by Ben Boswell
“You okay, Max?”
I looked over at Jason and nodded.
“We thought we’d lost you there for a minute.”
I forced a smiled and tried to reconstruct the last few minutes of conversation from the snippets I’d followed. “What about Jackson Hole? You guys been there?”
“Not yet,” replied Todd.
Despite their Anglo names, they were both of Chinese descent. Wiry and brainy, they’d been nerds all their lives. Now they probably had models throwing themselves in their direction. Amazing how fast someone’s life can change. Their interest in Jackson Hole gave me an idea to salvage the lunch.
“One of my partners has a house out there. I’m sure you could use it. Right on the slopes. Big hot tub overlooking the mountain.”
“Yeah?” Jason said.
I nodded. “No prob. Tell you what, tell me when you want to go. I’ll book the jet to fly you guys out there. Plane seats six, so bring some friends.”
They looked at each other and grinned. I could only imagine what kind of friends they’d invite.
They pulled out their phones and began checking their calendars, sending texts to their friends. I sipped my wine. I seemed to have made progress on that front.
Back in the office, I crunched through the afternoon to finish up some personalized proposals I’d put together for them based on our lunch conversation. I didn’t have time to think much about Rachel, except for a brief bout of panic when I thought again about the possibility that the plumber had returned while I was away. A quick look at the clock allayed my fears. It was after 3:00, so the kids would be home, and irresistible impulse or not, I knew Rachel would never do anything in front of the kids.
Driving home, though, Rachel was again all I could think about. The challenge of managing her desires was becoming all-consuming, to me at least. She, by contrast, seemed to feel her actions with Jack had been a fluke. All of our previous discussions had quickly broken down into apologies and promises that it wouldn’t happen again.
Was she deflecting on purpose? Was she somehow unaware of her own longings? Could she have been the only person in the kitchen in the morning who didn’t see what was about to happen? Would she have been shocked at the plumber’s approach? Surprised when her body responded to his touch?
I shuddered at that thought. She was a smart, together person, and able to recognize her behavior in retrospect. But was her denial strong enough to prevent her from recognizing danger when it reared its head? Strong enough to prevent her from seeing the trap until after it had been triggered?
I didn’t have any answers as I pulled into the driveway. And I didn’t have an opportunity to raise the issue at first because the kids demanded all my attention until we finally got them off to sleep.
-----
With the kids in bed, I cornered Rachel in the laundry room, folding clothes. I took up position beside her and began sorting socks.
“So, how was your day?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “Before or after you ravaged me?”
“You seemed to enjoy it.”
“I did. I’m just wondering if you’re planning to make midday quickies part of our routine.”
I shrugged. “I think it would raise questions at the office if I made a habit of leaving in the middle of the day. But if I could...”
“Oh well, I guess we’ll just have to keep squeezing it in after the kids are down.”
It was a thin opening, but I didn’t see a better opportunity coming up.
“Do you think we don’t have enough sex?” I asked.
“No... what? I didn’t say that, did I?”
“Squeezing in... makes it sounds like, I dunno.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
She’d stopped folding and was now looking at me instead. “What’s going on with you today?”
“I... I....” I sighed. This was supposed to be about her, not me.
“You were hot as a firecracker today,” I offered.
She shook her head. “I was just picking out a suit for you. And then you were all over me. Would it have been better if I’d shooed you away?”
I suppressed a groan. My approach had been too clumsy. What was I expecting? A tearful admission that she’d been fantasizing about fucking the plumber? That I had saved her from her uncontrollable passions?
To deal with our problem we needed to have a conversation about it. To have a conversation, we both needed to be honest. But how could I expect her to be forthcoming, when I was having so much trouble being candid myself.
“You’re right. Sometimes I just can’t help myself,” I replied.
She grinned. “Well, I am a hot momma after all.”
“That you are. That you are.”
-----
That evening, after Rachel went to bed, I unburdened myself to Tommy in a long emotional email. He was, after all, just an email address, so it seemed safe. And unlike Michelle, he wasn’t bound by professional ethics or tasked with getting Rach and I back together. I didn’t really know who he was, but for now, it was enough to have a lifeline of sorts.
I gave him a little more background about our lives and then told him about Rachel’s affair, or near-affair, or whatever the fuck it was. I told him a little about what I’d learned about Rachel’s sexual past. I told him about the plumber.
–That’s some heavy shit. He replied. You guys should probably be in counseling.
–Yeah. We are. The thing is, all we talk about is talking. Communication being the key. But I sort of feel like that’s not the problem. I think I know what Rachel wants. I just don’t quite know how to give it to her. I can’t count on always been there in time to consummate her attractions, to redirect her uncontrollable impulses.
–Uncontrollable is a loaded word. You really think she can’t control herself?
I had to think about that for a while. Was that really what I believed?
–It is deep-seated. She’s been dealing with this for a long time. Her attractions… they’ve always been a source of shame, and yet she’s gone there again and again. I don’t know if she can’t control herself, or just doesn’t want to, or what. What I do know is that she has a pattern of sabotaging her relationships, throwing herself into the arms of a bad boy, then regrets, a recommitment to an appropriate relationship. Rinse and repeat.
