The Hard Truth of the Trophy Wife (Short Story)

The Hard Truth of the Trophy Wife

Written By SteeleBlazer

The name’s Jack Malone, private dick. On a sweltering Tuesday afternoon in my smoke-stained office, I got a visit from a man with a problem—Lionel Wainwright III. A name that sounded as pompous as it looked on his embossed business card. It was the kind of name that belonged on a yacht, not in my cheap swivel chair. He looked like a million bucks, but wore his worry like a cheap suit.

“My wife,” he started, fiddling with a gold lighter he had no idea how to use and fumbling with a cigarette he didn’t know how to light, “I think she’s cheating on me.”

It was a tale as old as time. I leaned back, pretending like I hadn’t heard it all before. “You don’t say?”

Lionel tossed a stack of pictures onto my desk—one would have sufficed, but I guess he was rather proud of himself, and really wanted to show off his wife. I took my time thumbing through those photographs of hers, paying close attention to all the details of her figure, no matter how big or small, and she had some awfully big figures—even if there was nothing awful about the way she looked.

His wife was a looker, all right. Blonde hair, blue eyes, curves like a winding mountain road, and a smile that could sell you anything. And if she told you she loved you, well, you’d believe her even as she reached for your wallet. She was the kind of trophy wife men like Lionel polished on Sundays and put on display at parties.

I set the photos down and noticed Lionel was still fumbling with that cigarette. I grabbed my lighter—it wasn’t as nice as his, but I had no problem working mine—flipped it open, and held the flame to his cigarette. He leaned in, a little too eagerly, and took a drag, only to cough like he’d never smoked a day in his life.

“So,” I said, leaning back, “why do you think she’s cheating on you?”

Lionel wiped his mouth, still recovering from the smoke. “Sweatpants and oversized sweaters—she’s covering up like she’s got something to hide. She used to be proud of how she looked, always dressed to impress, but now it’s like she’s hiding. Not just her figure, but she’s hardly around anymore. I feel like she’s hiding from me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe she just wants a little bit of space, and speaking of space, maybe she put on a few extra pounds, and she needs the extra space there too... Sweatpants can do wonders for covering that up.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not that... there’s more. We’re not... intimate like we used to be. Things have cooled off... a lot.”

I sat back and took a long drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily in the air. She’d been covering up in sweaters and sweatpants—clothes that hid everything and revealed even less. Something about it was off, just as much as his love life had been off lately. Lionel took another drag of his cigarette but coughed again, looking about as comfortable with smoking as he did with the rest of his problems.

Lionel sighed, his voice cracking like cheap porcelain. “Our love life used to be… hot and heavy. Every night was fireworks. But now—”

I cut him off, waving the stack of pictures around. “Spare me the details of your love life... unless you happen to have some photographs of that.”

Lionel’s face flushed as I fanned myself with the pictures, then casually tossed them back onto the desk. He let out another sigh, heavier this time.

“It’s just... she’s wearing these frumpy clothes, and she barely looks at me. I think there’s someone else.”

I leaned back, playing with the brim of my hat. “You seen the guy?”

“No, but I’ve seen the signs. Plates, Mr. Malone. Dinner plates—enough food for two.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So, what? Maybe she’s eating for two, if you know what I mean... Maybe I ought to give you a cigar to smoke instead of that cigarette?” I said as I flipped open a box of cheap cigars on my desk and offered one to Wainwright.

“No,” he coughed, waving the cigar off, still coughing. “I mean... no, thank you... And no, it can’t be that she’s pregnant. This has been going on for almost a year, and besides, this isn’t normal eating. You haven’t seen the evidence. Dinner plates, piled high. My wife never used to eat like that. She’s never had an appetite. But now? Plates cleared and stacked like she’s feeding an army.”

“Well, let’s hope she’s not entertaining an army,” I laughed, but Mr. Wainwright didn’t care much for my humor, about as little as he cared for that cigarette. Another coughing fit took him instead of laughter after he puffed nervously on that cigarette.

“I’m telling you, there’s no way my little wife could eat all that food,” Lionel insisted, still clinging to the idea his wife was unfaithful.

“Hmm... Dinner plates,” I muttered, rolling the thought around in my head.

