I got a job with a major engineering firm on the East Coast soon after we were married and Traci, who got her degree in finance, went into management at an investment firm. We made good money and were living pretty nice. Lauren came along two years later, and then Molly was born two years after that. Since I was making pretty good money, we could afford for Traci to be a stay-at-home mother, which she was until both kids were in school. She then rejoined her old firm, and with two incomes, we decided to move to a fairly big house in a somewhat expensive neighborhood.
Life is what it is, and you deal with stuff and move on. As the kids got older life got more hectic because of their sports and clubs and what-not. I had my stuff like my golf group, and Traci had her stuff, like her theater group. I never kept close track of her comings and goings too much because I had complete trust in her, the way I assume she had complete trust in me because she never asked too many questions when I told her I was going to the bar for a couple of after-work drinks, or hitting the links with my golfing group.
How I found out Traci was cheating on me was cliché — I surprised her by getting home a day early from a business trip. I didn’t travel much, maybe three times a year, but for this one trip I was supposed to be on the West Coast for an entire week. But business got concluded a day faster than we anticipated, and my boss and I flew out of LA a day early, getting back into town at about 7 p.m. I figured I would surprise Traci so I didn’t tell her I was getting in early. As far as I knew Traci didn’t have any plans for the weekend, so I figured I’d catch her binge-watching NCIS or some other favorite show. She didn’t tell me when I left she had any plans.
Before we headed for our respective homes, Bob, my boss, and I decided to stop at a place near the airport he was familiar with for a drink or two. Our trip had been very successful and should pay big dividends in the future, so he was buying. I was in for a couple of drinks.
We took a table near the center of the bar and we both ordered a Monkey Shoulder over ice. I had never been in the place before but Bob has, and he said they did a nice, quiet business catering to those who were on their way up and were trying not to be too ostentatious about it. Serving Monkey Shoulder told me they understood good but not overstated Scotch.
After about five minutes, I watched Bob’s eyes get big as saucers as he looked at someone or something behind me. Not really in the mood to turn completely around, I asked Bob to tell me what he was gawking over.
He quickly dried the drool from the corner of his mouth and said, “Holy shit, Mick. This young guy just walked in with this babe who’s probably old enough to be his mother, and she’s walking around with her big boobs practically hanging out of her dress. I bet this kid’s banging mommy seven ways from Sunday! Jesus!”
With that build-up, I just had to turn around and look. Bob wasn’t exaggerating. She was built like the proverbial brick shithouse, and her big tits were falling out of her dress.