There’s a long post, one you may never get to read, about how we nearly spent a recent Friday evening (hint: we canceled a date with another couple). This post is about how we did spend it, how we spent our Saturday morning, and how we connect.
On this particular Friday evening, the one on which I posted about black chokers, I sat at a bar, sipping my second Johnnie Walker Black, and counting black chokers. (Three, it was, before my wife arrived.) It was a small bar. I moved to a table in the restaurant when T texted that she was close.
I was just coming off a 90-minute massage, one that had made a nice dent in my pain (about which more in another post, perhaps). I was chill.
T sat down, and as we chatted and caught up – she had been work traveling for the better part of a week – we got an upsetting text from our son. Nothing disastrous in the grand scheme of things, but the news that he was unhappy, and pleading with us to remove his unhappiness. It was one of those situations with which parents everywhere are familiar: it was, in fact, in our power to remove his unhappiness in the moment, but doing so would have, to us, constituted “poor parenting.”
So this – our son’s low-level, but real, suffering, and our various other week’s-worth-of-catch-up – consumed our conversation over simple pan-roasted salmon and baby asparagus. I had a third scotch. T drank some wine. I showed her my post about black chokers. We went home. We went to bed.
We woke up on Saturday morning, and discussed the Oedipal drama faced by our cats. We mostly sleep with our door open, because if we don’t, one of the cats howls something fierce. This, of course, means that when we do shut our door, we’re all but announcing that we’re shtupping. This is, as yet, not a particular issue for our son, who is never present/awake when we’re doing it. As he grows into adolescence, I suspect this all may get more complicated, but thus far, it hasn’t been.
But what of the cats, whose hours are so different? Does our leaving the door open communicate to them that we never have sex? (Not true, of course.) Is it damaging to them for us to shut them out when we do have sex? Of course, if they were less atrocious, we might not lock them out. “I never feel the urge to claw the bureau,” I said to T, as one of our cats continued her years-long project of dismantling my bureau with her claws. “It’s not like I think, ‘Oh, I wish I could, but I really shouldn’t.’ It’s that, honestly, I just have zero impulse to do it.”
T said, “Maybe it’s because you’re not a cat.”
“Hmmmm,” I thought. Maybe she’s right.
Anyway, she moved down, pulling the sheet off of me, approaching my cock with her mouth. “Wait,” I said. “I want to wand you, before I feel your mouth on my cock.”
She fetched the cordless Hitachi Magic Wand from the drawer beneath our bed, and I went to work on her. It’s fun talking to her while the wand is vibrating her clit. “Do you ever use the patterns?” I asked. I only ever use the intensity options, but there also exists the possibility of a pattern of vibrations.
“I did last Monday,” she said.
“Monday?” I asked.
“Yeah, you were asleep,” she said.
“But I got home late last Monday,” I said.
“Yeah, but I was still up.”
“Oh,” I said. “Remember when you didn’t masturbate?”
“That was when I didn’t have needs,” she said.
“Oh right,” I agreed.
The wand was pressing against her clit, and she was arching her back. “Do you think we’re fucking up our kid by having an open marriage?” she asked, pressing against the vibrator.
“I think we’re definitely fucking up our kid,” I answered, “but that’s our job. I think that, by having a marriage in which we communicate with one another really openly, and in which we trust one another completely, and are confident about our love for and commitment to one another, we’re giving him something really valuable. I think, also, that our having an open marriage definitely has an impact. And who knows, he may well conclude, some day, when he knows, that it fucked him up. But I don’t think we owe him complete openness with respect to our love and sex lives.”
“Do you want me to get one of those black chokers?” she asked.
“That depends,” I said. “I only want you to wear it if you’ll do as I ask.”
“What would you want me to do?” Her voice was straining, her hips twisting, her thighs clenching around the wand.
“Oh, not anything sexual, necessarily. I would want you,” I said, “to endure my talking loudly about sex in public.” The night previous, she had shushed me more than once as as we talked about the date we weren’t having. “I might ask you to sit in a certain position, to abandon all resistance to anything I asked,” I said. “I might ask you not to come, not to move while I go down on you. Stuff like that.”
As I spoke, as I pressed the wand into her cunt, as I imagined all these things, I grew hard. “Even thinking about that makes my cock hard,” I said. “Do you want me to get you one?” I asked.
She writhed, coming on the wand. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I don’t think I can do that.”
“I know,” I said. She came again. She sucked my cock. We fucked. She sucked my cock some more. I had her kiss me while I jerked myself off to come at the very end. I had the sense that she was growing tired and, being my wife, it’s pretty hard for me to endure her fatigue.
After I came, after she got me a towel to wipe up the pool of cum on my belly, she was texting. “Who are you texting?” I asked.
“J,” she said. “Is that weird?”
She fucks J. J is one of the two guys she fucks on the regular. (Other than me.) “No. Can I see?” It turns out, the text exchange had ended at a point that seemed to imply the possibility of her heading over to his house in just an hour or so. “Are you gonna fuck him today?” I asked.
“I don’t know…. How would you feel about it?”
“It’s fine with me,” I said.
“It is?” She sounded doubtful.
“Do you want to fuck him? Or would you be doing it because he wants to fuck you?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Well, that’s ironic,” I pointed out, “given the conversation you and I just had about the black choker.”
We agreed that dominance and submission in the context of a marriage – in the context of our marriage – are entirely different than outside the context of our marriage. T has a much easier time doing as some other guy says and, honestly, I have a much easier time asking some other woman to do as I say. See above re: cock-sucking fatigue.
Let me be clear. This is not a complaint. I fucking love my wife. And the blowjob she gave me, and fucking we did, subsequent to this exchange, were exquisite. I wouldn’t have her be in any way different than she is.
But this shit is interesting. No?