My Encounter with a Cuck

It was late, the rain was punishing. Most of the city was asleep as I met my friend Hook, a second-rate dentist. We strove for improbable pleasures on this rather unremarkable Wednesday night. We walked west, a Manifest Destiny to the Meatpacking District, an area too pretentious for my taste. I'm not a fist-pumper, or a fashionista, or someone who ever found common ground with all manner of nightlife promoters. But I can adapt. Hook began chatting with a tall blond female at the bar who seemed impressed with him. They left together, and I assumed they were gone forever. Meanwhile, a Cantonese-speaking tourist threw up on my shoes. It was around 3 AM, so I threw up my hands, and I left, alone, anticipating a text message from Hook sharing details of carnal satisfaction. 

Though it was a Wednesday, there was something about that weekday evening that evoked sex. I remember it vividly. It makes you wonder, who is having sex, and where? Hook never texted me. But someone else did.

I headed back to my apartment, seeking sleep, a trail by foot, remembering all those who had trudged this sexless journey before me. It's not a trek for the faint of heart. And as you follow in others' footsteps you remember those things that are true, those things that last: to never judge a man before walking a mile in his shoes.

Unexpectedly, my phone buzzed. I received a message on Tinder. I perused the woman's profile; she was Russian, her photos so jarringly stunning I thought her to be catfish. Her name was Svetlana. She asked, rather directly, without the formalities of a greeting, "are you awake?" And I replied, trying to sound casual, "yep, I'm here." Receiving this text jolted me with more energy than three shots of espresso to the head. We made silly small talk for several minutes, both of us circling around the core subject matter like a school of sharks circling their next meal. I asked her a series of quasi-humorous questions: her favorite pasta sauce, her favorite pizza topping (she doesn't eat dairy). 

You know, I have a tendency to delay what must be done and give priority to what is discretionary. I am, at times, as prone to procrastination as I am verbosity. Small talk serves little purpose. But sometimes I do it anyway. And Svetlana, being Russian, was rightly impatient with this--sometimes it seems only Americans have patience to talk about the weather.

She hit me over the head with a text heard around the world: "I want you to fuck me while my boyfriend watches." I stared at my phone, cracked screen and all, in disbelief. I asked, "Is that right?" And then I said, at once feeling hesitant and eager, "sign me up."

Amidst a cacophony of emotions and mental commotion, Hook informed me that his date had ditched him. One thing I've learned over time is to take care of your brothers. No one climbs the long, rugged road to prosperity and freedom alone. So I invited him to join me, on this leap of faith to the edge of Harlem, the home of my Tinder match and her cuckold boyfriend.

We headed Uptown, around 150 blocks, to the northern frontier of Manhattan, in an Uber Pool. As one city block melted into another, I wondered if I had found my purpose en route to Svetlana's apartment. I wondered if, in this Toyota Camry, I had found myself. Like most millennials, I'm not usually great on the phone, so Hook called Svetlana, pretending to be me, telling her we were en route.

It was around 5 AM. The Uber Pool pulled up to Sveta's front door. The sun was rising, rain was falling. In disbelief, a woman--so beautiful as to defy description--appeared at the door. Her face was sensational, her rear bionic. I had never bore witness to such gluteal perfection. She looked at me, and shifted her eyes towards Hook, like an army general reviewing his troops in formation. Hook and I stood at attention, slightly below her at the bottom of the stoop, as though she was atop the mountain and we were relegated to the valley. We were quiet and nervous, soaked in rain. I hadn't told her I was bringing a friend. I knew it was a risk and that her amenability would be a miracle. We gazed at her, frozen in place and time, waiting for her to render judgement as to our destinies.

She advised that she only had room for one guest and told Hook to go home. I felt bad for him. In his position, I would've been upset. I was hoping that, given the indulgent and hedonistic nature of her proposition, she would be okay with the participation of miscellaneous guests. There was a populist element to this encounter in a working-class area on a weekday night, and I thought, she may have an inclusive attitude. But she didn't. I handed Hook $20 for a cab home and looked him in the eyes, wishing him good luck with a nod of the head before heading up the stairs, Svetlana loosely holding my hand. I turned back once more to look at Hook. There was a certain telekinesis between us; no words needed to be said. It was hard to leave a comrade behind. But I was here on a mission. I felt like a soldier heading to the western front, bidding farewell to a beloved friend, hoping against hope that I would see him again.

Svetlana and I walked upstairs and stopped outside her front door. I wondered how many guys had been in this same position--somehow, they whispered to me through the walls, these men of yore, they whispered through the ages. She informed me that her boyfriend was already naked, jerking off in the bedroom. You know, I thought to myself, what the fuck did I get myself into. I told her that this whole endeavor may be a bit "extra" for me, that I had gotten in over my head. Perhaps I fancied myself to be tougher than I really am. Then, I remembered the words of John Kennedy some years ago: that we do things not because they are easy, but because they are hard. And I remembered what my forebears had gone through all those years ago, when the snow and the sand was stained with blood. I had come too far to turn back now.

