David 4

I don't believe in the idea of stealing husbands. How can you steal something that isn't owned? I simply provide affection and sensual attention to those ignored and chaste husbands who work on their houses each weekend, checking off the tasks on a list their wives have created. Those husbands who hope that after the chores are completed, their wives be satisfied and will return to the hot and bothered state prior to marriage. Those deluded husbands who never have understood women and never will. Those husbands who thought that after they got married their wives would still accompany them to baseball games. Those naive husbands who fell into the trap of marriage with its promise of regular sex who now must watch action movies to feel alive. Those husbands who fall asleep in front of the television on an old recliner.

Take, for instance, David. Janice's husband. Janice and I were in a women's bridge club together at a mutual friend's house. Tuesday nights. For six months I heard about their marriage. Bridge club was marriage counseling for Janice. She painfully played the difficult bridge game so later, drinking coffee and smoking, she could update the group on her marriage during the previous week.

"David and I rarely have sex anymore," she informed us. "We're going through a phase."

Friendship, I thought. They've hit the "friendship" stage of their marriage. Usually in this stage couples begin to dress alike.

"He wants to have more sex, but I have female problems," Janice stated another evening. "I'm on medicine but it's not getting better."

And then on another night, "we were supposed to go away for the weekend, but I got sick. We stayed home and worked on the kitchen instead. We don't have much money anyway for a vacation."

She said much more about the pitiful state of their 12-year marriage. All I needed to hear was that there was no sex and she didn't want any. Why can't women who don't like sex admit it? In the old days, which were seen as totally repressive, women who didn't like sex admitted it. Isn't it more repressive to lure a man into marriage to have a full-time maintenance man?

I asked a few probing questions under the guise of concerned interest to gauge David's feelings about the state of their marriage. Was he hoping it would get better? Had he found a sexual partner already?

One night I asked Janice why David didn't want sex.

Janice dragged hard on her cigarette, arranging her detailed answer. "I think he had a difficult childhood. His mother wasn't very affectionate. He doesn't know how to receive love."

I nodded knowingly. Janice, taking it as a confirmation of her shallow psychological perspective, continued. "His work is stressful. I think he can't relax."

"Does David go out with his friends?" I asked. I was scoping his "extra-marital activities."

"Not really," Janice answered. "He mostly plays on the computer at night."

Perfect, I thought. Starved of sex and affection for many months, at least. An eternity for the male gender. No extra-marital life. The husband who tries to be good. Now I had to get inside the house.

"Why don't we rotate houses, to lighten the load on our friend," I suggested one evening. Our friend was the mutual friend who hosted the bridge club every Tuesday.

The women in the group readily agreed. Janice was eager to host a bridge night at her house. "I love to entertain. Why don't we have it at my house when my kitchen is finished."

Wait until the kitchen was finished? How long would that take? I would wait, if I had to, like a hunter waiting for his prey to move. A sexless husband working for months on a kitchen he never used would be prime material, ripe fruit. That didn't mean I wouldn't pursue other opportunities in the meantime. I've learned that sometimes relationships take time to season.

The kitchen took another two months while we rotated to the homes of the other women in the group. Janice chose a "country kitchen" theme with hanging dried vegetables, a wood table and lots of shiny new pots and pans hanging from any place a pot could hang. Janice was proud of her kitchen and the man who created it.

"This is David," Janice said, introducing the tall, shy man to the group. David looked embarrassed by the introduction – maybe he knew that Janice spewed the intimate details of their life together each Tuesday to casual acquaintances. Maybe he was embarrassed by the kitchen. David was not extraordinarily handsome but had the boyish charm I enjoy.

Later, while we rotated partners and I was out for a game, I stated to the group that I had to go to the bathroom. "I ate Chinese food earlier. It didn't set well with me," I added so that an extended absence would be understood and accepted. I didn't want the women to come looking for me.

We had been playing bridge in the finished basement. David and the bathroom were upstairs. He was in his study, across from the bathroom. His world was baroque – darkness penetrated by the light of the computer. The blue-yellow light bounced off his lonely face into the hallway beyond. A desperate man looking into the face of his savior.

"Excuse me," I said to him, peering around the corner from the hallway. "Are you good with computers?"

"Pretty good, I think," he replied not turning.

"Could I ask your help with something?"

"Sure," he said, turning his chair to face me.

For a moment, I was nervous. One of the computer-illiterate forced into a technological world, my computer problems were endless. But now I had to find a viable problem that would last several minutes.

"When I'm working online, my computer crashes," I said, naming my most troublesome problem.

"Do you have virus protection?" he asked.

In my purse, I thought to myself. But that was not the answer he was looking for.

"I'm not sure," I lied. "How do you know if you have it?"

"Here, I'll show you," he said, turning back to face the screen.

David was good with computers. I learned a lot about virus checks, virus programs and Internet connections – that night and many other nights. His computer was organized and virus free. So was his life, to his dismay. Attention to detail, however, is quite fine in a lover.

That first night, learning about the LoveLetterToYou virus, I put my hand on David's knee. I know it's a cheap romance movie trick, but it works. Don't we all know what a hand on the knee means?

He didn't move my hand. I asked a question, in sign language, and he answered. I then leaned close, revealing my cleavage, and said I was going to the bathroom.

He looked at me but didn't say anything. His expression showed both interest and flattery. As well it should. I hate to see men suffer in the hands of re-decorating wives.

