It was my wife's idea that I start seeing other women.
My dating record was short and spotty when we started going out in college. Heather wasn't exactly a wild child growing up, but she took pride in being a lot of guys' first something-or-other. Could you blame her? She liked them shy, she exuded charisma (she still does), and she made extensive use of a number of Catholic loopholes throughout high school.
I, on the other hand, didn't attract anyone's attention until I was halfway through college. That situationship was intense enough for me to get my first kiss and my only blow- and handjobs -- otherwise, the less said about it, the better. The only jealousy it aroused in Heather was that she hadn't gotten to me until a year later.
But what Heather and I had went slow, steady, and strong. We survived revelations about past infidelity and two years of long-distance love. We gave each other our traditional virginities on a somewhat painful Fourth of July. We moved in together and eventually adopted a puppy we found abandoned outside a summer camp. We don't genuinely argue often -- we still play fight and take "hard" positions on stupid shit like "is a hot dog a sandwich" or "is this anime just trash or legitimately terrible" -- but when we do, we do it to find understanding, not to tear each other down.
For the seven years before Heather married me, I thought I'd unlocked Relationship Easy Mode. Not a whole lot's changed after the wedding, either -- we still watch memes and video essays late into the night, order takeout when we're both too lazy to cook, and get extra lovey-dovey to make old, staring racists uncomfortable. In fact, aside from taxes and legal options, I'd say the biggest thing that's different is our sex lives.
I don't know what those old sitcoms and stand-up comedians are on about. Married sex absolutely tops dating sex.
Our wedding night alone was a sensational fuckfest. We absconded to our rented cabin immediately after the reception and before long, Heather was sloppily gagging herself on my mahogany cock.
Heather had started the night with her dark brown hair curled and secured with tasteful bumblebee barrettes to frame her round face and pointed chin. She wore makeup, too, although I was hard-pressed to tell beyond some extra rosiness in her usually pale cheeks and ruby red lipstick. But by the time I pushed her back onto the bed and started suckling her clit, her hair had come loose and her makeup was running in erotic trails down her face.
Her howls of ecstasy filled the cabin as I gorged myself on her musky pussy. She came in writhing bucks, grinding the short lawn of her mound against my trimmed beard until she settled flat on her back. I lapped up the last of her nectar, kicked out of my pants, and climbed onto the bed to kiss my bride, my wife, my partner in life. Unlike the romantic, but restrained, kiss at the altar, this kiss was the summation of our relationship: passionate, messy, and, above all, honest. When I pulled back, we shared a look that we were both too out of breath and brainpower to say out loud.
God, I love you.