I thought about a young man, strumming his guitar in his parents' basement, wondering if, in this country, there's a place for him too. And I knew that, perhaps, at times, not so long ago, I was in the same position as that young man, searching internally, searching for myself. I knew that what I was about to do would give him hope, and that his dreams would live on, in me.

At that moment, Svetlana started making out with me, and put my hands on her ass. She was the most attractive woman with whom I ever had any modicum of involvement. I had never kissed a Maxim model before. I had never even spoken with someone so good-looking. It was as though the magazine had come to life. I knew, then, what it must have felt like to land on the moon—to touch the face of God.

I had this delusion that crowds were gathering outside this nondescript tenement building on this poorly-lit street, that they were cheering me on. I couldn't let them down. Svetlana took my hand and led me to her bedroom. I felt like Gumby, my knees reduced to rubber, my fate in the hands of a stranger. I followed her dutifully. I was, in the main, a dedicated servant of Svetlana's agenda that evening.

We walked past a number of bedrooms where a small army of roommates was purportedly asleep. I couldn't believe she did this shit with a bunch of roommates merely three feet removed. I gingerly entered her bedroom. As promised, her boyfriend was in the corner of the room, completely naked, seated in a very functional-looking wooden chair, jerking off his cock. At first glance, he seemed to be a good-looking man. I didn't care to look at him much longer, although he did tell me that, after this was all done, he had something to tell me. He seemed so mysterious. I was fascinated by this rather ominous statement--he had something to tell me--and, so too, wondered why he wanted me to have sex with his girlfriend. I didn't question him, because, why debate a good thing. This is New York, so, no kink-shaming here.

I did my best to ignore him, trying to compartmentalize, seeking to focus on Svetlana, to absorb her beauty and make it my own, and to imagine that her and I were alone. Svetlana pushed me onto her queen-sized bed and put my cock in her mouth. She proceeded to give me a rather pornographic blowjob while periodically asking her boyfriend if he was enjoying the show, to which he always replied, "yes." The absurdity of it all, I couldn't contain a bit of laughter. I was merely a pawn in this larger plot concocted by cucks and exhibitionists.

Sveta started riding me, assuming a reverse-cow position. Up to this moment, I nearly forgot her boyfriend was there, as he languished in the corner, a disgraced cuck with his hands on his cock. Fornication was happening in plain sight. Various rumblings and sounds started emanating from the corner where the boyfriend was seated. I didn't look at him, but I suspect that perhaps he was ejaculating on the floor. I was horrified, fearful of what was transpiring around me, and soon after, I finished. After all, I was with a Maxim model whom I hadn't met before, so this wasn't destined to be a marathon. I didn't want to engage in awkward small talk between rounds, so I got dressed and scurried out rather quickly. 

When a man climaxes, so much changes in an instance. Svetlana insisted on walking me to her front door, and we made out again. She kissed me quite passionately, out of her boyfriend's line of sight. I suppose she liked me and that gave me some sense of validation, even vindication. After all, is there anything more enjoyable than to be loved, at least, fleetingly. Imagine that—a guy like me, with a Maxim model. I enjoyed the moments Svetlana and I spent together, not under the yoke of her boyfriend's supervision. After all, as Americans, we don't look to be ruled, or supervised, at least in theory. These moments Sveta and I shared together, they felt most authentic. Whereas those moments spent in the company of her boyfriend felt like I was on a stage, performing for a crowd.

It was about 7 AM at this point. I was too wired to sleep. I walked about ten blocks, to expend some energy, and Svetlana texted me: "Thanks for a good time. Next time I want you to fuck me while I suck his dick 🙂." (The smiley-face emoji was included before the punctuation).

I pondered what had transpired. I had the good fortune of having sex with a Maxim model. And I had accumulated a sort of life story--a bucket-list item--that I wouldn't soon forget. In the end, sex is OK, but talking about it can be even better. I enjoy a funny story to punctuate the banality of existence from time to time. That being said, I was a little disgusted by the fact that a male spectator oversaw the whole encounter. But I don't want to give the cuckold too much trouble; he's not hurting anyone on his long, rugged road to sexual contentment. Imagine if society rejected as false or taboo something that you found appealing. So, I empathized with him and cheered the social progress that, perhaps, we forged together.

On the way home, I stopped at a fruit stand. I wondered if the fruit guy had any sense of what I had just done. Did he have any clue, at all? Perhaps this fruit guy had developed a sixth sense, to know which of his customers were on a walk of shame. He's a very intuitive fruit guy, indeed. I bought four peaches and two apples and I went home, to my own bed, wondering if some deity of sex had commandeered this whole conclave from up above, and confident as to what the human spirit could achieve with a bit of risk and endurance.

I remembered that the cuck boyfriend wanted to tell me something after the encounter. I was weary of having too much conversation with him and I had hurried out. I sat on my bed, looking out my window onto a rainy road, wondering, what would he have told me?