by Amiee Smith
“Let’s go to your car.”
***
After a few hits from a dispensary pre-rolled joint, Franklin cranks up the tunes in his Prius. We sing along to “Tiny Dancer” by Elton John and “Wild Nights” by John Mellencamp.
He’s a conscious dude. We jam about global warming, SNL skits, Broad City, and NPR podcasts.
I try to flirt a little bit, leaning in close, making eye contact, laughing deliriously at his jokes. Franklin pats my hand a few times. There might be a few glowing embers... maybe a spark between us.
I’m having so much fun, I lose track of time.
“Brit, what do you think of your cryptocurrency?”
We both purchased crypto at the same party.
“It’s an interesting system. I’ve learned so much...”
A knock on my window causes both of us to jump.
“Oh, shit! Is he police? TMZ? I’ve got a medical recommendation for the weed, but I’m pending on a network pilot. I can’t get caught smoking pot!” Franklin exclaims.
“No, he’s not the police or TMZ. He’s... my husband,” I whisper.
“You’re married?! To that guy?”
Great. I just stomped out my spark and told someone who knows my best friend I’m married.
“No. I’m really high. I meant... he’s my friend’s husband. They must be searching for me. I should go. I won’t tell anyone you were getting stoned.”
“Thanks, Brit. You’re a down chick. I’m going to chill and mellow out a bit. See you inside.”
I grab my bouquet and scurry out of the car. Alex waits at the rear with his hands in his pockets. He wears a black suit and a crisp white shirt. No tie. Always no tie. His dark hair is a bit longer, neatly cut in a conservative style. Clean-shaven. Silver glasses. Gorgeous as fuck. Always gorgeous as fuck.
“You scared us to death. How did you find me?”
“I watched you leave with him. The program says you’re supposed to sing in fifteen minutes.”
“Jen will kill me if I’m late. Thanks for the heads up. I didn’t bring my purse or phone.”
“I noticed. Why no heels?”
“Jen didn’t want me to be too tall in her wedding photos.”
“I will admit it’s nice to see the top of your head.”
“You haven’t spoken to me in two years and that’s the best you can come up with?” I ask, hurrying across the parking garage to the elevator.
“Were you going to hook up with him?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“You’re right.”
“Are you here with a date?” I ask.
“No. I’m married. Five years this month.”
“Two of those years don’t count,” I say, stepping into the elevator.
The doors close.
“Brit, I’m sorry I ruined your life.”
“Please. Your patriarchal privilege mixed with white guilt is gross. Only I can ruin my life. And guess what? My life is good.”
“God, I’ve missed you, Brittney.”
“I’ve missed you too, Dragon.”
“Can I come back to your house after the reception?”
“Only if we can get a puppy.”
“Damn. You’ve finally learned how to negotiate.”
TWO YEARS AGO
ALEX WILLINGHAM
I open the door to Jen + Jon’s massive Craftsman house. It’s a chilly autumn Friday night in Pasadena. The smell of barbeque tri-tip hangs in the air.
Jon Manning loves to grill. Jen Manning loves to party. They host a gathering every week. Sometimes it’s just the crew, the Mafia and Jon’s friends. Sometimes it’s a big affair with fireworks.
I manage Jon’s mother’s estate, so I think that’s why he invites me. Growing up, I rarely kicked it with my brother and his friends. Now, I’ve become a part of the crew.
I’m two hours late. I had an early dinner with a client. Afterwards, I took Brit’s phone to the Apple Store to have the screen replaced. Earlier this week, she dropped it while hustling across campus in the rain wearing Alexander McQueen boots.
We’re on a family plan. It was my idea. I got tired of not being able to reach her because she didn’t pay her bill. Yet, my do-gooder wife never misses her monthly donations to Greenpeace and Planned Parenthood.
A year ago, I added Planned Parenthood to my charitable giving list.
“Hey Alex. All the guys are out back,” Jen calls to me from the living room.
