Mixed marriages don't work. That was the anthem drummed into me growing up in 60's suburbia. It did happen of course, even in the leafy avenues of the middle class. Several white girls married black men - a few of my friends in fact - but, probably due to the pressures of the times, not many of these unions lasted and those that did the couples usually ended up moving away to more hospitable or understanding areas.
It was tough too; there weren't many black girls of my age to choose from and those that there were didn't seem very interested. And so, as I reached adolescence, I started dating white girls. I think I always knew that I would never marry against my parents' wishes or against what seemed to be the accepted norm, but dating was a different thing as far as I was concerned. I adored the way that my dark skin contrasted with their soft feminine white skin and, probably because of the largely inaccurate rumours concerning the size of a black male's endowment; I was rarely short of casual girlfriends. I guess I thought it was probably little more than a rite of passage.
My academic education was more comprehensive. Completion of university saw me slide gracefully into medical school and yet more studying. My family had always wanted and expected me to join the medical profession and my first day as a bewildered intern on the wards of the city hospital in a starched white coat and polished shoes was an immensely proud one; for them as well as me.
When I first saw Miranda she was tending to the results of a road accident. Her standard issue generic green scrubs gave no clue as to her responsibility within the hospital and it was only a quick glance at her ID that confirmed her position as a staff nurse.
I was immediately captivated. Her slender beauty was accentuated by the dark skin of her West African ancestry. Her eyes seemed to sparkle as she smiled - probably more with exasperation than anything else - at the tall, newly qualified doctor that was clearly unable to keep his eyes off her.
"You going stand around all day, or you shall we try and save this guy's life?"
These were the first words that she ever spoke to me and I'll probably remember them for the rest of my life.
Obviously I'd fallen for Miranda in a big way. It took me three times of asking before she agreed to come out on a date with me but, when she eventually did let me take her to dinner, it was clear that the spark between us was intense. I knew immediately that this was never going to be just a one-night deal and I was right. Three months later, and in an explosion of family and friends from two continents, Miranda and I were married.
We were happy; of course. Both our working weeks were long and arduous and conflicting shift patterns often kept us apart but we made time for each other.
Sex between us was also good. I knew that Miranda had not been a virgin when we married - how could I have expected her to be? - But she was still inexperienced. We talked about our previous lovers and I learned that her family had been even stricter about mixing than mine had; the three men that made up my wife's sexual education had all been black.
"You know, all the girls at work are so jealous!" Miranda said one night.
We had just finished making love and were curled up together in bed, our bodies inseparable.
"Of what?"
"Of me, dummy! Being married to you!" I got a playful poke in the ribs for my lack of immediate insight.
"They all think just because you're black you must be hung like a horse!"
I laughed but I could see that Miranda was thinking.
"Have you ever been with a white girl?"
The question took me by surprise. She had never really shown much interest in my past girlfriends. I wondered what was on her mind.
"One or two." I answered "Why?"
There was an awkward silence that seemed to hang in the air. Suddenly this didn't seem all that playful anymore.
"I sometimes wonder what a white guy would be like in bed!"
Miranda had her back to me. I couldn't see the expression on her face but I knew from the tone of her voice that she wasn't joking. Several times I tried to speak but the words just wouldn't come. I lapsed into a hurt, thoughtful silence until my wife turned to look at me.
"It's not that I don't want you, baby!" she whispered. "Oh, I don't know! It's just something I'm feeling."
I saw her eyes lower demurely and her voice dropped so that her whisper was barely audible.
"Doctor Jameson - you know, in Orthopaedics - he's been hitting on me for weeks. I know this sort of thing happens a lot and it doesn't normally bother me, but..."
"But?" I interrupted.
"It's just sexual. He looks good and every time I look at him it makes me tingle. You know...down here!"
I felt my hand being guided down between my wife's open legs. She was wet - that was no surprise - but the heat that was emanating from her slit was intense. She was very obviously highly aroused by what she was saying.
