. I already done learned those lessons while I was just a child," said Tanisha. "My grandma done taught me how to care for my man. You feel me?"

As if punctuating her point, she pointed her manicured, index finger at the reporter before staring at her manicure and before putting a hand to her supersized hip.

"I get it," said the reporter writing his notes. "I do. Thank you for your time," he said seemingly eager to get away from her.

Then, invading his space, she leaned her head into the reporter as if she was an animal at a watering hole leaning her neck for a drink of water.

"As long as he pays for me to get my nails done, pays to keep my hair soft, silky, and shiny, and pays for his baby's diapers, we're good. We're all good. You feel me?"

Suddenly looking afraid that she was going to hit him, he took a step back.

"I do. I feel you, I mean, understand you, Tanisha," said the reporter.

"I don't need no Jap school to learn me how to take good sexual care of my man in my own beh-roum. I already knows that," said Tanisha slowly wagging her finger in her face as if her finger was a windshield wiper. "You dig?"

* * * * *

With Japanese women so sexy, so submissive, and so willing to do whatever he sexually wanted, a little late now, he should have married a Japanese woman instead of marrying Ruth. He should have stayed in Japan instead of coming home to what? To her? For what? For the sexual frustration? For the fighting, the arguing, the bickering, the sniping, and the aggravation? There was no longer anything there that he wanted. After seeing what married life could be in Japan, albeit seeing things through the eyes of a prostitute in a foreign land, everything he wanted was somewhere else and was with someone else.

Instead of continuing to suffer through a dead marriage, he should have divorced Ruth, his whore of a drunken wife, years ago. Only, divorce wasn't as accepted then as it was now. Puritanical values, the Bible belt, the Evangelicals, and the disciplines of the Catholic Church ruled the roost of what was deemed appropriate behavior and what was not. A different time back then, with everything needing the censorship stamp of approval, it had only been a few years since censors censored what we watched on television and at the movies.

Important to his job and to his career, needing her to still accompany him to corporate functions and to the annual Christmas party, he had to stay married to his wife to preserve his image of being a happily married, family man. It was difficult for him to impose his morals over his employees if he was divorced and having sex with lots of woman, even though he was married and having sex with lots of women. His decision in not getting a divorce from Ruth had nothing to do with trying to save his marriage but more to do with protecting his career.

Besides, always working when not traveling, able to sweep his marital issues under the rug and put off the inevitable of getting a divorce, he was seldom home. By the time Ruth got to him enough that he wanted to strangle her or suffocate her with her pillow in her sleep, he had already left her and his marital problems behind. If he wasn't working long hours at the office, then he was on his way to Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, New York, Boston, Montreal, London, Paris, Rome, and now Tokyo, along with dozens of other places.

Only now that he saw what he was missing, not wanting to waste any more of his life, he should live in Japan instead of living in southern California. If it wasn't for his job and his daughter, he'd leave Ruth to live the rest of his life in Japan. He only wished he could have brought a half dozen of the young, sexy, Japanese women he met in Japan home with him. Even though he'd be the envy of every man in the neighborhood, how would that look to the neighbors? As if he was the leader of a female, Japanese cult, he'd love to have his own concubine of several submissive and obedient, Japanese women here with him in America. Catering to his every whim, sexual and otherwise, while bowing and smiling at him, how cool would that be to finally be the center of his own universe?

If he missed anyone, not missing his wife for sure, he missed his daughter, Kim, the light of his life. She was a good girl who had grown into a beautiful woman. She was Daddy's little girl. Along the way, with his influence making her the good woman she is, she had adopted many of his personal values but unfortunately was starting to show some of the selfish and self-centered traits of her mother.

Hopefully she'd outgrow those bad qualities once she found the right man. Hopefully she'd tow the line of being a good, loving wife, once she fell in love and married the man of her dreams. Seemingly his chip of the old block, he was so very proud of her for recently graduating college and getting a good job. The only thing Ruth had to do with Kim's education was having sex with one of her college professors.

'God, she's such a whore,' he silently said to himself when dreading returning home to his not so loving wife.

* * * * *

Jay's taxi drove past Jack's house. Other than the front porch light, Jack's house was dark. Once a good friend, he missed talking to him. Jack an older man, having just retired, was old enough to be Ruth's father. After Jack's wife, Sheila, died, he kept more to himself and puttered around his house.

Before his wife showed any preference for her lovers' age, until she stumbled over the magic pill of flashing her naked body to young men at the mall, she had sex with young men, men her age, and older men. No matter what their age, with her a cheap date, she'd have sex with any man who'd keep her fueled in alcohol and cigarettes. She had sex with Jack too. Still his neighbor but no longer his friend, when Ruth told him that she had sex with Jack too, that friendship was over.

"You had sex with Jack? Jack? But he's old," said Jay to his wife. "What the Hell is wrong with you Ruth?"

She looked at him a shrugged.

"Sixty-five isn't old," said Ruth. "Sixty-five is the new forty-five. Besides, what's the big deal? He's only twenty years older than me," she said no doubt thinking of the men she was with who were twenty years younger than her.

Some friend he turned out to be having sex with his wife. Then, to rub her extramarital affair in his face, she filled him in with all the sexual details when she was drunk one night. She confessed all of the sexual facts and intimate particulars that he didn't want to hear and rather not know. Yet, as if he was a rubbernecker after a fatal car accident, he was unable to remove himself from her by leaving the room.

He remembered the conversation they had as if it was yesterday instead of it being two years ago.

* * * * *

"After Sheila died, I went over to Jack's house to do his laundry and cook him a meal. It was not only the neighborly thing to do but also the Christian thing to do," said Ruth nodding her head as if her motives were all so very altruistic when Jay knew better.

In the way she parades around her bedroom with the light on and the shades not drawn, she may be a good neighbor sexually, but she was not much of a Christian.

"That's nice dear," said Jay from behind his newspaper while trying his best not to listen to whatever she had to say.

Ruth looked over at her husband reading his paper. With her words more cutting than the sharpest sword, taking out her tongue that she used as her knife to sharpen it, she was ready to continually stab her husband with her all that she had to say.