Can't Swing

The aftermath of an unplanned foursome with my wife

Now

My tragic saga has begun to feel like everyday life. That’s why I haven’t written about it, blog silent for a month.

I’ve done all the figuring about the incident I think I need to do, and I settled on a fairly simple truth: my wife made a drunken mistake; not a particularly malicious one either, but one whose consequences were incredible. I decided long ago to forgive her for that mistake. The weeks and weeks I spent lost in a carousel of suspicions, franticly, deliriously ruminating over each and every memory of the incident, every move my wife and I made before and after, digging and digging deeper and deeper into every plausible scenario and motivation; all to come to those six words: My wife made a drunken mistake. It seems crazy, like I just went off the deep end – maybe I did and that’s just what it took – but it really wasn’t about figuring out that my wife made a drunken mistake, it was about becoming the person that could accept it.

That doesn’t mean it’s all better. It kind of feels like I killed this thing that was trying to kill me, and even though I won, I still have to live with its rotting corpse.

I don’t even really think about what happened all that much anymore, but I think I lost something I used to use to validate myself along the way. I have intense feelings of worthlessness. I’ve had the thought “I hate myself” before but its usually come amid some heightened state of emotion. Its just there now, with no cause for alarm. Sweeping the porch, cooking eggs, thoughts of self-loathing drift into my mind like that shirt I really like but haven’t seen in a while, or how much I miss that bakery we used to live by. I’m at times intensely and immaturely insecure, “Do they like me? They don’t like me.” I find myself seeking validation through the lowest common denominators: looks, charm, being cool. I care less about being smart and more about seeming smart. I think about the people around me and what I need to do to get them to like me. I suck my stomach in when I’m wearing a tight shirt. I won’t pass a pull-up bar without casually showing off how many I can do. Sometimes my brain begs for peace and quiet but I just.. won’t.. shut.. THE.. FUCK.. UP!!! YOU FUCKING DOUCHBAG! You are embarssing yourself..

Everyone in my family is crazy, save my dad. My brother killed himself, my sister tried to kill herself, my aunt killed herself, and my grandpa killed himself. I’ve always been grateful I managed to get the genes I needed to be a sane person. Now I think back and it seems like all of them were okay once, then they took a great big thump on the head and they could never ever get up again. I’m terrified this is me. That was it. The good me gone, the new me driven like a peg into the dirt by this giant falling pillar. I’ll never be able to get out. I’m terrified. I’m terrified. I hated my mom on all those pills. She’s different, I thought, and now I know. I never knew. The things I said… anti-depressants just enable people to not deal with their problems, if they would fix their life they probably wouldn’t be so god damned depressed. And here I am. If I didn’t have them I’m not sure I’d be alive. Thank god for modern medicine. And I hate speaking in fucking cliches! I don’t even believe in god! I never knew what it was like to be buried up to your neck. Going through the days knowing you’ll never be able to dig yourself out.

I feel like an erratic, spoiled child ruining my wife’s life. How could she still love me? There is no more me. Just a dog looking for approval, spending his days sitting, staying, and rolling over for everyone but her. I feel like dead weight clinging to her, drowning her with me. And I know if I let go I could save her but I’m just too fucking selfish.

My wife and I had a foursome last night with another couple. I’m having a hard time dealing with it. July 26, 1:00 P.M.

We recently moved to a new town and we only have a couple friends and we’d known this couple for about a year, and we’d hung out with them maybe five or six times. I’ll call them Harry and Sally. Last night we decided to go sing karaoke at a bar with Harry and Sally and at about 1 a.m., when we were all lit, Harry said he and Sally enjoy “extracurricular activities” and asked me if we’d like to partake. I told him my wife and I like to try new things and might be interested, but it’s something we’d have to talk about sober.