Over the following two weeks our shift patterns were evil. When Miranda was working days I was on nights and vice versa. We hadn't mentioned the discussion but that hadn't stopped me thinking about it. I wanted so much to make my wife happy and found myself wondering if it would actually be so bad. It was just sex after all, wasn't it? I trusted my wife, didn't I? There more I thought about it, the more I slowly came to realise that, to keep Miranda happy, this was something that I must do.
The planning was easy. My wife had already told me the man she liked and doctor Jameson was well known to me. I was starting to feel a little strange. The more I seemed to think and plan, the more excited at the prospect I seemed to become!
Saturday was shift-change day and, after two weeks, Miranda and I were finally scheduled to be off at the same time. Jameson worked at a more senior grade and was therefore outside the usual shift pattern. It would be no trouble to ask him round to our house on the pretext of gaining some advice from him.
My initial plan was just to stay out of the way and hope that, left alone with my wife, Jameson would make a pass and one thing would lead to another. But I was curious and, as so often happens, that curiosity got the better of me!
Jameson had agreed willingly and 7.30pm on Saturday evening found me telling Miranda that a situation had developed at work, which necessitated me driving down to the hospital. She complained at first, moaning that this was the first day that she had got to see me for ages, but didn't try and stop me. She was well aware that, if called out, I had no choice but to go. I felt guilty lying to her, but I was sure our future happiness was at stake. A devious mind was the only thing that was going to help, I thought.
Of course, I went nowhere near the hospital. I parked my car a few streets away and made my way furtively back to the house on foot. The light was fading now as I slipped quietly in through the back door. I could hear my wife in the shower. The den was being redecorated. Miranda hates mess and I knew that this would be the last room she would go in to. I was fairly certain that I would be able to keep an eye on her in relative safety.
Jameson arrived right on time and I watched through the crack in the doorframe as Miranda led him into our home. I could hear her voice clearly as they walked towards the kitchen.
"Sorry, Jack but Carl has been called back to the hospital. You know what it's like!"
I watched Jameson smile and follow Miranda's jean-clad backside into the other room. I was pleased; my position offered a good view of the kitchen.
Both Miranda and Jameson stood drinking coffee for several minutes. They were laughing and joking easily and I was suddenly concerned that he might not be interested. But, looking at the lithe form of my wife as she stood against the counter and laughed at his jokes, I thought: How could he NOT be interested?
And then the inevitable happened. Was it an accidental brush of his fingers against hers? Maybe it was their close proximity? Maybe it was the fact that they were two people mutually attracted that suddenly found themselves alone together? Whatever the reason was, Jameson and Miranda suddenly stopped laughing and looked deep into each others' eyes.
I watched from my secreted position as his head slowly lowered towards hers. Two sets of lips parted simultaneously as they kissed passionately, Miranda's arms reaching up to encircle the senior doctor's neck whilst his slithered around her waist.
Things began to move quickly. Whether it was their undeniable lust for each other or the concern that I may come home early, I don't know, but, as I looked on, doctor Jack Jameson was currently watching as my wife started to take her clothes off. Miranda's arms lifted as she peeled the white t-shirt over her head. I noticed that she was bra-less. The jeans were next, hastily pulled down over slender, tapered legs and then discarded haphazardly on the floor. And as she stood, naked but for her panties and breathing hard, Jameson started undressing as well. Actually undressing is the wrong work. The doctor literally tore his clothes off and in a matter of a few seconds was naked and displaying an impressive erection.
"Oh God, let me touch it!" Miranda breathed as the two tumbled to the tiled floor of the kitchen; a tangle of white and black limbs.
Jameson was happy to oblige and, grinning widely, lay back on the floor with his legs spread. His erection jutted out proudly from his body and I watched my wife lick her lips as she kneeled beside the man and guided the thick appendage towards her open mouth.
As my wife took another man's penis deep into her mouth, I watched fascinated. Apart from the occasional sex film, I had never experienced the joys of voyeurism before. Frankly, I was finding the whole situation extremely stimulating.
