My Artist Husband

I was 22, a college grad, and I knew my own mind. Everyone was against my marriage except for my best friend Jenny. She knew how much I loved Craig. My mother could not handle that Craig was the wrong religion. My father thought Craig would never make enough money to support me in any sort of style, since he was an artist. Craig was not going to "see the light" and work in an office like my Dad. He was a committed artist and my Dad knew it.

My sister, who was only a year and a little younger than I, saw the truth. She knew all about my submissive tendencies because she was just like me. She was fairly sure Craig would find a way to exploit my weaknesses to my detriment. My older brother (he was 24) pretended not to care. He simply could not relate to Craig, since their values and interests were so far apart. My brother also thought Craig was too told for me, since Craig was 32, a full ten years my senior.

I knew they were all wrong. Craig had real talent. Sure, he was undiscovered, but he made a reasonable living simply by painting the portraits of a variety of rich people. They all seemed happy with his work and he would get more and more work by word of mouth. It paid the bills, but it was not what Craig wanted to do or to be.

Most important of course was that we were in love. We were hopelessly in love. In some sense my sister was right. I would do anything for Craig. Sexually at least I submitted completely to his desires. It was not hard to do since he was reasonably normal with his sexual desires. I had been with several men who had stranger tastes and desires during my reasonably wild college years, and even with them I had yet to push my limits to the breaking point. Craig was perfect for me. He was absolutely perfect.

My best friend Jenny was one of my bridesmaids. I will always remember the conversation we had. It was one week before the wedding.

********

"You picked out some pretty damn sexy bridesmaid outfits, Ashley," she said.

I giggled. "You like them? I wanted to choose something you could wear other times than just at my wedding," I said.

"Like in case I'm invited to be a stripper at a party?" Jenny asked.

"Give me a break! They're not that bad!"

"In those outfits he men are going to be looking at the bridesmaids, not the bride," Jenny said.

"You haven't seen yet my bridal gown," I quietly said, giggling.

"Touché," Jenny said, now smiling broadly. "Look, Ashley, I'm worried. We've both been pretty wild sexually up to this point. Can you really commit exclusively to Craig?"

"I did kind of gently ask him about an open marriage...," I said. I did not continue.

"And...?"

"He said no."

"Oh." Jenny paused, digesting it. She added, "How heteronormative of him."

"Actually, he thought I was suggesting that I could give him permission to fuck around, not me. Maybe I phrased it awkwardly. He actually said, 'That's sweet Ashley. You must really love me even more than I could have thought. But rest assured, you're all I want, all I need, all I will ever want.' Isn't that sweet? He's a man who wants only me!" I said.

"Very sweet. Romantic," Jenny said, with a shade of disdain in her voice.

"So, no more...?" Jenny dispiritedly asked.

"No," I said.

"And we can't have, you know, a little girl time together on occasion, like we always have?" Jenny asked.

"I'm afraid that's over and done with, too. I'll always love you, Jenny, you know that, but from now on when it comes to expressing my love sexually, I'm afraid it's just Craig," I said.

"Sometimes men like to watch..."

"Craig's not that kinky," I said. "He's not kinky at all."

"And he's an artist?" Jenny asked. "Really?"

"I know. Weird, right? But it works. It fits him. He's wonderful in every way," I said.

"You always told me that 'variety is the spice of life,'" Jenny said. "Now you're going to be satisfied with just one flavor, even if it's Nutella?"

"Craig is a very delicious Nutella, I assure you!" I said.

"I know, I know, even if I had never had the pleasure of getting even a little taste. Even a little, tiny, itsy bitsy taste. But what about French vanilla? Cookie dough? Ginger, or Green Tea?" Jenny said.

I smiled. "Those are all delicious flavors and I'll remember them fondly," I said. "Especially Green Tea."

Jenny giggled, apparently also remembering the stud we called Green Tea. We had shared him, of course. My mother had taught me always to share. I'm not sure she meant lovers, it was more like toys and stuffed animals at the time, but I generalized as I aged. It's what I do. "Yeah..." Jenny said dreamily. "Green Tea was something else. I liked his ice cream too."

The taste of the man's cum, which we called his ice cream, had reminded Jenny of the taste of Green Tea, whence his nickname. I never told her that in contrast it reminded me of salted chamomile. It would have ruined the moment.