We took a cab back to our place, where they’d planned to stay since the beginning of the night. It went normal enough at first, we made drinks, popped popcorn, etc. But Sally was drunk and a wild women. All pretenses of them being swingers and us not, and of my wife not knowing – were out the window. Sally was talking about how much she loves sucking cock and whatnot. Now, my wife likes women, and when they first brought it up I stayed quiet – I was ok with her doing it but I wanted my wife to say so. She told Sally she wants her but doesn’t care about the boys, and asked to go to the bedroom. Sally said right here is more fun and they started making out and taking off each others clothes. Harry and I were sitting on the floor. I was watching and enjoying it. Sally told Harry to take off his clothes, he started to, I looked at my wife, she nodded for me to do the same. She looked confident and unafraid. They “fell” on the floor (Sally was trying to bring the party to everyone). Then we moved to the bedroom.

My wife was kissing all over Sally. I got beneath my wife and started eating her out. Sally started giving me head, my wife started giving Harry head, and it had started, we were all having fun. It was exciting. Then, and I’m not exactly sure of the logistical details, Harry is having sex with my wife. Neither Sally nor I are touching them. I go soft, and feel scared, but my wife is enjoying herself, so I try to show Sally a good time too. I’m not having fun anymore. I’m trying not to look at them and focus on Sally. She can see it in my face, “You want your wife don’t you.” I do. But do nothing. Harry finishes but the night continues without skipping a beat. I’m doing this all wrong now. I can only get hard for my wife, then not at all. But I stagger on. Later I’m fore playing with Sally and my wife and Harry are doing the same, behind and perpendicular to me at the head of the bed. I’m still distracted, soft. I hear my wife, “Fuck me. Please fuck me.” Then I can feel them going behind me.

My heart is breaking, Sally is kind of oblivious. I’m sucking her nipples, trying to get in the spirit, but eventually I just kind of collapse on her. I push my face up against hers hard, cheek to cheek and up against her neck, the same way I do when I feel a lot of love for my wife. I kiss her desperately, the way I do when I’m feeling passionate for my wife. But she doesn’t kiss like my wife or feel like my wife. I want so much for Sally to make me feel better with her presence, make me feel safe and loved the way my wife does; because my wife is fucking someone behind me and I can feel her body getting thrusted back and forth against my feet and I can hear her moans. But Sally can’t make me feel better that way. I apologize to Sally and cling to her tight. I’m going to cry. I apologize to Sally for my limp dick. She’s kind. Sally is a wonderful, kind woman really. I whisper, “This is hurting me. I’m scared.” “Its hurting you?” “I’ll remember what’s happening right now forever.” She tells me I’m a good man and that I’m sweet, then gets up and whispers something to Harry. They make haste to the guest bedroom. I tell my wife I’m sorry, and that I never expected that to happen. I didn’t know I’d react that way. She says its ok and that I need to fuck her to get it out of my head. She’s drunk. She doesn’t realize I’m in a lot of pain. I lay on the ground. I can’t be in that spot. She keeps telling me to go up there and I say I can’t right now. She just kept saying to come up there and fuck her.

I got up and went to the store to buy a pack of cigarettes. I quit three weeks ago. :(

I sat on the porch smoking them until Harry and Sally woke up. Harry had to be somewhere early. I called my best friend, he lives far away, over and over but he didn’t pick up. I texted him “Please pick up. I need ya right now man.” “Please pick up.” “Please help me.” I relived the painful moments over and over. I wondered if things would ever be the same. Are we going to get a divorce. Was he better at sex than me. Did he make her come harder. Does she still love me? I want to burn that bed. I’ll never do karaoke again. I want to shave my head. Will I still love her? Bash my head against the wall. Burn the whole fucking house down. I want to lay down and die. All kinds of irrational and confused thoughts. I went upstairs to talk to my wife. She still wasn’t with it enough to realize I was in trouble, but Harry and Sally did. When I came out they had left, they must’ve heard me. I jumped in the car and found them about two blocks away, walking back to the bar. I picked them up. It was awkward but not too bad. I like them a lot and they are good people. I was able to be a little funny, and make sure they didn’t feel too bad. I don’t feel like I can be friends with them anymore though.

I went up stairs and my wife was starting to understand. She didn’t even realize Sally and I didn’t actually fuck. My wife told me I needed to fuck her. Show me she’s mine. It was hard and angry sex. It didn’t make me feel better. We talked about things a bit more. I went back and forth from reasonable, rational conversation about what happened, to catatonic hurt, with my face in my hands seeing Harry fuck her in my mind, hearing her beg him for it, feeling like the life had gone out of me.