“That’s awfully thin. Maybe that’s her problem—she ain’t thin no more. Maybe she’s just got more of an appetite for food than she does for your love.”

“That’s why I hired her the personal trainer.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What’s a personal trainer?”

“He’s this big gorilla she hired—with my money—to get in shape. To lose those pounds. Only, it’s been months, and those pounds haven’t been coming off...”

“So you think they’re doing a different kind of workout?” I asked, giving him a look.

“Yes. No. I don’t know... She fired him months ago, and I thought finally, the pounds would come off—and so would the sweats and baggy clothes—but no,” Wainwright said, shaking his head.

I leaned back, giving another glance at one of the more particularly interesting photographs of Mrs. Wainwright. Even if this case wasn’t exactly grabbing me yet.

“Maybe the guy was just a lousy trainer,” I muttered, almost to myself.

“Not this guy. He’s some sort of champion bodybuilder... whatever that means.”

I nodded. I knew exactly what it meant: the guy was huge. Big muscles, but most likely small brains.

“Well, then maybe he was just a lousy lover,” I offered.

“But he’s been fired months ago,” Lionel shot back.

“I see. Any other leads?” I asked, taking one last drag from my cigarette before extinguishing it.

“Leads? No, I don’t know...” Lionel took a shaky drag from his cigarette and coughed again before sighing. “But what about the smell?”

I crinkled my nose, sniffing the air. “What about it? I don’t smell anything,” I said, except for the usual stench of my stale cigarettes.

“No, not your smell or even my smell or hers... That’s the problem. It’s some kind of aftershave or hair oil that stains the furniture. It’s not hers, not mine. It’s got to be his.”

“And it’s still there after firing this two-bit bodybuilding chump?”

Wainwright nodded, exasperated. I rubbed my chin. Maybe there was something here after all... Even if it was just my normal daily rate plus expenses. I had bills to pay, and like Mrs. Wainwright, I gotta eat—though my appetite wasn’t quite as pronounced as hers.

I agreed to take the case, thinking it would be an easy payday. A light assignment that didn’t need heavy lifting. But like most things in this business, looks can be deceiving. Much like Lionel’s wife.

Surveillance and Steak Dinners

I started with the usual—watching the house. Days went by, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She was always home, wrapped up in those baggy clothes, never a trace of the glamour she once flaunted. The photograph I kept of her, the only trace of that old allure, had become the best company I had. I’d had worse, though, and I made sure to keep the best shot from Wainwright’s private collection. From my vantage point, she didn’t do much all day, but I wasn’t blessed with X-ray vision. On the rare occasions she did leave, it wasn’t anywhere scandalous—just down to the local grocer. Loading up enough food to feed an army. Only this army was clearly eating clean and lean... Only this army never showed up, and it was just little Mrs. Wainwright eating all that food.

There was something off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Next time she left for the grocer, I decided to check the place out. Wainwright had an expensive door, complete with the latest, high-end locks. But I didn’t need to pick them, not when Mr. Wainwright had personally told me where he kept his spare key. Hidden inside one mouths of his marble lion statues; they weren’t doing much guarding—they practically invited me in.

“Good kitty,” I muttered, giving the statue a pet before letting myself in.

Inside, I took a good look around. The dining room table caught my eye first. Plates, mostly cleared, except for the bones from a T-bone steak—looked like someone with a serious appetite had been at work. But it wasn’t just the food that caught my attention. One of the chairs, a nice wooden one with cushioned pads, had seen better days. The seat was worn down, the cushion flattened—like someone big had been sitting there. And often. I ran a hand over the surface, feeling an oily residue. I gave it a sniff, trying to place the smell, but whatever it was, it didn’t belong. The other chairs didn’t have it. This one stood out.

Still, that just tells me I’m looking for a large man—or perhaps a shaved gorilla, so I continued my search. This was a large house, with plenty of places where a gorilla could hide—let alone plenty of places to let in a transient lover—plenty of places for them to consummate their relationship. Just because I hadn’t seen hide or hair of a man didn’t mean he wasn’t out there. And I hadn’t seen hide or any of Mrs. Wainwright’s fantastic body these last few days either—just those frumpy sweats and her hair. Which, strangely enough, was still done up nice and meticulous. Odd that she’d let herself go but keep her hair styled so well. But I had other things to think about right now—I was searching for clues.