"You're willing to give up our life like that? Just for the security of having a man who loves you all the time? Really?" Jenny asked.

"You'll understand when you find your own Craig. I've already given it up. I'm excited about my new life," I said.

"I guess it's pretty cool to be marrying an artist," Jenny said.

"You got that right," I replied.

*******

Craig's work as an artist was good. His favorite medium was to combine photography with painting. He took beautiful pictures and he overpainted them in certain ways such that he made something reasonably unique. He was actually a truly talented photographer and when he combined that with his extraordinary skill as a painter, the results were remarkable.

Due to his photography talent alone, if friends begged him enough he would take wonderful wedding pictures. Since we lived in New York, he would also do the occasional Bar Mitzvah too, especially if the boy was the son of one of the people whose portraits he had already painted.

I think what made him such a good photographer was his ability to frame a picture perfectly within a split second. For example, one time he captured the branch of a low hanging tree in such a way as to flatter the true object of the picture, be it the beaming father of the bride, a bridesmaid, or a cute little flower girl.

He was frustrated however at his lack of success as an artist known for his art. It began to show in our sex life. Behind every successful man there is a good woman goes the old maxim. I had to be that good woman. Don't get me wrong. We could get by as it was. I worked two jobs. I was an editor's assistant and girl Friday by day (a job that included nice benefits such as health insurance for both me and my family which so far was just Craig), and a cocktail waitress by night.

Craig always enjoyed dropping by the bar where I worked to see me clad in my skimpy outfit. It was down in the Wall Street area where the financial "masters of the universe" worked long hours and were lonely and horny. They would drown their sorrows in drink and fantasize about bedding the waitresses such as myself.

Craig would watch the customers watching me. I would get propositioned at least once an evening, sometimes twice or more, and of course I would always say no but with a big smile. I've been told many times I have a winning smile. I was blessed with great teeth, and I keep them sparkling white.

Sometimes customers would run their hands up and down my legs and I would let them, even with Craig watching, since that way I would get bigger tips. If you're a cocktail waitress, it's all about the tips. Letting myself be the object of their relatively harmless sexual fantasies led to nicer tips.

I got in the habit of leaning forward on the high tables, my elbows on the table, so that my blouse would billow out just a tad, giving the men a fairly good look down my blouse at my lacy bras, should they want to take the look. They always wanted to take the look. Always.

Even the regulars would take their time choosing what to order, discussing the pros and cons of various cocktails, no doubt in order to prolong the time they could gaze down my blouse. They would then order, after much reflection, what they always ordered. People are creatures of habit. Throughout I would smile on the off chance that they would raise their eyes from my boobs to look at my face.

Sometimes a man would be flagrant in his study of my boobs and make some crude comments, or ask my cup size (I'm a C cup). I would answer him truthfully and sweetly and nervously giggle. I was unflappable and it showed in my tips. Men expressed their appreciation through their tips. I would have had it no other way.

A recent conversation went like this. The guy was still wearing his work badge with his name on it. During the conversation he was looking down my blouse and studying my tits underneath my lace bra.

**********

Man: "You are a great waitress, you know, my dear?"

Me: "Why thank you! Mark, I guess it is?"

Man: "May I call you Ashley?"

Me: "Of course. Have you chosen what to order?"

Man: "It's between a Margarita and Sex on the Beach. Your bra is pretty. I like the shade of blue."

Me: "Thanks, Hon. You usually get the Margarita. May I suggest you try tonight a Sex on the Beach? You know, live a little with some variety?"

Man: "Is there a beach nearby? What a nice idea!"

Me: (Giggling) "I'm afraid not. It involves orange juice, peach liqueur, and cranberry juice, as well as of course vodka. The beach is only in the name. Is it then a Margarita?"

Man: "How about we pretend the ladies' room is a beach? Just you and me? What's your cup size, by the way?"

Me: (Ignoring the first question and answering the one that's less offensive,) "I'm a C cup."

Man: "And the ladies' room? Just you and me?" He took out six pictures of Ulysses S. Grant to entice me, arrogantly placing them in my blouse and under the edge of my bra. I pulled them out and gave them back to him, giggling and smiling.

