Jen was preparing for a rendezvous with a lover. Not that she had told me that directly when announcing she would be away for the upcoming holiday weekend. But when I asked for sex to tide me over until her return, she complied but told me to wear a condom, which was a sure sign.
It fit in with a conversation we had in the early days of our "open marriage."
Jen had asked me to wear a rubber then too, candidly telling me she had accepted an invitation to a beach house from a guy she had met on a business trip, and had a few drinks and laughs with. "A douche is never a hundred per cent effective, and if he goes down on me, which I certainly expect and look forward to, I don't want to have an off-taste," she had explained. "First impressions are always important."
"Maybe he would excuse an off-taste if he knew you're married to a guy who does his best to satisfy his wife," I had commented, with some irony intended because lately she had been leaving her wedding ring in the bedroom bureau.
"You know our rendezvous rules," she had said. "We disclose a minimum of our personal situation, and ask little about the people we hook up with. If he asks me if I'm in a relationship, I won't hide it, and if he tells me his status, I'll listen politely, but too much information is a distraction. It adds unnecessary background, and takes away from the excitement of exploring a new partner." She paused before adding, "And it's best for both of us not to describe too much of what happened when we get home. It can be a downer for your spouse and provoke a bad reaction. 'Don't ask, don't tell' is the best policy."
I reflected that she was probably right about the last part, at least. If Jen was to give details about how well she enjoyed a guy's big cock or clever tongue, how many times he got her off in exotic positions and then was up and ready for more in a short while, I might feel even more anxious and despondent than I already did. It was bad enough knowing I was not good enough to keep her from fucking around on me. I wondered if after being satisfied, she told her lovers how well they did in comparison to her poor husband, who was good for earning a living and paying the bills, but for little else. It occurred to me that I fit the definition of a cuckold.
"I'm sure you don't go into details about me with the ladies you meet, and they don't tell you a lot about their lives either," Jen added.
She was only part right about that. When Jen stepped out on me, I had a tendency to cry on the shoulders of ladies I sought to console me. Probably due to that, I seemed to attract people that drenched my shoulder as well. It did not seem to adversely affect the sex. If anything, wearing hearts on sleeves was often a turn on. Raw emotion from feeling unappreciated and victimized often drew substitute partners in closer and faster, stimulating raw emotion which helped you fuck your brains out.
Having a good fuck was a way to flip the bird at the significant other who was wronging you, and also helped insure you were wanted and appreciated by whoever showed up to rescue you from the doldrums, in case you needed to hook up with them the next time your wife went out exploring.
But to each their own style. There were many ways to skin a cat, as my dad used to say.
* * *
Coming back to the present, I appraised Jen as she gave herself final inspection in the full length mirror. She looked great in a tight, short blue skirt and white blouse that showed off all her charms. We went downstairs and had a farewell kiss at the door. I asked what she could tell me about her plans and ETA without violating our "don't ask, don't tell" agreement.
"I plan on getting back either very late Monday or early Tuesday, in time to clean up and change before going into work. I've left the usual information for you in case I don't show up, or if you get unquenchable curiosity or concern, and just have to know a little more," she said, with a bright smile, "although you shouldn't peek."
She was referring to an envelope that would be in the upper left bureau drawer right beneath her ring. It would have a slip of paper with the guy's name, address and phone number; his work place if she knew it; the address of the premises where she was meeting him and any other information relevant to a missing person search by police or family. I promised that I would not look at it without need.
I had not peeked yet. She was probably right. Ignorance is not bliss, but it may be preferable to unpleasant knowledge. Anyway, there was a growing collection of unopened envelopes in the drawer below the wedding ring.
"How about you?" she asked. "Are you going to play hurt husband, and mope around all weekend when you're not drowning your sorrow in the bars or furiously whacking golf balls with your driver? Or do you have plans of your own for enjoyable recreation with someone you know or are trying to get to know?"
"I may make a couple calls," I told her. "If I do, I'll leave you the same vital information in the same place."
"Okay, good. Well, wish me a good time, and take care of yourself. And if you get a chance, the pool really needs some cleaning." She bounded out the door toward her car, got in and waved cheerfully as she started down the driveway.
"You be careful too," I called out, agitated as always that my wife was fucking around on me and I might lose her to another man, or maybe lose her permanently because her casual lover turned out to be a demented serial killer. I was also irritated that she was directing me to a "honey do" chore while she was off to engage in carnal delights with someone else.
Ignoring the pool, I had my breakfast, which she had been too revved up to fix for us. I did think about going to the driving range to take out my frustration by abusing some poor golf balls, but instead decided on the goose-gander sauce alternative. I called Donna, a longtime friend and part time lover who was adept at consoling me.