I scoured the place, eyes peeled for anything that didn’t belong. Every corner, every nook, every drawer told a story. But in this line of work, it’s not the obvious that gives things away—it’s the small stuff, the things that don’t add up. A pillow slightly out of place, a glass with the wrong set of fingerprints. I moved quietly, my senses sharp, knowing that somewhere in here, the truth was hiding in plain sight, just waiting to be uncovered.

I moved through the house, nothing catching hold of my eyes. In a room bigger than my office was their home gym—impressive, too. Not that I know much about weightlifting, but I’ve been to my share of gyms on cases. Boxers on the take, guys with glass jaws and equally weak knees, who went down faster than a cold beer on a hot day. This setup? Better equipped than most, with more iron than a steel mill.

All this iron seemed wasted on someone as delicate as Mrs. Wainwright. Whoever sold them the equipment probably threw in a bridge with the deal. Hopefully, they got a manual too, because some of these machines looked more like medieval torture devices—and probably weren’t too far from torture to actually use. It all seemed overly complicated, and definitely overkill for one little woman to use.

The bedroom didn’t give much away either, but there were plenty of pictures. Mostly of her, back in the day when she was a beauty queen. Since I’d left my photograph of hers back in the car, I was feeling a bit lonely, and so I took the time to scan those photographs for clues, making sure to go over that figure of hers to see if she wasn’t hiding anything. And with the clothes she was wearing in those pictures, trust me—there wasn’t much room to hide anything. The photographs were mostly a mix of portraits and some cheesecake shots of her, and you better believe I always have room for cheesecake. A few were of her on stage, some being crowned. There was something about that smile—she seemed to really love being up there on that stage, showing off her beauty, showing off her figure. Boy, what a figure—she was quite the sight back then.

Shame she’s hiding her figure now... along with something else. And boy, was she doing a damn good job of it. It’s a mystery why a dame like her would hide away her beauty, but that’s what I’m being paid to solve... this mystery.

As I scanned the calendar hanging on the wall, something caught my eye. A date circled in red—no notes, no explanation, just the day and three exclamation points, bold and loud like they had something to say. I didn’t need to be a genius to know it meant something. I made a mental note of it and kept digging.

Then I spotted something laid out on the bed. A swimsuit. A two-piece bikini with glittering sequins, the kind that would turn heads for sure. Strange, considering it wasn’t exactly beach season anymore. This was California, sure, but the waves weren’t calling right now. I wondered why it was out, but before I could mull it over, I heard the front door.

I had to move fast. I ducked out, slipping through just as Mrs. Wainwright came in, her arms loaded with groceries. Good thing she was too busy with those bags; otherwise, she’d have spotted me as easily as a spotlight on a stage, and from looking over all her pictures, I knew how much she loved the spotlight. You’d think someone like her would have servants to carry those in for her. Then again... not many women I know could carry a load like that so easily.

As I mulled that over, I figured she’d be stuck at home long enough, cooking up another feast for her invisible army. That gave me time to do some sleuthing. After all, that’s what I get paid for as a private dick.

Wainwright had saved me the trouble of digging through the phone book by giving me the address of the shaved gorilla she’d hired with his money—the personal trainer. Looked like it was time to pay him a visit.

The gym wasn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes. The brickwork outside was crumbling, like it had been neglected for years. The whole place looked like it had seen better days—longer ago than I cared to guess. Inside, the equipment wasn’t any better. Rusted iron, worn benches, and a lot less of it than that pristine setup in Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright’s private gym. But if the gym looked ready to fall apart, Frank “The Tank” Silvagni, former weightlifting champ, was holding up just fine. He was built like a brick house—solid muscle, with no sign of crumbling under age or wear.

Frank’s office was plastered with photos—no doubt holding up the old plaster too—almost as many pictures as Mrs. Wainwright had of herself. Only his featured even skimpier swimwear, lifting ungodly amounts of weight. Muscles flexed and shiny, like a human anatomy chart with a tan. On the largest shelf I’d ever seen sat his bodybuilding and weightlifting trophies, medals, and other brass. Just polishing all that metal would be a workout in itself.