Me: "A margarita, then?" (I said with a big smile, while running my tongue over my upper lip.)

Man: "Sure. Whatever."

*************

Other times men would complement my mouth and my lips while looking at me longingly. They were not subtle. I knew they wanted a blowjob and sometimes they would even ask me to meet them in the restrooms "for a quickie." I did at times wonder what they would taste like. Would it be salty chamomile again, or ginger, or French vanilla, or Green Tea? I let those idle wonders pass. The men always received big smiles, giggles, and a firm no. Oh yes, they also received their drinks once they eventually had ordered them.

I would entertain myself by wondering if what they were drinking would affect the taste of their cum? Would a man drinking margaritas taste different than a man drinking mojitos? I had to make peace with the realization I would never know. I remember as a little girl making peace with the realization that I never would know, with certainty, why the dinosaurs went extinct after having run the Earth for millions of years. If I could live with that, I could live with not knowing if my theories on the taste of cum were true or not. Maybe, though, I could experiment with Craig? Why not?

I began to wear a device that broadcast the audio of my conversations by Bluetooth to an earpiece that Craig would wear. That way he could actually hear the crude banter, and yes even the propositions, that my customers would assault me with. I don't know why, but he got off on it. That trick alone improved our sex life. It improved it quite a bit, actually.

Maybe Craig liked to know that I was desired by other men? Some men get off on knowing other men desire their woman. It helps their male egos. Or maybe Craig was kinkier than I thought and he secretly wanted to share me with other men?

The idea was not foreign to me. As I said before, I had some wild times in college and one of my boyfriends had that particular peccadillo. I'm a bit ashamed of the extent to which I obliged him. My excuse is that I was young, wild, and stupid back then. Emphasis, please, on 'stupid.'

My real shame though is that I loved every minute of it. The idea of having casual sex with a man as a favor to my boyfriend who got off on it absolved me of the guilt and freed me to be the sexual woman I wanted to be and with no strings attached. It was liberating.

The problem was that there are never no strings attached. Never! The personalities of the men were too complicated (both of my boyfriend and of the guy to whom he was passing me off) for it to work as I had imagined it should. Sex and the emotions it brings with it are just far too complicated for me to understand. I'll never do that again.

Anyway, that left the issue of how to turn Craig into a commercial success. He had the talent but not the spark. He needed a new idea, a hook, that could catapult him to prominence, to become someone whose work the critics would discuss. He needed something that would get him a private show in a gallery. Somehow, I knew it was up to me. It was all up to me. That realization was quite scary.

I was the one who had the idea. I was sure it would work. I was however scared to propose it. Craig was in a funk though and I just had to do something! After dinner Craig was going to his dark room to develop some pictures when I asked him to stay with me for a little longer.

"My grandfather Samuel worked in advertising. Did I ever mention that to you, Craig?" I asked.

"Yes. You loved him a lot, I know," Craig replied. Craig was mystified why I was bringing this up but he was used to me. He knew if he were patient I would get to the reason.

"Yeah, well my Granddad was a wise man. He had a mantra. It was 'sex sells.' He made a good living following that mantra," I said, and I let that sink in for a little while. After a long pause I added, "You could make your pictures sexy?"

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"Well, for example you could take pictures of a model where a guy is l looking down her blouse like the men do at my cocktail lounge, for example. Maybe she would not be wearing a bra though, you know? Your camera could catch a nipple or two," I said, holding my breath upon finishing.

Craig looked at me, surprised. "You mean take black and white and then paint in some color for the areola and the nipple?"

"Sure, that's an idea. I'm sure you can think of many other ideas, too," I replied.

I added, "For example in the subway. The girl could be seated with a low-cut blouse and no bra, and a man standing could be casually gazing down her blouse. You have so much talent you could capture all of that with your camera. Then you could paint a mask over the woman's eyes so nobody could tell who she was. That's just one example. I'm sure you could think of many more once you go down that path."

Craig seemed skeptical so I elaborated, "I'll bet it's the fantasy of many a man to get a free peak at a woman's boobs and nipples while riding the subway. I even think some women even dress provocatively to feed those fantasies while not, of course, providing a real free look."

I got up to get a drink. I had been festering over this idea and now that it was out there I was a nervous wreck. A glass of wine would calm my nerves a bit, or so I hoped.