The Smart Girl Mafia are spread out on a plush deep brown sectional, each holding a wine glass. Brit pauses from her conversation with Lynn and glances in my direction. If she had her phone, she’d send me a text to meet her in some part of the house to chat later.
Tonight, I’m eager to speak with her.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, ladies. I found this phone on the lawn.”
I present my wife’s phone covered in a black and white case with Ruth Ginsberg’s face on the back and the word “dissent.”
“Brit!” all the girls say in unison.
“Thank you, Alex.”
Brit retrieves her phone from my hand. Her nails skate over my palm and my dick perks up to say hello. She knows what I crave. At least twice a week she pets her overstressed dragon, leaving red streaks on my skin. After six years of a sexless marriage, I’ve earned those back rubs.
She looks good tonight, wearing a short hot pink dress, black tights, a black satin bomber jacket and black spiked Louboutin ankle boots. Her hair is straight. Only a black band ring on her thumb. At 30 years old, Brit is leaner than when she was my TA and maturity has settled around her cognac eyes.
This morning, at the mansion, I watched her get dressed. And I intend to watch her get undressed tonight.
***
I’m talking to my brother’s friend, Adam. He recently started a private physical therapy practice for athletes in Pasadena. My phone vibrates with a text message: Upstairs hall bathroom.
“Hey man, I’m going to get another beer.”
“Good to see you, Alex. You’ve done well for yourself.”
“Thanks, Adam.”
I dash upstairs and find Brit in a large, traditional-style, hall bathroom.
“Thank you for getting my screen fixed,” she says as I shut the door.
“No problem. I want to talk to you about your browsing history.”
“Why? Are you checking up on me? I’m only bidding on one auction. If I win, I’ll still be within my spending budget for the month.”
“I saw that on your laptop. I was checking to make sure your touchscreen was functioning properly after your screen was replaced. Brittney, you should watch YouPorn in a private browser.”
“I don’t know what a private browser is. And I will not let you shame me. Porn is partially why the internet was invented.”
“I’m not trying to shame you. I want to join you.”
“Dragon, we don’t have the same taste in porn. You watch videos of brown girls with pierced nipples deepthroating white dudes.”
“How do you know that?!”
“You should watch porn in a private browser,” she says with a wink.
I laugh. She’s the only person that can make me laugh.
“Listen, I saw the title of the last video you watched, and I’d be into mutual masturbation. Here’s my argument, we already sleep in the same bed most nights and we both watch porn to...”
“Get off.”
“Yeah. So, let’s get off together.”
“I saw an ad on Facebook for a mutual masturbation course offered by this sex coach. Let’s sign-up!” she says with a geeky smile.
“No! We do not need to buy a course to teach us how to...”
“Get off together?”
“Yeah. So, what do you think?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, Dragon. That might be crossing the friendship boundary.”
Damn this woman’s crazy belief that we’re just friends, but I’ll play along.
�
��We’ll still be friends, Brittney. Progressive friends. Creating our own sexual norms,” I say, stringing together words and phrases I’ve heard her use.
“If we do this, can you promise you’re not going to go all alpha on me? Can you really be progressive?”
“Sure.”
***
Two hours later we arrive at my studio apartment.
“Gosh, I haven’t been here in ages. Nothing has changed,” Brit says, strutting through the room.
“I don’t spend much time here,” I say, hanging my suit coat in the closet.
I never imagined I’d still be living in this place, but I’ve been too busy to look at real estate. I need to buy a condo soon to accommodate the dog Brit keeps pushing for us to get. My business is doing well. And she’s finished her coursework. Now is a good time to commit... to a puppy.
She removes her jacket, letting it and her purse fall to the floor. A puddle of Brit. She places the Paris Jazz Sessions, a compilation album, on the turntable.
“There are a few beers in the refrigerator, if you want another drink,” I offer.
“No, I’m good. Let’s go to bed.”