“You still compete, Frank?” I asked, eyeing the flyer pinned between the trophies.

Frank puffed out his chest. “Damn right. I’m still the strongest man in the world.”

I looked at him, then at the flyer. The date of the competition matched the one Mrs. Wainwright had circled. If she was meeting him for a secret love rendezvous, he’d be busy that day. Looked like this might be a dead end, but since I was here, I figured I might as well ask a few more questions.

I showed him the picture Mrs. Wainwright, just as beautiful as the last time I looked at it, only this time she had a few wrinkles and creases on her face due to me folding the photo.

“You recognize her?”

Frank barely gave it a glance before shrugging. “Nope. Never seen her.”

“Look again.”

Frank squinted, then raised an eyebrow. “Oh, right. That broad. Didn’t recognize her at first.” He scratched his chin. “She’s put on a lot of weight since then. Fired me when she decided she knew better than me how to work out.” He flexed his arm, muscles big and shiny, reflecting the light so sharply it almost blinded me. You hear about people with a glint in their eyes or their smile—this guy had a glint in his biceps. “Can you believe it? A ditzy dame telling me how to deadlift.”

I kept my face straight. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, it is so. Shame about her, though. All those good looks, spoiled.”

“Spoiled? How so?”

“Well, I mean... she put on weight,” Frank grumbled, crossing his arms to match the expression on his face, only his arm muscles had a much shinier disposition than he did.

“Yeah, about that,” I said, leaning in. “Shouldn’t it have come off by now?”

He snorted. “Have you seen how she eats?”

“I’ve seen the aftermath,” I muttered. “So, she fired you because you couldn’t get the weight to come off? Is that it?”

Frank’s posture stiffened. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s... complicated. And I’d rather not go into it.”

I eyed him. “Is it because you’re sleeping with her?”

“No!” His response was a little too quick.

“Well,” I continued, “maybe not sleeping. But instead of your regular one-on-one workouts, let’s say you were doing a different kind of one-on-one workout.”

“Not a chance,” Frank shot back. “She’s not my type.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “C’mon, pal. She’s every man’s type.”

Frank shook his head. “Not mine. I don’t like big women like that.”

“Then why didn’t the weight come off?” I pressed. “That’s what you were hired for, wasn’t it?”

“Not exactly,” he mumbled, glancing at his watch. “But listen, I got training to do. So if you don’t mind, I need to get back to it.”

“Sure thing, pal.” I walked over to a dumbbell sitting on the floor, figuring I’d get a feel for what he called “training.” I gave it a tug, but it barely budged. I tried curling it, but it was heavy... damn heavy. “This... this is pretty heavy,” I said, straining with the weight.

Frank grinned, walking over and taking the dumbbell from me and began curling it like it was a feather. “This? Nah, this is one of my lighter ones. Only good for a warm-up.”

I watched him, feeling the burn in my arms just by looking at him curling that weight, as I absentmindedly rubbed my hand over my jeans. That’s when I noticed the oily residue on my palm. Something was off. As big as that dumbbell was, all the weights at the Wainwrights’ gym were much bigger than this—way bigger. No dumbbells that small, that’s for sure. What did it mean? I didn’t know. And just what was this on my hand—I didn’t know that either. I glanced at Frank, then at my hand.

“What’s this oil?” I asked, recognizing the smell and feel of it, wiping my hand on my pants. “You use it for something?”

Frank shrugged, still flexing and curling that weight. “Oh, that? Posing oil. Bodybuilders use it so our muscles don’t dry out under the lights.” He flexed again, his muscles gleaming. “Want me to give you a few tips? I’ll make a man out of you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, heading for the door. “I like being a private dick, not a public one.”

I left Frank’s gym with more questions than answers. Something wasn’t adding up, but the pieces were starting to click into place. Frank might’ve been built like a tank, but he wasn’t built to lie—at least not with that poor of a poker face. If Mrs. Wainwright wasn’t seeing him, then who was the shaved ape she was spending time with?

And I thought, it’s a good thing she’s not seeing that oiled-up, musclebound narcissist, because I wouldn’t want him making a man out of Mrs. Wainwright and ruining that fantastic figure of hers. She needed someone who could bring out her beauty and drop those extra pounds, and I figured that must be why she dropped that loser... even if all those trophies say otherwise.