I asked my wife, if I could’ve handled it, if I could handle it, was it something that she would want to keep doing. She said yes. It was fun.

I don’t know where to put these images of her. I don’t know what to do with these feelings. I’m scared for what will happen to us. We love each other very much, but my heart keeps getting broken over and over. I can’t distract myself. I can’t put things in a perspective that doesn’t hurt. I know no ones to blame and no one did anything wrong per se. But it won’t stop flashing into my head and crushing me and emptying me out. I can’t get it to stop.

What did I do to us? I feel like its all my fault somehow. What do I do now?

July 26, 9:30 P.M.

My wife and I have been reading the comments and messages the last post got from reddit all day. You’ve all acted like facilitators in the conversation we desperately needed to have. Thank you. We talked about the way we felt and the way we feel. The hardest part, but the most therapeutic I think, was the conversation we had rebuilding what happened. I told her the nitty gritty details of the sex acts that were haunting me and it actually felt good. It felt good to share out loud what my brains been making me see all day. She didn’t even remember a lot of it. Facing it made me remember other things too. The moments she looked at me with her “sex eyes.” She thought I was enjoying it but I didn’t give myself a chance to remember those moments. She believed we were on an adventure together; but was too drunk and enraptured to read me. We both understand how the other feels now.

It still hurts to think about it, but her face is back. She looked different to me this morning but thats gone now. My wife is back. We’re a team again, and we’re not really happy with Harry and Sally. We both feel a bit like victims. Obviously her reasons are different from mine but the bottom line is Harry and Sally lead us down a road we’d’ve never found without them, and they didn’t tell us what me might find – and it damaged our relationship. My wife is not to blame for being swept into a situation neither of us were prepared for, and happening to enjoy it. She would give up anything to spare me that kind of pain, let alone last nights activities.

July 27, 12:00 A.M.

If only that last update could be the truth. It was mania. Or a stage of loss or something. This is going to take a long time. We’re going to find a counselor. Things are getting worse. I’m less rational. I want to fucking kill Harry. I hate him so much I just want to fucking destroy him. And.. I don’t know. Just thought I’d let everyone know, it ain’t that easy…

July 28, 1:19 A.M.

Hello everyone. Thank you everyone for the kind words of support, the long messages filled with heartfelt advice, the reassurance that our love was and is a precious thing, the compliments (I’ve learned that flattery can penetrate even the thickest layers of hurt. Wife: “Someone said you write like Chuck Palahniuk.” Me amid agony: “… someone really said that?”.) and most of all, thank you for the tears you shed with me.

I decided to stop reading the comments and messages here for a while. There are far too many things that can hurt me being said and I have no protection right now. Everyone has direct access to my heart and its dangerous out there. I opened them for a second today and the first thing I read said something about my wife dreaming about that moment with Harry the rest of her life. Its not true, but even if it were I don’t need to see that right now. My wife tells me there are dozens of people who say its prevented them them from making the same mistake we did, or realize what their lover is going through, so I’m not going to take it down. Also I don’t want to. Because I’m still hurting and this is my expression and I’m glad people are still feeling with me. It sounds strange but again, thanks for the tears. Feels kind of like you’re here with me.

I don’t want to kill Harry anymore. I told him to be more careful next time. He said he blames himself and hes so sorry. He can fuck off but I don’t want to kill him. He’s a good guy. He fucked up.

Unfortunately for those of you pleading for an update on my wife and I, that will take months. I can say the very worst moments of yesterday occurred far less today. And for a moment, my wife and I had true happiness like it used to be. We were buying Wendy’s food and joking, I can’t remember what about. I love her so very much. She feels the same about me. She’s also terrified, and going though a lot of shame and disgust that she doesn’t deserve. We’re getting better. I asked her not to go to sleep tonight because last night was hard for me. She’s downing coffee like no ones business. Its cute. We’re in a horrible, curious place; its full of fear, but also full of desperate love.

August 8, 4:11 A.M.