–Except it wasn’t. You two have been together for ten years. Why now? Or do you think she’s gotten away with it before?
I shuddered as I read the email. I’d been in denial about that possibility. I had trusted her assertions that Jack was the only time she’d strayed. But was that true? And if it was, then Tommy’s other question was right on the mark. What had happened to suddenly unleash her demons?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In one sense, Rachel and I were back on track. There was humor in our relationship and some passion. And, of course, we’d never lost our bond as parents. Still, I couldn’t help but feel that this was all a sham. We hadn’t resolved anything. Not really.
The tight skirts had disappeared back into the recesses of her closet. But the episode with the plumber had reinforced the fact that there was still something lurking inside her, something that I couldn’t reach myself, even if I could sometimes benefit from it.
I wanted her to respond to me as she had to Jack and the plumber. But instead, when I’d tried to order her to suck my cock, she’d been amused. When I brought out the cuffs, she went along, humoring me. But that’s not what I wanted. I wanted what I had seen in our kitchen, our bedroom, my wife as a hot, aroused, slut.
Part of it was that I didn’t want her seeking those thrills, that excitement, elsewhere, behind my back. Part of it was that I wanted to experience it for myself.
I reflected again on the idea of giving her a free pass. That might work. She’d get it out of her system. But I didn’t know if I could deal with it.
The idea itself was painful. Her in a bikini at a resort, fielding endless offers unt
il she found a man sufficiently “inappropriate” to ring her bell. Who would that be? Another guest? A vacationing lothario? A hunky barkeep? A muscular beach attendant? Would she get off on seducing a staff member, knowing he’d probably let everyone know he’d bagged her? That the hot married slut in the pink bikini had sucked him off behind the equipment shack?
When I closed my eyes I could picture it clearly. Rachel on her knees, her bikini top pushed up to expose her pert breasts and hard nips. I could see him, a barrel-chested Latino, his brown skin contrasting with his white uniform. She’d be slobbering on his fat tool, bobbing up and down as he smirked at her and planned what he’d do to her next.
Is that what she wanted? Really?
Well, it didn’t really matter. I didn’t think I was strong enough to let her go off like that. I wouldn’t be able to put it out of my head. Whatever she did, I’d multiply ten times in my imagination, and that would feed my resentment hundred-fold.
I was tired of going around in circles. I wished I could just put it all behind me. But I couldn’t. I needed to communicate better with Rachel, but I couldn’t bring myself to confront her. I wanted her to confess and explain, but she wouldn’t.
-----
We’d just finished off another fruitless counseling session with Michelle, an hour spent talking about the future. As if that were the problem. I already knew we were compatible on that front. Over the years we’d harmonized on so many things: how to raise the kids, where to vacation, how much to save for retirement. Reiterating that we didn’t have any major conflicts of expectations on any of that only seemed to highlight the problem we were having.
Rachel had gone off to pick up the kids from school. I was sitting in my study, supposedly checking work email, but really just staring out the window.
My wife gets off on the idea of inappropriate sex. And I, unfortunately, am perfectly, obviously, unassailably appropriate.
That was the problem. But as long as Rachel wasn’t willing to admit it or even acknowledge it, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to express it. That’s the problem with “communication” as a cure all. The reality is that we all keep things inside us. Sometimes it is because the truth is too painful to speak aloud. Just as often it is because we know that being completely honest will bring offense and tension. If I stated my conclusion, Rachel would be hurt and mortified. She’d get defensive. She’d accuse me of paranoia, or worse, of seeking to torment her. I wouldn’t be a brave man speaking painful truths, I’d be a passive-aggressive douchebag using guilt to get revenge for being wronged.
The problem was, that alternative spin wasn’t that far off from the truth either. Maybe Rachel was right. Maybe I was holding on to my resentments and making something out of nothing. Maybe this was more about my needs and wants rather than hers.
That didn’t feel right to me. Whatever weird emotions were conjured up by her admissions about her sexual past, and whatever projections were responsible for my interpretation of the scene with the plumber, regardless of all of that, this had all begun when Rachel had driven through the night and tearfully confessed to me that she’d just taken her boss’ cock in her mouth. And that that had been merely the culmination of weeks of teasing, exhibitionism, and mutual masturbation.
I sighed. So was that how this all ended? Was I just working myself up to the moment when I could take the blame on myself? That’s where we were headed.
-----
Tommy and I kept exchanging emails, but while he was perceptive and sympathetic, he wasn’t giving me any real advice. I felt like I had just gotten into another counseling session. Every time I tried to get some concrete advice, he’d turn it around and ask me what I thought I should do.
–Come on man, give me some real suggestions. How do I get her to think of me the way she thinks of those other guys? Or am I just wasting my time? Should I just give up? Hope for the best, while waiting for the other shoe to drop?