I was doing a lot of figuring about Mrs. Wainwright’s figure, and much as I enjoyed thinking about it, some of the stuff just wasn’t adding up, like if she wanted to lose weight, why was she eating so much. I couldn’t figure that out yet...

So, I figured it was time to head back to my office for a quick shower, shave, and a fresh change of clothes. But first, I stopped by a deli for a bite to eat and to make a phone call. The phone at my office doesn’t work. Turned out my phone bill hadn’t been paid—my secretary must’ve forgotten to pay the bill again... Then again, I must’ve forgotten to pay her... Or maybe I just forgot I no longer had one. Either way, I had work to do.

After making a few quick calls to the airports, I confirmed that there weren’t any flights booked to Hawaii or any other tropical paradise on the day circled in Mrs. Wainwright’s calendar. I clearly remembered from house visit, there were no suitcases packed, no tickets bought. Seemed like this trip wasn’t happening anytime soon—but I had better get back to her house soon—otherwise she might give me the slip. And I rather not as Mr. Wainwright might give me the slip—a pink slip—and this was one of my easiest jobs I’ve had in months. Nothing hard about it at all...

Turns out I arrived just in time to leave, as Mrs. Wainwright finally decided she’d been cooped up long enough just staying home and going to the grocers... Which was fine by me—watching that house was as much fun as watching paint dry—not that their house needed painting.

I followed her again, this time to a dingy gym on the edge of town, only—let’s just say looks can be deceiving—because that’s only what it looked like on the outside. She slipped inside with just a bag, and I crept around the back, trying to get a peek through the windows. The place was stacked with weights and equipment, the kind you’d expect to see in a world-class training facility. Far nicer and bigger—and with bigger weights—than Frank "The Tank" Silvagni’s gym. I couldn’t make much out yet. I needed a better view. Must have been my lucky day, because there were a couple of boxes stacked up next to a window, but as I climbed up to look inside, it seemed my luck had already run out. Before I could get a good look, something big grabbed me from behind—an arm like a steel cable wrapped around my neck, and I was fighting for air.

I struggled, kicked, and clawed, but it was like wrestling with iron. Whoever it was had a grip that could crush a man’s windpipe without even trying. Everything went black, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in a dumpster, my head pounding, my clothes reeking of trash. I stumbled out, bruised and reeking of rotten fish. I had been tossed out like yesterday’s garbage.

But I wasn’t done yet. I wasn’t leaving without answers. That evening, after the gym closed, I broke in. I didn’t need to wait long thanks to my little nap in the dumpster. The place was empty, but it was far from ordinary. The place was loaded—enough weights and machines to turn the whole neighborhood into bodybuilders. But something was off. The magazines scattered around weren’t the usual muscle-head rags. These were different... Not the type of reading material I’d think a bunch of macho, muscled-up dumbbells would be interested in. And the place smelled strange—not the usual mix of sweat, rusty iron, and moldy towels. It actually smelled nice... almost elegant—almost... I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

I had, however, right then, my finger on that same bodybuilding flyer—the one I’d seen in Frank "The Tank" Silvagni's office—and I had it in my hand when the door opened, and I’d been fingered... or caught red-handed. But it was just three dames, and I figured there’d be no danger, so I pocketed the flyer and was about to turn on my charm in the hopes of turning off their alarm.

But these broads weren’t like any girls I’d ever known or seen. They were big, broad broads with the broadest shoulders I’d ever seen, wearing the same kind of frumpy sweats as Mrs. Wainwright. But there was something wrong—something tight and bulging under those clothes. And I don’t just mean the two places you’re thinking of. No, I mean their arms were thick as my neck—maybe thicker... And just looking at these broads, I really felt like my neck was on the line—and this really was my unlucky day, as I’d already had it wrung once, and I didn’t want to start ringing up a tally...

Still, broad broads or not, they were still dames, and I ain’t no damsel. Besides, maybe if I sweet-talked them, they’d shed some light on my problem.

“What’s the big idea, breaking in here and snooping around?” one of them snapped, fists clenched like she’d been waiting all night to use them.