"Where would I find a model willing to do something like that?" Craig asked.

"It's remotely possible that you're married to one," I said so softly that Craig could not hear me. I had to repeat it.

There was a long and pregnant silence.

"Really Ashley, you would do that for me?" Craig finally asked, his voice full of incredulity.

"Maybe, I don't know," I said. "It's not really in my wheelhouse. For you, though..." I was lost in thought for a few minutes. Then I added, "I practically do it already five nights a week at the cocktail lounge, and for minimum wage. Come watch me tonight and I'll go braless. Ann Christine already goes braless occasionally and she says it gooses her tips. I could do it tonight. You know, just to illustrate the point?"

I did not tell Craig that Ann Christine also takes the occasional man to the ladies' and blows him. She gets well paid for that, I'm sure! I'll have to remember to ask her about my theory regarding men's drinks affecting the taste of cum. 'You ejaculate what you drink,' I thought to myself and allowed myself a small giggle.

I should explain. Once due to a dare in college I wore a skimpy see-through blouse and no bra to a fraternity party. The way the college men looked at me was priceless. I was in a constant state of arousal and so were they! It led to one of my many one-night stands and thank goodness I was lucky. I picked just by chance one of no doubt the very few men who could satisfy me that night. I was in heat. I know by now you're curious, right? His taste was French vanilla. So as regards showing off my boobs, there was precedence, shall we say. Craig knew none of this, of course.

I did it. I went braless at the cocktail lounge. When I would put my elbows on the table and lean forward, ostensibly the better to hear their orders, the view down my blouse was spectacular. My tip total doubled, and I received five propositions, all declined, of course. Craig told me later he was hard the entire evening. I would have been too, if I had had something to get hard. All I had were nipples and they were most certainly hard. I was, however, good and wet. That's the female answer to being hard.

I even waited on Craig himself, so that he could join the party and look down my blouse at my tits. "Can you see my nipples?" I whispered to him. "Are they hard?"

"Oh, yeah. Everyone can see them when you lean forward like that. They're gorgeous. I love you Ashley," Craig said and he gave me my sixth proposition of the evening. His, I accepted. Our sex life that night was excellent. No complaints here!

Craig was hard the entire taxi ride home. I smiled. When we got home he had me parade around in my skimpy cocktail waitress outfit and bring him a mixed drink. Then he placed a $20-dollar bill right down my flimsy skirt and into my pussy. Quite a few men had been inside my pussy over the years, but this was the first time for Andrew Jackson. I would have preferred Benjamin Franklin, but Craig does not carry much cash around. When things progressed as they will do, Andrew Jackson was blocking my entry. I told Craig the only way Old Hickory was going to leave my pussy was with Craig's teeth pulling him out.

That was a smart move on my part because when Craig went to do it I crushed his head against me and he began to lick. He does not do that nearly enough in my opinion so I kept his head there a good long time. His tongue licked the length of my vag and finally found my clit, thank goodness. He was gentle, kissing my clit and letting his tongue swirl around, driving me nuts. Just when my orgasm was only minutes away he stuck Andrew Jackson in my own mouth and plunged his dick inside me, full on up to his balls.

He felt good inside me. He always does. He slowly pumped his cock in and out as I pushed back to help him penetrate deeper. Andrew Jackson in my mouth tasted of my juices. Craig surprised me by screwing me as he moved his cock in a circular motion. Yes, clockwise. Craig followed the left-handed screw rule. Then he did his best imitation of a car engine's piston and I lost it, screaming to the high heavens as my climax overwhelmed me. He finished me off with a punishing fuck that felt divine.

After all that I knew Craig enjoyed watching me show off certain body parts. He was kinkier than I had known. Hell, he's an artist. They're supposed to be kinky, aren't they? I didn't mind. I didn't mind even one little bit.

Except by having been seriously ravished by my own hubby in our own marital bed, I escaped from my exhibitionist bout of cocktail waitressing unscathed. Not only was I unscathed but I got such a large pile of tips that we had steak for dinner the next night. It was not just any old ordinary steak either. I cooked Chateaubriand for Craig. I slavishly followed a French recipe from an expensive cookbook I had bought. Craig became a believer in the wise observation of my Granddad: Sex sells.