If you recall my wife and I were in a scary, curious place; full of desperate love. In hindsight it was a dangerous haze of denial. We surmised that we’d been taken advantage of, Harry and Sally meticulously rolled out a plan to get their rocks off and we had been their victims. The therapist we saw latched onto this. My wife had been raped in front of me, she said, and I recognized it, hence my terror and trauma and flashbacks. Not only that, but Harry targeted my wife because I was a sensitive and trusting man; because he could, “Do anything he wanted to her and knew you wouldn’t stop him.” I went home devastated. My wife was positively chipper and I was cramping her style. My prying and desperate attempts to reconnect climaxed with her shouting, finger pointed at me in rage, “I GOT RAPED AND YOU JUST SAT THERE AND FUCKING WATCHED!!” I smashed a lounge chair we had on our porch and threw it out into the road. It was one of two lounges we got on our wedding day. It broke my heart to return to the porch and see only one chair. I wanted so much to undo what I’d done to the chair, we loved sitting in these chairs together on the porch. I ruined it. And her. Because I didn’t just sit there and watch, I facilitated and encouraged the whole thing.

We saw a second doctor the next day, a real psychologist this time. He spent 25 minutes on my wifes rape before he brought up psychosexual trauma and flashbacks, at which point she directed his attention to me and I broke down. The next morning my wife said it wasn’t rape because, “When it was hot, it was hot.” and raised the question of a threesome with her and another woman. I put a shotgun in my mouth the next morning. My brain has never been so split in two. I truly believed that both my wife had been raped and I sat back and watched, and that my wife had been unfaithful and dishonest. There was pain coming from too many directions for me to know how to fight it or stop it. I got an emergency counseling session. The counselor assured me I wasn’t crazy and encouraged me to talk with my wife about what happened, that there was truth to be found. It didn’t take long.

My wife admitted she was interested in Harry beforehand. She noticed him noticing her the last time we got together and played cards. The night of the foursome he’d asked for permission to enter her in a whisper, she granted it to him. I wanted to leave her then and there but I couldn’t. She was crying so hard, she said she didn’t know how much her deception was hurting me. She didn’t know what she was doing. That night I got out the shotgun, my counselor told me to get it out of the house. I emptied it, the shells popped out on the bed we’d moved into the living room for me. It spooked my wife. I thought I was okay but I laid on the couch and my wife couldn’t find me. She was blurry and I was more catatonic than I’ve ever been in my life. She was holding my face and trying to get a better angle. She started crying. “Where are you!? Where are you?! You look like an old person! DID YOU TAKE THAT BOTTLE OF ZOLOFT!?!” I didn’t. She called my name a few times then took me to my parent’s house. The next morning I told her to leave, I didn’t care where. She went to my sister’s house. I told my parents what happened. They were hurt. I went to my sisters. My wife wasn’t willing to let go of her defensiveness. The defensiveness that led me to believe I was instrumental in her rape, the defensiveness that almost killed me. But I think I drove her to it.

I told her to go to her family, four hours away. I’ll go to mine. She was on her knees begging me not to go. Leaving her there was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

She confessed to her family, she heard her uncle say she’d be out the fucking door if it were up to him. She was frank with my family, promised she wouldn’t hurt me anymore. It took courage. And I’m grateful she got to that point because I couldn’t take being apart from her and she couldn’t take being apart from me. In a way we’re back where we started, only this time I’m on a bunch of pills and we’re both more aware of our own denial. I was instrumental in what happened that night. I would even say I put on a brave face and encouraged it as it was going on. She was more than willing, she was enraptured.. didn’t need me. We have a lot to work out but a lot of love to work with.

August 8, 1:00 P.M.