“Are you closed? I was thinking about joining this gym. It’s real nice,” I said, playing it cool.

“This is a women-only gym,” another one growled. “No men allowed!”

“That’s too bad, sweetheart, we could have a lot of fun working out together.”

“He looks like he could use a good workout,” the first one said, while the second joined in, saying, “He looks like he’s never worked out a single day in his life,” and all three women laughed.

“Well, I just thought I’d get a good workout in and go, but I can see you’re all busy painting your nails, so I’ll just go.”

Only as I tried to go, the first broad got a little pushy and shoved me back. I must admit, I was surprised at how easily she did it. I’m no pushover, but I did just get pushed over by a broad-chested broad.

“Don’t go—we’ll work out with you,” she said, smiling.

The third cracked her knuckles. “Oh, we’re going to have fun working out together—only it’s going to be us working you over.”

“Isn’t that the man you were telling us about? The creep who was trying to spy on us… The one you threw out with the garbage?”

“That must be why he stinks so bad.”

“Now, ladies, we can work this out. There’s no need for violence, I don’t want to hurt any of you,” I said, hoping we could all agree. And it seemed like they did agree with me—only not in the way I had hoped.

“Don’t worry, you won’t!”

“Now, now, now—you wouldn’t want to break a nail,” I said. And by the way she swung her fist at me, I had to duck in a hurry, because I didn’t want her to break my jaw!

Another broad swung at me, and I was in real danger of being broadsided by that punch of hers. Luckily, I was able to dodge that one too. And while they say you should never hit a woman, I don’t know who “they” are, but I’m pretty sure if they were in my situation, they’d do the same thing.

So, that’s it—the gloves were off. And lucky for me, or unlucky for those dames, I wasn’t wearing any gloves. I hit back, landing a solid punch right to the closest broad, hitting her square in the gut—a punch that would’ve put most men on the floor. But she wasn’t most men. She wasn’t even a man. And I didn’t have time to think about what kind of woman she was, or what she was made of. I just threw another punch, and that one too bounced off her like I’d just punched a brick wall. My knuckles stung, and she didn’t even flinch—but she did smile at me.

I tried to grab her, thinking maybe I could shove her out of the way, but she didn’t budge. It was like trying to move a steel post. In the struggle, her shirt ripped, and I glanced down. That’s when I saw it—the hard truth of why I couldn’t move her. Beneath the frumpy sweater, she was built like a Greek statue. Muscle on top of muscle, hard as iron and twice as tough.

She pushed me back, right into the arms of one of her friends, and those arms clamped around me in a bear hug—the kind that would make an actual bear whimper and cry. Only I didn’t whimper or cry. I didn’t have the breath to, as one of the broads barged in with a barrage of punches that didn’t do my teeth any favors—but sure did my dentist a favor, by lining up plenty of future work.

She reared back, ready to haul off on me again, and I knew she wasn’t afraid of breaking a nail on my face, but I was afraid she might break something—namely my face, nose, or jaw. I managed to bring up my legs and kick her away, sending her sprawling backward. Then, using a little judo I’d picked up in the war, I used the strength of the one holding me in the bear hug—of which there was plenty, let me tell you—and flipped her right into her friends, knocking them off balance.

I thought maybe now they’d settle down, but from the looks of things—and I’d never seen anything that looked like these broad broads—their sweaters torn, muscles bulging and rippling, I’d never seen such fierce femininity. And that sure looked like trouble—for me! And while there was no bell to ring, aside from my own, I knew the second round had just started as they came barging in.

This was unreal. Instead of sweet-talking these dames, I was stuck in the sport of the sweet science with them. And instead of them shining a light on my questions, I was in real trouble of getting my own lights turned out. I tried to fend them off with a jab or two, but again, I think I’d have better luck punching a brick wall than trying to topple these women.

And I must say, as one of their punches landed, it didn’t just almost topple me—it sure did topple over my sense of masculinity. I flailed my arms in a desperate attempt to hit something, anything. To my surprise, I actually connected, but to my horror, I heard laughter as my fists bounced off their hard bodies. I learned the hard way that I wasn’t as tough as I thought... or maybe women aren’t as weak and helpless as I’d thought. These broad broads didn’t just manhandle me—they woman-handled me.

