I'd heard black guys were more candid about sex, more to the point, but I didn't buy the stereotype. Based on that, I never expected my friend Jackson, who is black, to come right out and tell me my wife was really hot and he wanted to fuck her. "You don't beat around the bush much, do you, my friend?" I said, almost choking on my drink.
"I'd beat around her bush," he said laughing. "It never profits a man to be too shy to say what he wants. If I want something bad enough, I'll go after it. A man who speaks up often gets what the silent one doesn't and wants," he added with a broad toothy grin. "Well, you think your wife would like to fuck a black man? This black man?"
I shrugged, then shook my head. "Never crossed my mind," I said. "I think she's been faithful, believes in it, so... I don't think so. I know she has no problem with interracial sex, but..."
That night, always being honest with her, I told Claire in bed what Jackson had said. "He told you that?" she asked, turning to face me, her cheeks and neck flushing to pink. "He just came out and said that? What in God's name were you talking about?"
"We had just sat down for drinks and he says, 'Has your wife ever fucked a black man?' Just like that. Then he says, 'She's hot. You think she would fuck one?'"
"Why do you ask?" I said.
"'Because if she would tell her I'm available,' he says."
Claire looked at me and frowned. "You told him I wouldn't sleep with anyone other than you, right, no matter what color they were?"
"I said I didn't know," I replied with a shrug. She seemed angry that I wouldn't tell him she had no interest in fucking another guy. For most of the next day, even past dinner, she was silent and pensive, angry over what I had "not" said to my friend who asked to fuck her.
We had just gotten into bed the next night and she sighed. "They say once you go black, you won't ever go back," she said with a sly grin. She rolled over and pulled her knees up, facing away from me. "Tell Jackson that I'll consider it," she said softly.
I snuggled up to her back and kissed her on the shoulder. My heart beat rapidly. "Seriously?"
"What if I was?" she said sharply.
"I'd tell him you were interested," I said with far more enthusiasm than I ever expected. Just the idea was arousing me and an erection began to take shape.
She turned around to face me. "Is he serious?" she asked with a scowl.
"I'm sure he is," I said. "You know Jackson. Are you?"
"I'm thinking about it."
"With him?" I asked.
"Maybe."
"Does another man saying he wants to fuck me bother you?"
"I thought it would," I said, pulling her to me, "but when he said what he did I didn't even get pissed. I don't know, he was just so straightforward, so absolutely upfront, that I mostly felt proud. If you want to," I said, after choosing my words carefully, "then go ahead. Sleep with Jackson."
The next day we didn't talk about it, but throughout the day all I could think about was Claire fucking my friend Jackson, or at least being fucked by a big, black cock. I would see it sliding into her if I closed my eyes, and I found myself doing that much of the day. What I didn't know was my wife was picturing the same thing at the same time. I didn't find that out until I confessed to her that night in bed that I'd been thinking about her fucking Jackson all day.
"Me too," she confessed with a timid grin.
As fate would have it, Claire and I attended a cocktail party given by friends the next week and Jackson was there by himself. I didn't know he'd be at the party, but I saw Claire seemed pleased and that gave me a charge. I thought she'd be a bit uneasy, but it didn't show if she was. She walked right up to him, give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. They looked at one another for nearly a minute, communicating silently between the two of them, sharing a moment of closeness they hadn't before.
We chatted casually with him much of the night, and when the party started to wind down around eleven, Jackson asked if we'd like to "go for coffee." He asked if we'd like to "talk in private" and right away both Claire and I realized he knew she was considering his proposal. We each drove our own cars and met at a coffee shop with a juke box about eleven thirty.
"Did Doug tell you what I said last week," he asked, coming right to the point after the waitress had brought our coffee. Her cheeks turned pink even before the question had left his lips. We hadn't talked about it on the way to the restaurant, even though each of us certainly was thinking of it, and she glanced over to me before nodding.
He smiled, reassuringly, and put his hand over hers. "Every white woman should have one black man in her bed," he said, "at least once in her lifetime."
"Really?" she replied with that embarrassed grin. It wasn't so much of a question as it was just processing the idea out loud.
"Really," he replied, his eyes fixed on hers. They looked at each other for a long time, seemingly forgetting I was there, imagining their intimate encounter, then she turned to me, as if looking for the go ahead. I smiled, nodded, and kissed her.
"Okay," she said softly.
He said he'd have her back before two that night, but she called at one and said they probably should sleep late, so she would come home the next night. "Are you okay with that?" she asked.
"I'm fine," I answered, picturing him fucking my wife as I spoke, "better than I expected to be."
"Was he right?" I asked when she came in the next night. "Should every white woman have at least one black cock in her before she dies?"
"I'd recommend it," she said with a sigh and a broad smile, standing in front of me, putting her arms over my shoulders, and kissing me hello.