Watching her remove her boots, exhilaration courses through my body. I unbutton my dress shirt and lift my undershirt over my head. I drop them next to her boots. She unzips her dress on the sides, letting it pool on the floor. Eagerly, I remove my shoes, socks, pants and boxer briefs, creating my own puddles.
My dick, hard and ready.
Standing in just black tights and a black padded bra, her gaze downcast.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes run over my body. This is the first time she’s seen me naked. She gasps.
“You really are a dragon,” she says with a straight face, reaching around to unfasten her bra.
With one hand, she rolls her pierced nipple between her thumb and index finger.
“Use both hands.”
She honors my command, moaning. I move closer.
“Please let me take these off,” I ask, pointing to her tights.
“Yes, Dragon.”
I hook my fingers into the waistband of the thick nylon fabric, drawing them down and lowering to my knees. My mouth level with her naked, untrimmed center. I rub my forehead against her abdomen and my nose against her curls, inhaling her scent. I lick my lower lip. I’m a man who likes to eat pussy and it’s been six long years since I’ve had a taste.
“Give me consent. It’s Friday night. Please?”
“We’ll get there. But not tonight. Come on,” she says, rubbing my shoulder.
She steps out of her tights and turns on the lamp mounted above the headboard. Lying on top of the navy comforter, she spreads her legs and bends her knees. I grab tissue from the bathroom before lying next to her.
I view her like a video. Wonder. Curiosity. I don’t want to blink in fear I will miss the slightest action.
Her dark hair fans over my pillow. With closed eyes and parted lips, Brit pinches and twists her dark nipples, lifting her hips. A sultry sigh. A breathy moan. I marvel at the natural jiggle of her soft, ample body.
She continues to massage a breast with one hand. With the other, she drags her nails over the smooth, light brown skin between her breast. Past her belly button, through her curls, and down to her slit.
Brit circles her clit with two fingers. I ache to taste the wetness forming between her legs. I ache to feel my cock slide inside her. Her fingers loop her sex, round and round. Natural. Feminine. Powerful.
Using my thumb and index fingers, I slowly stroke my dick, just below the head. Over and over. I spread my legs just enough, so my thigh caresses hers. Brit hooks her leg over mine. Her soft skin against my body sends me soaring. I groan loudly, pumping my shaft faster.
My eyes widen, holding my breath. I watch my wife slide her middle finger inside her. Brit utters a high pitch sound, inserting a second finger. She grinds her hand in time with a silent drumbeat. Stroking her sacred spot over and over. Each time, a little deeper. A little deeper. A little deeper.
I’m hypnotized.
Her cognac eyes open, seizing my attention.
“Do you want to lick my fingers, Alex?”
I can’t respond with words, just a low grunt. Brit shifts, pressing her tits against my arm. I close my eyes and part my lips. My mouth so dry with need. Desire.
Slowly, she dips her fingers into my mouth. The tips of her nails tease my tongue. I suck her middle fingers, savoring her taste, and licking every drop of her pussy from her skin.
Deliberately sending the message to my wife: my mouth will be worth the wait.
Brit moans, loudly. She pulls her fingers from my mouth.
“Will you fuck me, Alex?” she whispers briskly into my ear.
Lost in a daze, I almost miss what she said. I don’t dare open my eyes, because I’ll see her lusty, pleading gaze.
But we’re not there yet.
Brit runs her nails down the center of my chest, pressing her lips into my shoulder. She thrusts her hips against the side of my thigh. Her curly mound brushes against my skin. Tempting me; like I am the first male on earth, and she is the first female.
This woman challenges my willpower. She challenges my self-control. She teaches me when to say no. She teaches me intention is everything. My relationship with Brit is a constant test from the Universe to keep me on the right side of life.
And I adore her for it.
I just wish she felt the same way about me. I just wish I could offer her the same gift.
“Sweetheart? Be a good girl.”
“Yes. Yes,” Brit moans, her voice filling my apartment.