To think, at first I feared I might hurt them. Now, I was fearing something different. I gave each of these dames the best punches I had, and they just laughed off my best, while giving me their worst. And believe me, that left me feeling all the worse. It left me weak in the knees, not from being love-struck, but from being punch-struck—right in the jaw. I was seeing stars.

Before I could right myself, one of the broads used her right on me, a punch so powerful her bicep bulged and swelled with power, tearing through the remnants of her sleeve as she buried her fist deep into my gut. The wind was knocked clean out of me. I gasped, feeling my ribs creak, and knew I had just tasted defeat. Or maybe that was some of the pastrami from lunch coming back up. As I sank to my knees, it hit me—I wasn’t man enough to take on these women.

But then again, this really wasn’t a fair fight... These broads had mighty female muscles. It was three on one, and while most men dream about being surrounded by women, I was starting to think this was a nightmare I wasn’t waking up from. I’d been through worse during the war, but while war might be hell... hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And I’d amend that to—hell hath no fury like broads with broader shoulders than you.

I really couldn’t believe my luck. In all the gyms in all the world, it was my hard luck to run into these three hardbodies, and as my luck would have it, they beat the stuffing out of me—or was that just my pastrami again?

While I was through with the fight, they weren’t through with me. One dame twisted my arm behind my back, wrenching it like it was a rag, and dragged me out the door. I was flying before I knew it, landing hard in the alley. They didn’t stop until they’d tossed me out like a sack of garbage. Again.

And I heard them laughing, as one of them made a quip about taking out the trash... It wasn’t bad enough to get beaten and bludgeoned by a bunch of brawny birds, but did they have to squawk about it? I had a headache after all those punches they’d given me, and hearing them chirping made it surprisingly worse.

Slamming the lid shut, everything went dark for me...

From Trash to Truth

Sometimes all you need is a good night’s sleep to clear the air and find your answers. And while you might think it odd for me to get a good night’s sleep in a dumpster, I’ve slept in worse places. And when I woke up, even though I was feeling worse for wear, I knew I’d cracked the case—just as I knew those dames had cracked more than a few of my ribs.

I’d never been worked over by broads before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. Though, this was nothing like the first time I’d ever spent with a broad. My pride was bruised, and so was my face. But the pieces were coming together, and now I had a hunch that needed proof. That’s when I found it—the crumpled flyer in my pocket. The same bodybuilding competition flyer from Frank’s office. I knew where she’d be.

The competition was a circus of muscles, all tanned and glistening under the stage lights. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. These weren’t men; they were shaved gorillas, posing and flexing, trying to outdo and out-muscle each other. And there I was, front and center, witnessing it all. My front row ticket, compliments of Mr. Wainwright—since he’d be footing the bill. I had thought about sneaking in or trying to find a spot up in the rafters, but since the last two times I tried to be sneaky didn’t work out so well—resulting in me getting worked over—I figured I’d buy myself a ticket. I didn’t want to have my ticket punched again, not in that way. This seat of mine provided me with a great view of the stage and was comfy to boot. It was really working out for me quite nicely... Speaking of working out, the men on stage really did work out a ton, and no doubt could lift a ton.

They were the biggest men I’d ever seen, and right in the middle was the ex-personal trainer of Mrs. Wainwright, Frank "The Tank" Silvagni—he was the biggest of the shaved apes. But as I straightened my back, feeling the ache in my ribs, and rubbed my jaw, in an attempt to rub away the lingering pain, I couldn’t help but think that some of these guys looked a bit small next to the muscle maidens I’d tangled with. Their mighty female muscles were hard to forget, and as big as these men were, those dames with their dense and deadly delts were nothing compared to what I was about to witness.

Sure, as I’d figured, there she was, with her figure on full display, showing off that new full-figure look of hers.

That’s right, out among those men—those big, brawny bodybuilders, those shaved gorillas—was Lionel’s wife. She was wearing that sequined bikini of hers, just as I’d figured she would. Only I’d never dreamed of the way it stretched tight across her body. I’d caught her red-handed—or bronzed, as it were.