He joined me quickly in the bathroom. I had unbuttoned my shirt and was sitting on the toilet seat, staring at my reflection in the mirror across from me. Normally I hate mirrors across from toilets. Who wants to watch themselves shitting? I don't. Today, however, I would not be shitting. I began a new appreciation of mirrors that night. I now own quite a few mirrors of various shapes and sizes.

David kneeled in front of me and pulled my blouse from my shoulders. I watched in the mirror as he licked my nipples. I watched my pants being removed. I watched the reflection of myself pull off her underwear. I watched the reflection of David put his face between my legs and lick my cunt. I watched how good it felt and it felt good to watch.

David and I found many more mirrors in our love affair. Cheap hotels, without the usual room amenities for the weary traveler, have plenty of mirrors. Mirrors across from the bed, mirrors on the desk, mirrors on the wall. You must go to the cheapest motels to get mirrors on the ceiling. In those motels you must also listen to the pains of love emanating from the rooms surrounding you. I don't really care for mirrors on the ceiling because the view is not good.

I like to see my cunt in the mirror, up close. I like to see fingers inside stroking, pulling in and out as I watch my swollenness and feel the pulsation. A man's fingers or my own fingers. For several weeks after that night, I spent many an evening with my fingers in my cunt, exploring myself and the view at the same time. I love the feel of my own wet flesh and how I can arouse myself. At first I found the view embarrassing; but the more I saw the more I liked. David did too. We became our own porn flick. We watched ourselves, turned ourselves on then fucked with greater intensity.

That first night, as I watched David licking my cunt, I leaned back on the toilet seat and lifted my pelvis, pushing my vagina into his face. David noticed me looking in the mirror and turned to look himself.

"That looks fun," he said.

Taking the cue, I exchanged positions with David. Now he was the porn star, watching his wife's bridge partner suck his erect cock. I moved to the side of the toilet so that I could get the full view of myself and his penis. The exhibitionist in me emerged and I found watching my style exciting. I did my usual pattern – I licked around the tip then down the sides. I was so turned on, I put his whole cock in my mouth, down to my throat. Usually I choke from this but the excitement of watching the action had stimulated me so much that the force of my arousal overrode the nagging sensation. I pulled up and down, taking big swallows of his cock, trying not to bite. I was so aroused I wanted to eat his penis.

David pulled me up. "If you do that much longer, I'm going to cum," he said softly, out of breath.

I had never seen myself swallowing semen. That would be fun. I decided that first evening not to suck him into orgasm but to watch myself being fucked from behind. I could swallow his semen in front of a mirror in a future evening. It was clear by this time that David was going to be my next married lover.

As I mentioned, the bathroom was not large. Its decorations, like the kitchen, were country bumpkin. The wallpaper was forest green and maroon red, striped. The towels were also forest green with pine tree patterns embroidered in white lest you forget that forest green comes from the forest. I also recollect there being lots of brass and a cinnamon scent, probably from the red guest soaps. Two lovers fucking between a toilet and a wall in a small bathroom trying not to upturn the precariously arranged decorations was not easy. On the positive side, the tight space kept the noise to a minimum.

As David fucked me from behind, I leaned against the wall, hands on either side of the mirror. David fucked hard; it must have been a long time since he and Janice had been together. He stroked my clit as he fucked me. We fit so well together in such a small space. The view was perfect. I came first, then David. He removed himself quickly, his cum dripping onto the floor. Janice's pine tree towels came to the rescue as I wiped myself, then my new lover. I admired the still erect penis that would be part of my life for the next year or so.

We rarely made love at his house after that night. I may have been away from the bridge game a little too long that first night. His passion exhumed, his caution returned and he worried that my extended absence due to stomach troubles was not an excuse we could use often. Additionally, we had stained one of Janice's pine tree towels. She would be furious. During our time together we met once or twice a week at hotels or at my apartment.

Occasionally I tried to lure him back to the bathroom on bridge night. I would find him in front of his computer and tease him, stroking his neck and fondling him through his jeans. Once he was even erect for my visit and I sucked him hard, but quickly, for a delightful pleasure. His stolen pleasure was my pleasure.

During the time we were together, I learned that David and Janice had been together since their teens. The sex they shared had been a learning experience more than an erotic one. Their passion had peaked quite early and the bulk of their 12-year marriage had been more like friendship, as I had assumed.

"Why do you stay in it?" I asked.

David responded with a confused expression. "I love her, but I'm not in love with her," he replied.

I had met several Davids before and after Janice's David. The Davids are weak men. Men who want both passion and comfort, which are not natural bedfellows. They settle for comfort because they have been taught that men's natural promiscuous passion is immoral and that it should be tamed through the institution of marriage. Somewhere, at school or at home, they come to believe it, converts to the cult of domesticity. They accompany their wives to the wedding and spend the rest of their lives in sedation in front of the television or computer.

Really, I don't like the Davids. That's why I leave them when the sex becomes routine. Most of the Davids have remained with their wives and have merely found new lovers. Only a few have emerged from the life of a David to become the men they were meant to be, sexually and otherwise.

My boss' husband was one of those Davids, too. How could he not be? She worked until 8 p.m. every night maintaining her role as a senior executive. And in every morning by 6 a.m. Her scheduled life included scheduled sex, I learned from her David. But that's another story.