I tossed, turned, paced, typed, desperately cuddled, and jerked off in hell last night. But I made a breakthrough. This entire time I’ve been claiming, to therapists, myself, and everyone around me that I accept equal blame for the foursome and for getting my wife and I into a situation where she slept with another man. I’ve been saying I accept equal blame, but I hadn’t truly believed it. Laying in bed, dancing around the room the night my wife fucked that man, trying to get a better angle of the action in my memory, trying to understand what happened, I tried something I hadn’t: I changed some things about the situation, using the same people, the same night, the same memory. I tried to build my fantasy out of that night. Now, when I stick my dick in my wife’s face, after I walked in from the bathroom and saw her sucking Harry’s dick, she accepts it. In reality she was unwilling to touch either cock when I re-entered. But in my fantasy she goes back to Harry’s dick, then mine again. Sally is eating her out, like she was. Then, back in reality, back to laying in bed with my wife on August the 8th, my dick got stiff. Holy shit. I imagine me sticking my dick in my wife’s mouth while Harry drills her, I’m rock hard. I invent new things, my wife riding me reverse cowgirl, sucking Harry’s dick while Sally sits on my face. I went to the bathroom and jerked off imagining Harry, then me, cumming in both our wives mouths. Sally and my wife share a sloppy, unending, cum soaked french kiss. They are still making out when I start fucking Sally and Harry starts fucking my wife. I grab a pillow and push it under my wife where she likes it, so Harry can get a better angle to reach her spot, then lean in and make out with my wife while I fuck Sally. Jizz all over the bathroom floor. Clean it up with toilet paper and a wet rag.

I realize my complete and utter culpability in what happened. I realize why the night took a psychological turn for me when it did. With my wife’s pussy on my face, Sally sucking my dick, and Harry in my wife’s mouth, my fantasy had come true. Harry fucking my wife while Sally pulled me away, demanding all my attention, was a nightmare came true. But my wife didn’t know how to have sex any other way. It was a one on one deal. And she doesn’t “love cock,” she loves getting fucked and having her pussy eaten. She wasn’t comfortable, or wasn’t ready, to have a dick in each hand; to have a dick in her pussy and a dick in her mouth. How can I blame her for staying within her comfort zone when I’m guilty of doing the exact opposite and having hell to pay for it? Plus I’m pretty sure Harry and Sally were in it for the swap, not the group sex, and they had the reins.

I should also update you all on what we’ve learned of Harry and Sally. I haven’t been able to face or speak to Harry yet and I’m not going to push that, but I’ve talked to Sally on the phone several times. Sally’s sister is so active in the lifestyle she has a nickname. She is headmaster and host to sex parties under her pseudonym. It turns out Harry and Sally were inspired by her but had never been with another couple before, only another man. They don’t have the internet so I doubt they read the codes conscientious swingers live by regarding unprepared couples. I’m still not happy with them as Sally said they’d talked about it for months before actually going through with it, a benefit their lust was unable to grant my wife and I. Nonetheless, they were simply drunk and overexcited about their first real “swing.” I’m pretty certain they hadn’t talked about the ramifications they’re lifestyle might have on the couples they “have.”

I’m still hurt. I’m still hurting. But I’m learning. And I have respect for my wife and her actions, her open mindedness. The bitterest pill remains the denial that led me into a tailspin – my wife’s laying all the blame on me then abandoning me. But I can’t say I’m guilt free from that situation either. I must’ve driven her crazy with my obsession to understand what had happened, my denial and the blame I put on her for doing what she was comfortable with. The fact remains, however, that I was suicidal and I never explicitly put all the blame on her or stopped trying to reassure her that I understood and it was okay; even if inside I didn’t feel that way. She did put all that blame on me and abandon me psychologically when I needed her most. She needs to make it up to me. I don’t like that, “I was drunk so it was rape!” shit anyways, let alone the incredible burden it put on me. Would she have gone through with it if we’d called the cops? I don’t think so. And I suppose that’s why it disturbs me so much. She had a fuzzy view of the plug indeed, but I feel she saw it and could’ve pulled it sooner than she did.

August 9, 5:00 A.M.

If we’ve learned one thing about this whole experience, it would be the amazing lengths we’ll go to avoid seeing who we really are. My wife and I never talk about sex. We’ve never talked about it. We both have deep insecurities regarding it. We both made mistakes that night. We both feel sad about what happened, and we’re both learning things about each other that we never knew we weren’t talking about. She lied about having other lovers before we were together and never told me, all these years, that I was only the second man she’d ever been with. I’d never told her that I was a terrible lover before I met her. I slept with many women in college but I didn’t even know nipples were erogenous zones; I talked the talk but couldn’t walk the walk.