–Look, it’s not that simple. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I wish there were a simple list of tips and tricks. But anyone who tells you there is is full of shit. You need to learn to read her. To push her buttons. To keep her off-balance enough that she gets out of her comfort zone, but not so much that she balks.
–So what do I do now? I feel helpless.
–Look, the best I can offer is to come over. You know, work with you and her.
I sighed. Had all of this just been a long seduction? Just talk building to the point where he invited himself over for a threesome. I took a deep breath. Maybe I was misreading him.
–What, you mean like a marriage counselor? ‘Cause we’re already doing that.
–No, it would be something more hands-on, I guess. I’m really good with women, and with this fantasy in particular. You might learn a lot from seeing how she reacts to me.
Fucking bastard. He’d just been running a game on me. I felt worse than ever. Not only was my wife thinking of other men, but now I’d naively been sharing my deepest fears and emotions with a guy who was just thinking of bagging her.
–Is this how you get your kicks, you sick fuck? Search out vulnerable people on message boards and then befriend them. What do you get out of it? You like humiliating people? Or is this just a way to get your dick wet?
He didn’t reply right away. Actually he didn’t reply that night at all. I was looking for catharsis. I needed him to reply so I could end our conversation once and for all. I checked my email obsessively all evening, even waking up in the middle of the night to check the account. But no email from Tommy.
It was the following evening before he replied.
–I hope you’ve cooled down. All you had to say was, no. But look, I wasn’t playing you. I’ve never asked you for pics of your wife. I’ve never even asked about her looks. You asked for help. I can help. But there is nothing I can do by email other than provide a sympathetic ear. In person though? Who knows. If I can’t make a connection, then no harm no foul. Nothing happens and you at least get confirmation from someone who’s been around the block a few times that she’s a particularly tough case. But if I can read her, then maybe I can give you that key insight you’ve been missing. And maybe I can do more. Maybe I can make her see you in a different light. But that won’t happen with just talk. You’re right about that. You’ve been doing the talk therapy stuff for months. You need to take it further if you want a breakthrough.
-----
I wanted to delete the email thread, just forget all about him. But in a weird way, it all made sense. I’d been toying with the idea of giving her a free pass, either explicitly by encouraging her to take some time off periodically to scratch her itch, or implicitly by just pretending everything was alright even though I knew that it was only a matter of time before she ended up seduced by an “inappropriate” man. Neither of those options appealed to me.
But this… this was, oddly enough, a middle ground. It was still my play. I would be setting it up. Tommy was my contact, my friend even, I guess. In a strange way, I could still feel in control. I wrote him back.
–What even makes you think she’d be into you?
–I don’t. Not for sure. It would work best if you put me in touch with her. Let her email with me for a while so I can get a sense about her.
I read his email and thought about it. Certainly an email exchange couldn’t hurt. But it was hard to imagine how I’d propose this to Rachel.
–How would I even explain that to her? Hey, honey, would you mind emailing with this guy I met online through a BDSM website?
–See, man, that’s your problem. You are going into this with a completely negative vibe. You’re assuming you’re going to get shot down before you even try. That’s why she gets amused instead of turned on when you try to push the envelope. You’re not committed to it yourself. All you need to tell her is that you’re still upset about her affair. Tell her you’re having trouble expressing yourself and that you’d like to bring another perspective into the mix. If she wa
nts to know more about me, just tell her, “It’s complicated, but I trust him.” But that’s the thing. You need to trust me. Do you trust me?
Did I trust him? It seems like a crazy question. How can anyone trust a stranger they meet online? And not just online, but online on a BDSM message board populated by, for the most part, frankly, crazy people. But there was nothing rational in any of this. Nothing rational about Rachel’s affair, about my inability to get it out of my head, about any of it. I was out of my depth. I needed help. And I needed more than conventional marriage counseling could provide.
–Okay. But one condition, you don’t try to get her to meet up with you behind my back.
–I would never do that. Not now and not ever. If it ever gets to the point where we meet, it will be the three of us. But I also have a condition. If she agrees to talk to me, you have to respect her privacy. She’s going to need to feel like she can confide in me, and that can’t happen if she thinks everything she says will get back to you.
I thought about it. His point seemed reasonable, and yet it set off alarm bells. Was I really going to put my wife in touch with a man who knew her fantasies (or at least my perception of them) and who considered himself an expert in that sort of fetish? And not only put them in touch, but commit myself to allowing them a private, confidential channel?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I lay beside Rachel. She was asleep, breathing softly, peacefully. I couldn’t sleep. We’d had a normal day. I’d come home from work. Rachel was cheerful. The kids babbled on about school. Rachel told me about how she’d reorganized the garage. We talked about vacation plans.
All this normalcy felt oppressive to me. I’d never really understood the term “getting closure” before. It seemed like psychobabble to me. Either you get over something, or you don’t. Either you stay angry or you don’t. Right? But in our case, we had, I guess, “gotten over it.” Rachel and I were getting along fine. We were back to normal, at least ostensibly. But we, or at least I, had never gotten closure.