With my eyes still closed, I pump my cock. My balls tighten. I hear her rapidly finger her slick sex. Her breathing ragged with anticipation.
“Come for daddy,” I whisper again.
“Yes. Yes,” she calls.
Her hand grips my inner thigh. Nails dig into my skin. Groaning, I jack my cock faster and faster. Brit trembles and shakes, gasping loudly.
“Daddy, I’m going to come,” she whispers.
I place my hand on top of her hand, between her thighs. I need to feel what she’s doing to herself. Feel her fingers fuck her slick pussy. Feel her center contract and spasm again and again. Feel my capable wife fulfill her every need. She moans, faster, deeper. So, this is what she really sounds like.
I explode. Semen warms my knuckles. With my other hand still on top of hers, we just lie there. Finding our way back.
“We should go get tacos, Dragon.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Opening my eyes, I reluctantly move my hand from between her thighs. Brit reaches across me, her cool nipple rings dragging over my chest. She wipes my hand clean with the tissue from the nightstand.
Mutual masturbation becomes a part of our routine. At night. In the morning before work. On weekends.
I try to pretend I’m satisfied. Pretend this relationship is enough. But it’s only intensifying my craving for a real wife.
I want to be a good man but being secretly married to Brit with a no-sex clause can break the most gallant hero.
ONE YEAR AGO
BRIT PALMER
“Miz Pepper, go to the bathroom. Please,” I beg.
Alex and I are in the outdoor dog den of his building. Seven months ago, he bought a luxury condo in one of the most exclusive developments in Downtown L.A.
It’s 7:00 a.m. I’m never up this early, but hunky husband has a breakfast meeting. We watch Miz Pepper meander and sniff her way up and down the artificial grass in the doggy den.
“Pep, go to the bathroom so mommy and daddy can get off,” Alex grumbles.
The October morning is gray and overcast. The gentle breeze sends a chill through my teal kimono. I rock back and forth in black flip flops. The cool weather doesn’t bother Alex. He left the condo in just gray sweatpants and Nike slide sandals.
With his signature scowl, Alex looks all his 30 years.
Lines crease the corner of his blue-green eyes. All the boyish charm from college has faded, and replaced with a deep masculinity that any woman would find enchanting. His conservative haircut and silver glasses remain, but his upper torso has transformed into a brick wall of well-defined muscles. He works out six days a week with a trainer and plays racquetball most days with his dad at the Pasadena Club.
WWM now employs twenty people. Alex made Will a 15% partner. A move to reduce his workload, but Dragon’s blood pressure is still too high for his age. His stress level is still too high. I try to get him to lighten up, but in many ways his workaholism mirrors my compulsion to shop.
I sometimes wonder who he would be if I had not meddled in his business. Who would he be if I had not told everyone in rehab about my “amazing husband with a wealth management company?” But then again, I have no regrets. Alex is excellent at his job and he deserves all his success. I loved helping him succeed.
“Come on, Miz Pepper. Go to the bathroom and daddy will make us pancakes,” I say.
“No, daddy is not going to make pancakes. He’s going to watch mommy play with her pussy and then get ready for work,” Alex says curtly.
I ignore his tone. “Who are you meeting with this morning?”
“Another Russian entrepreneur that made $100 million with a renewable battery pack that sold in Europe. He has $20 million to invest.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He contacted me. He read about my company in L.A. Magazine.”
L.A. Magazine wrote an article about Alex for their “Entrepreneurs to Watch” issue. They praised his rapid success, charitable giving, and the fact that he is a gorgeous man. (Okay, I added that last bit.)
Only a handful of Alex’s clients know we’re married. He exclusively manages the portfolios of that group of people. Rarely do I attend client dinners or events anymore.
Will believes we’re just friends. The girls only think I know him from Jen’s parties. Only my friends in the Bay Area know the truth.
“The article was good for business. And my dad was impressed. He told everyone at the Club. Things are finally good with him. What’s up with your dissertation?”
“It will get done, eventually.”