We’ve never been able to talk about sex truthfully. One of us always gets jealous or angry. And now we have this to show for it. It turns out my wife feels like she missed out on being with different men. Those are things we should’ve been able to talk about before but she’s always been very uncomfortable talking about sex. She liked Harry, he was suitable, and she took her shot while she was drunk and I was trying to make a four way porno fantasy come true. She’d only had one lover before me. Apparently its a thought thats been on her mind for years. She wanted to have sex with him. I wanted some porno fantasy where my wife sucks two dicks and gets eaten out by another chick. I do blame myself, but its not, and it wasn’t my responsibility alone to prevent us from making mistakes. I take equal share but its our job, if we were going to be a monogamous couple, to communicate when something needs to change. We failed at that as a unit. She failed as a wife and I failed as husband.

Also, regarding the trauma, I think that may be something hard for poly people to relate to. My notion of who my wife was got destroyed in an instant. We’ve been ignoring our sex life for years and she was a conservative, one man kind of woman. When we first slept together she assured me she’s “not that kind of girl,” and that it wasn’t a free ride. If we were going to have sex it meant I was making a commitment to her. That was the woman I married, and she’s changed over the years (obviously). I’m trying to figure out who the love of my life is in the present. To see her like that, beneath another man so abruptly, shook all my notions of reality. My entire concept of love and sexuality were so inextricably tied together and to her, that when I heard her say “FUCK ME. PLEASE FUCK ME.” to another man, and I knew I was nowhere in her mind.. well it was like wile-e-coyote with that box of TNT. Everything I knew about sexuality exploded into nothing, and it was so interwoven with the concept of love and marriage that it took a huge chunk out of that as well.  There was an odd moment yesterday when I brought up an old partner and she became upset and jealous. “Can we please stop talking about this!?” It wasn’t even a flattering story. It showed just how little, or how differently, she was affected by all this compared to me. “Babe, after seeing and hearing you beg Harry to fuck you, you could tell me your first boyfriend had the fattest dick in the world and made you cum four times a day and it wouldn’t phase me.”

I’m much better for it. I’ll admit that. My love and faith in her is stronger now, because it doesn’t have to lean on inadequate sex. I’m also a much better lover. It’s as though all the jealousy and fear and pressure of sex, and that stupid feeling that she might not love me if I didn’t provide it well enough, have vanished into thin air.

August 13, 1:15 A.M.

I’m trying to understand why it seems like I’m hurting more than my wife. She is getting a lot more comfortable talking about things. She’s always avoided talking about sex and her desires, even with her girlfriends growing up and in college. We’re realizing there are lots of fun and adventurous things both of us have wanted to for a long time. We can actually do them now. We are actually a stronger couple because of what happened. But it bugs me that she can still be jealous of my past lovers. I don’t understand how she could sleep with another man, in the same bed as me, without asking me first or grabbing my hand or making eye contact with me; in fact, be so fixated on Harry that she doesn’t care or notice what I’m doing with Sally at all, and not reevaluate her notions of jealousy and sex. I asked her the other day how she feels about things now. How the fact that she slept with another man makes her feel. It wasn’t about shaming her, it was about communicating. She said, “I guess its weird that I actually did that.. but I feel fine about it.”

I think part of our differences revolve around the ideological value of the fantasies we were drunkenly playing out. My fantasy of group sex was just that, pure fantasy. It was not something I assigned any value to or felt any real need to fulfill. In contrast, her fantasy about seeing what its like to be with other men, though I know she never would’ve acted on it in normal circumstances, actually held some value to her. A part of her truly yearned for it, and thought it was an important life experience she missed out on. It was something she felt at least some need to fulfill.

In other words, what happened that night actually was a part of her sexual identity. Her notions of sexuality didn’t need to be shattered because there was a place for a situation like that to go in her mind. To me, her having intimate one on one sex with another man was so alien to what I knew about us, it invalidated everything. I’ve been having to rebuild, while my wife has been building a place to put that experience for years. It doesn’t mean she’s glad it happened, it just means she was more prepared to handle the act itself: one on one sex with another man. I’m sure we both would feel very strange in the morning if my fantasy had played out rather than the simple swap that happened,  but there wouldn’t be such a huge gap in our respective abilities to cope with it.

August 19, 1:34 P.M.