Her skin was bronzed, slick with posing oil, glistening under the lights, showing off every curve and contour of her magnificently muscled figure. To say she was big would be an understatement. And I’ve seen a lot of big guys before—namely the ones standing next to her on that stage—but next to her, they looked downright skinny. I can’t overstate just how big she truly was, or how beautiful. Yeah, she had muscles—bigger muscles than any man on that stage and perhaps in the entire world—but there was nothing manly about her. Her muscles bulged in all the right places, and I had to adjust my pants to make sure I wasn’t bulging in the wrong places. She was no longer just a beauty queen—she was a queen of muscle. She really came alive under the lights, and the way those muscles rippled, bulged, and swelled, it was almost as if they were alive too. Every time she flexed those biceps of hers, they rose high as mountains, towering over all the other bodybuilders on stage. She wasn’t just competing—she was dominating. And these men? They looked like boys next to her.

She didn’t look out of place on that stage, but the men sure did. She strutted around like she owned it, her striated muscles rippling, her physique swelling with every move. There was a beauty in the way her biceps bulged, her brawny bosom bounced, and her quads quaked. The men were all shaking—in awe and humiliation—while she flexed beside them, stealing their spotlight, eclipsing them, leaving them to flex in her shadow.

Can you believe it? There she was—Mrs. Wainwright, Lionel’s trophy wife—up on stage, out-muscling and out-flexing all the men, including her ex-personal trainer, Frank “The Tank” Silvagni. Only he looked more tiny than tank next to her. She wasn’t just some pretty face anymore. She was a bodybuilder, and not just any bodybuilder—she was a bodybuilding queen. She was gorgeously engorged with muscles that defied not just the mind, but everything I thought I knew about women and the so-called weaker sex. She posed and flexed with poise, but while she still preened up there, there was no pretending—and no denying—that indomitable, domineering physique of hers.

She was truly dominating the stage. This was where she belonged, her sequins and muscles shimmering and shining in the lights. She flashed that winning smile of hers, and the men didn’t stand a chance. She won that competition hands down, and the men’s faces on stage were looking down—in shame. Mrs. Wainwright had proven she was more than just a trophy wife by winning that championship trophy. Sure, she was still a trophy wife, but now she was a different kind of trophy wife. She wasn’t just a beauty queen anymore, and she wasn’t just a mere bodybuilder—she was a bodybuilding champ, making the world’s biggest and strongest men look like chumps on stage.

Ain’t she a beauty? A beauty queen with a bodybuilder’s body—only bigger! She really fawned and flexed, fanning out her shoulders and back, loving the spotlight. And the spotlight loved her. Everyone loved her—except, of course, all the men struggling to share the stage with her, as she muscled them out of the spotlight. But I don’t think anyone truly despised her like Frank—her ex-personal trainer—who made a quick exit off the stage, leaving behind his second-place trophy, and perhaps the remnants of his dignity too.

I took more pictures than I needed. A figure like hers—it’d be a waste not to use up the whole roll of film I’d brought, and my backup roll too. I wanted to capture every inch of that figure of hers, and she had so many inches of it, I was a little afraid I hadn’t brought enough film. Lighting a cigarette, I celebrated another mystery solved. Turns out this case wasn’t as easy as I thought—it had some twists and hard curves in it, just like Mrs. Wainwright’s hard curves. And while I never thought a case involving a hardbody beauty could be so tough, it was just another hard truth I had to accept—like getting outmuscled by those broad broads.

Times are changing, and women are growing more independent... and more muscular.

Come tomorrow, I’ll meet with Mr. Wainwright, hand over the pictures, and file this case away. But I’ll keep a few of those shots of Mrs. Wainwright close at hand—for strictly professional reasons—I’m an honest private dick—but you never know when they might come in handy.

Turns out Lionel didn’t need to worry about her cheating—just how their new relationship dynamic would work out. I’m a detective, not a psychic, but I think he might want to start worrying about his own workout routine. After all, his trophy wife could probably bench-press him without breaking a sweat. And if he ever cheats on her, well... she won’t just break his heart. And if that day comes, he’ll need more than just a detective like me.

And so, that’s the hard truth of the hardbody trophy wife. She was more than that, not just because her arms were thicker than both her husband’s legs combined, but because she’s the kind of trophy wife you don’t put on a shelf. No, women like her can put you on a shelf.