Of the many, and profound changes my wife's gone though in her life, one thing remained constant: when she gets high, watch out.
She's never been what I'd call a pothead, but on occasion, she'll unwind with a joint, or bowl, or whatever, and that's almost invariably brings out the freak in her.
Examples? Well, in college – before I met her – she once did a few bong hits and then let four men use her for, she says, hours on end. That's the story she told me, anyway ... sometimes the number of men varies from four to six ... sometimes I think she made a good chunk of it up just to get me crazy before sex.
That said, I've been around her plenty when she was stoned and, again, she's a completely different animal ... it just gets her totally loose.
Not that she's very uptight in the first place ... but she once was much more restrained, sexually.
When I first met her, she was a senior in college. I was a TA in the Math Department. She wasn't what I typically went after – tall, thin-lipped, red hair that tended toward orange when she'd been out in the sun too long, fair skin with a hint of freckles, and a lean mass of muscle. Not an ounce of fat on her.
And me a tit man.
She was there on a track scholarship, and was a respectable athlete ... receiving mentions come All-American time once or twice, and even getting a nice write-up in her local paper.
Throughout that time, I can remember her almost constantly running, her legs muscled and smooth, her ass high and defined, her abs rock-hard and glistening when she ran with her midriff exposed, hair back in a ponytail and her already-tiny breasts tightly confined within a sports bra.
Truly a sight to behold.
I rooted for her in the stands that last year ... although I drew the line at her efforts to get me out on the track. Some things a math geek simply can't do: long-distance running is one of them.
Our courtship was a long series of laughs. The sex life was truly amazing, if relatively free of kink.
We married three years later. By then, I was a professor. She was a triathlete. A really good one.
And, with the occasional dalliance here and there, we let nine years blow past.
Her life – our lives, really – changed for good when she blew out her knee during the last mile of a triathlon in Texas. It was a near-total devastation, tears of the MCL, ACL and PCL.
The doctor assured her she'd walk and even jog again ... but her career as a nationally-ranked triathlete, as a runner, was over.
She was 33 years old.
That's when things got weird.
At first, I attributed the change in her mood to some form of depression. She was laid up in bed or on the couch, after all, and for the first time since I'd known her forced to remain still.
If it were a form of depression, it was most assuredly one I could learn to enjoy. Her sex drive – always a tad above average – increased exponentially. She wanted sex almost daily, every time I returned from class or dropped in during a meal break, she'd pull her robe open, roll over on her back and present me with those splendidly taught thighs, spread wide. Even the bandages on her knee didn't stop me from indulging almost every time the offer was made.
Then I would come home and catch her masturbating ... certainly not a first in our relationship but nearly every single time I came home, she'd have her fingers on her chest, her belly, her cunt, rubbing one out to whatever was on the TV screen. (Softcore porn on Cinemax was a favorite, but I even caught her diddling herself to a video on VH1.)
She laughed off my concerns. "If you were around more, maybe I wouldn't have to resort to such drastic measures." Then she'd force me to take off my pants and ... well ... more sex.
I was loving life, but my work was suffering. I was way behind in my grading, a project I was collaborating on was stuck in neutral (my partner not at all too understanding) and, frankly, I wasn't a kid anymore. I was sore ... both in muscles and in skin rubbed raw.
I figured it would all end, anyway, as soon as she was ambulatory again. She'd go back to work, maybe swim a few laps when she was able, and I'd have my same old Bonnie back. (With, maybe, "new Bonnie" visiting on the weekends and on extended vacations.)
But when she was finally allowed to use crutches ... and then, later, when she graduated to a cane, her appetites even increased. The Cinemax shows were recorded on tape now, without me even in on it. This culminated in the day I went to pop a DVD into the player and found a most hardcore compilation porno already in the slot.
It wasn't one of mine. I'd never even heard of the people in it.
"Oh, I stopped by the video store on Wednesday," she explained, blushing a little. When I didn't say anything, she giggled and leaned in close, "Well, what was I supposed to do? You were at that stupid conference thing Wednesday night!" She kissed me, then hobbled off to meet some friends from work for drinks. "You should watch scene eight. Awesome orgy ... it'll get you ready for when I get home."
The orgy scene was, indeed, awesome. Turns out she has a great eye for porn ... which is saying something because in my entire life with her, she only watched porns I'd picked out and brought home. Hell, I'd even felt guilty a time or two for making her sacrifice like that.
And now, I thought idly – watching a volumptuous Latina jerk on a cock in each hand while she sucked off a third – drinking a beer and waiting for my suddenly nympho wife to come home, she was stopping by porn shops?
Something was seriously ... well, not wrong ... but different.
I liked it, but it scared the hell out of me.
So yes, by the time she made it home – drunk and horny to the point that she pulled off her top even before the front door closed behind her (her pal's headlights still illuminating the darkness behind her) I was plenty ready to fuck her ... despite the pile of grading still awaiting me and my partner's angry emails seething on the server.
She made me cum once, then she teased me mercilessly (I have a "thing" for her playing with herself) until I was hard again. By the time I'd squeezed out another orgasm (she'd had several), I nearly collapsed on the bed next to her ... the sheets damp with sweat.
"I think I'm getting a lot more flexibility back," she noted, straightening her knee out experimentally.
I spent about ten seconds wondering if I were feeling the initial signs of a heart attack, then chilled out for a few moments.
She, meanwhile, stood up and gathered our clothes, dropping them into the hamper and then jumping back into bed next to me. I was going to chastise her to watch her knee, but she was grinning and it just felt like a nice moment.
Then I said it.
"I think you're killing me," I said, still somewhat breathless. "Y'know, if you want to get another guy on the side to take the edge off this, I'd totally understand."
She laughed, then, and kissed me on the cheek.
I laughed a little, too, then passed the fuck out until the alarm went off, early the next morning.
The second I got home that Friday, I knew I was in trouble. A good kind of trouble, but ... still ...
The house reeked of pot smoke. And music was playing. REM. Old stuff.
I found her in the living room, dancing ... dirty dancing, frankly. In fact, the moves were rough approximations of what you'd see on a stage with a pole on it.
I ahemed.
Her eyes opened into those wonderful, slightly-pink, oh-god-I'm-so-stoned slits, and she saw me and smiled.
Seductively, she danced over to me ... wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me ... her mouth hot and moist against my lips.
I hmmmed.
She broke off, then, and went back to dancing ... less Flashdancy now, though, more like herself.
"Did you have a good day?"
"Yes and no. Barry's pissed at me."
"How come?"
"I'm a little ... eh, never mind. Just kiss me."
"In a second." She was lighting another joint. "Want some?"
"You know they're randomly testing these days. I shouldn't even be in the room with you."
"Testing college professors for drugs. That's just bullshit, man," she said, laughing even as she pulled in smoke.
"I will have some wine, though."
Lips sealed tight, she gestured to the glasses. I filled it with a red. Bonnie's the wine queen. I just drink what she opens.
"Oh, man, this feels good," she said ... perhaps to no one in particular.
I could only laugh. Then I sat on the couch, drinking my wine.
About five minutes passed while she smoked. I drank. We listened to Michael Snipe and said nothing.
Then she appeared next to me, her lithe body wrapping around me like a tailored suit. One of the benefits of a long marriage is familiarity like this.
She kissed me again. I could taste the pot on her, but didn't mind too much.
Then she hugged me again and laid her head on my thigh.