There was something wrong still. All the introspection and analysis led to so many discoveries that provided temporary relief for me and illuminated the true circumstances of our relationship, but the pain and confusion regarding the situation returned, almost with a vengeance. Our relationship was still hemorrhaging, I’d missed a wound somewhere. Two nights ago it came into focus.

At my request, my wife and I filmed ourselves fucking. Our new sexual openness allowed for hidden desires to be spoken and taping us in action had long been one of mine. Watching it later that night was a hell of a turn on. She’s on her back on the bed at the start of the video. I approach and drop my dick in her mouth. After a minute she flips around and gets on all fours, drops open her mouth, and lifts her eyes to me like she’s pleading for my cock. I indulge her but eventually can’t take it, wrap one arm around the back of her thighs and one around her shoulder to cradle her onto her back. I mount and start pounding. She’s moaning and her legs begin to rise, as they always do. My hands are planted just outside her shoulders, her arms wrapped around mine with her hands grasping my biceps, her knees a touching my elbows. Its hot. I’ve always wanted to watch a video of us. I’m stroking it. Then I see it..

That’s exactly how her and Harry looked fucking. A wall of legs and arms locked, glued face to face ten inches apart, and a Harry’s ass thrusting over and over. Dear god. She fucking did that. With him. Right next to me and she didn’t reach out to me first. She didn’t call for me or try to make eye contact or even care to see what I was doing. Until she fucked him, each of the evening’s escalations came either while we were in intimate contact with one another or with a shared signal of some sort. She looked to me before taking her clothes off, I looked to her before taking off mine, she was literally in my mouth when oral with the other couple began, then she and Harry consented in a whisper and started fucking while I wasn’t even looking. And oral is not a fucking greenlight for intercourse, no fucking way. Not in our book anyways. The damage was done. Why bother stopping it? Even when I eventually did say something it wasn’t because of some sudden ideological clarity about our relationship’s ethical boundaries, it was because my heart just couldn’t take anymore. I gave up.

I had to blame her, not just for the deception that came later, but for that night. My angst and confusion regarding her tempered reaction to the broken promise of our marriage had merit. Perceiving us as equally guilty for the night of the foursome was misguided. Though we both need to be responsible for our behavior, ‘not stopping it right away’ doesn’t hold a fucking candle to what my wife did. I should’ve never been put in a position to have to stop it. She hung me out to dry and got dicked by another man in the same bed. My wife fucked Harry all goddamned night and didn’t spare a second thought for me. “I thought you guys were doing the same thing.” Bullshit. We were in the same bed. I’d ask myself why she didn’t care enough, in such an intense and scary situation like that, to look over at her husband fucking someone else but she wouldn’t’ve even needed to. It was the same bed. And its not particularly sturdy. Smacking flesh, moans, creaking frame. You couldn’t miss it even if it was pitch black, which it wasn’t.  Maybe, MAYBE, she thought something like, “This is what tonight is about, we’re both doing this.” but I doubt she thought anything. He asked if she wanted it, she said yes. She was cognizant enough to analyze how Harry’s dick felt inside of her compared to mine (“Thinner,” she said) and how his arms and body felt (“Smaller, a little more firm”), but failed to even begin to wonder what I was doing or thinking or feeling.

I went straight into our bedroom with the computer and told her I had to show her something. I clicked play and she looked at me confused. “That’s exactly what you and Harry looked like fucking. That’s what I got to watch. What I got to turn around to see. Now take yourself out and put Sally there. Make Harry’s dick soft so you’re just kind of laying there confused and I don’t even fucking notice. Later, you’re sad and scared in the dark and I still haven’t checked in on you and you hear me say to Sally, – Aw fuck, I wanna pound that little pussy so fucking hard. – And I start fucking Sally again. And I never fucking notice you. I never notice you or think about what happened with you until the next day. In fact, I thought so little about you that night that I didn’t know or care whether or not you fucked Harry.” It was about 3 A.M. and she had to work the next day so I just left the room and closed the door.

After this weekend together things feel… less crazy. Still sad and emotional. But less crazy. She knows now. I know now. All the wounds are finally bandaged and I’m ready to let time start doing its work healing us.

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