Thanks to my team. Harddaysknight is my mentor and gives me critical review. Hale1, SBrooks103x, Stev2244, Cagivagurl and GeorgeAnderson are my readers and editors. I think you all.
Sometimes you just wanna have fun. There is nothing groundbreaking here, just a story about relationships. I wanted to do something fun for me, and hopefully, fun for readers. If that doesn't sound like your bag, best hit that "back" button now. This won't please the cuckolding fans or the psycho-murderers. Don't waste your time. If you like romance and marital drama, just ordinary people struggling with life, I hope you enjoy. Randi.
"So, what do you think?" my wife asked. "Do you think it might liven things up a bit?"
Patricia is a very lively woman, and the thought of "livening" her up any more seemed like overkill to me. "Um, well, I have to admit I've never thought about it," I said. "Can't we just rent a dirty movie, or something?"
"Think how much more exciting it would be to actually be there," she said. "We would get to see real live people, not some bored actors. These are real people. Jack and Pam have been going for some time. That's how we can get in, as their guests."
This was not a good advertisement; I'd never much cared for Jack and Pam. I suppose she was hot enough, in a slutty kind of way, but she'd always looked at me the way a cat looks at the fish in an aquarium. It was a speculative sort of look, and I'd never much cared to be thought of as someone's tuna salad. Jack was a slimy sort of guy. He was a car salesman and you know all the clichés. He fit them very well, and he had always been overly familiar with Patricia, in my opinion.
"I don't take that as a recommendation," I told her. "Anything they're involved in is bound to be sketchy. They make me shiver and feel like I need a shower every time we're around them," I said. "No, I think I'll pass, Pat."
She huffed and got red in the face. That was a sure sign that she was getting mad. She had quite a temper, as I'd found out through the years. She'd been trying to talk me into going to this private club for a couple of weeks. I guess it was one of those "swingers clubs." I'd never cared for swings; ever since my sister talked me into trying to jump out of one at the park when I was nine, I'd avoided them like the plague. That broken ankle had convinced me.
"Well, I can't go without you." She puffed out her cheeks in a cute little pout. "It's only for couples."
"I wonder how long any of them stay couples?" I mused. "I'm pretty sure the place is a divorce factory. You know Jack and Pam have both been married three times, right? I figure they'll be on to number four before the year is out."
"Yes, but we have a really strong marriage," she protested. "There's no way that just going and checking the place out would cause us any problems."
I agreed that we had a strong marriage, at least that had been my impression. Evidently, I was mistaken. "I really have very little interest in watching random strangers try to hook up," I said. "What would be the point, Pat?"
"Just to spice things up some," she said. "Just think how hot it would make you if some beautiful woman there made a play for you."
"I don't think beautiful women go there," I said. "Skanks and hoes, more likely. I'd be afraid to touch one of them. I'd probably get some incurable disease and my dick would fall off."
Just the thought made me shiver. "What's gotten into you, Patricia? What's all this "spice" bullshit? Chili powder, oregano, garlic-powder, those are spices. Do you have some sort of spice fetish? You want me to dust your clit with red pepper?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "When couples have been married as long as we have, things get a little stale, don't you think?"
"I think you've been reading some stupid article in Cosmo, or something," I said. "Maybe you've been talking to boring people who need to 'spice' things up. Did you read some inane article talking about '10 ways to get your husband to have sex instead of mowing the grass,' or something? No, I don't think things get stale unless you're an idiot or a slut. You seemed pretty fresh last night when you were moaning like you were dying. We make love three or four times a week, sometimes twice when we get going."
She looked embarrassed. "Don't get the wrong idea here, Daniel. I'm not talking about anything being 'wrong' with us. We make love and you do it for me, every time. Don't you want to just have sex sometimes? Just get some hot woman and fuck her brains out?"
"No, I have absolutely no interest in 'some hot woman'," I said. "I have a hot woman, and I fuck her brains out on a regular basis. I happen to be married to her."
She dimpled up. "Thanks, baby, but don't you ever get tired of the same old woman?"
"No, I don't," I assured her. "If I was that sort of man, I wouldn't have married you. I'd just have played the field."
She came and sat on my lap, starting something that ended up taking place in three different rooms of the house. I thought that was the end of it and put it out of my mind.
*****
I guess in many ways, we were a fairly typical couple. We did and enjoyed the things most other people enjoyed. We had become a little too relaxed about the time we turned 40. We both put on twenty pounds, really didn't work to stay romantic all that hard, and a little distance started to develop. Patricia caught it before I was hardly aware.
"Daniel, we need to do something," she said as we were cleaning up after dinner one night.
"Um, okay, what did you have in mind?"
"I want us to join a gym," she said. "I want to get personal trainers, get ourselves back in shape, because I don't feel like you're attracted to me, anymore, and your stamina in the bedroom is not that good."
I was a little shocked, but it seemed like a good idea. "I think you're right," I said. "I'll look into it, or do you want to do it?"
"I'll do it," she said. "I also want some date nights, Daniel. I don't feel like we're as close as we once were, and I don't like it. I feel fat and old, and like you don't love me as much as you used to."
"Patricia, you're as beautiful to me as the day we met," I told her. "I get that we've let things slide a little. I'm sorry I wasn't aware of it. I'll work on everything you mentioned."
We joined a gym and she talked to a dietician. She became a vegan. I was fine with that, for her, but I wasn't doing that. I went on one of those low-carb diets, worked my ass off in the gym, lifted and did cardio four days a week with a trainer and I lost 30 pounds in the next three months, rearranging some of that weight from love handles to upper body muscles, too.
Pat struggled to get the weight off, even though I knew she was working as hard as I was. It was a slower process for her, and she got frustrated. I caught her crying a few times, and we'd talk about how hard she was finding it while I cuddled her.
I signed us up for a dance class, and when we finished learning Eastern Swing, we signed up for more classes. It was fun, and good exercise. A year later, we were both in the best shape of our lives, and we had reconnected in a meaningful way, as husband and wife. Once again, I thought everything was good. That is, until she got on the "going to a swingers club" kick. After that initial conversation, I thought it was over.
I was mistaken. For the next three months, every time Patricia thought I was at a weak moment, she whined about "going to the club," spicing up our sex life and other ridiculous shit until I was heartily sick of it. "Think about it, Daniel," she said. "We joined the gym, and it was great for us, physically. We took the dance classes. That was great for our connection. This could be the same for our sex life."
I suggested that we try going to "non-swinger" clubs, just dance clubs, and we tried that. We went three times to three different clubs. Men asked her to dance, and she seemed to enjoy it. I didn't feel threatened, and I thought it was good. We had great lovemaking sessions on all three of the nights. I mentioned it for a fourth time, and she said, "Daniel, I don't want to go."
"Why not?" I asked. "It's fun. You get asked to dance a lot, and I like watching you, dancing with you."
"Have you looked at the people in those clubs?" she asked. "They're probably at least 15 years younger than we are, they're all 20-somethings and I just feel old and out of place."
It was on a Friday night when I finally decided the "club" thing wasn't going away. She had made a delicious dinner and practically broke my sexual apparatus. We were recovering after a long and strenuous event, and she mentioned it again.
"Daniel, Pam told me they were having an open house for new couples at the club. I think we should go and just check it out."
I sat up in the bed and she fell off me where she had been lying half draped over me. She seemed startled by the sudden change in posture. "Patricia, do you want a divorce?" I asked.
She looked at me as if I had grown a third eye. "Of course not," she said. "Why would you ask such a thing?"
"I don't know how I could make it clearer to you that I'm not interested," I told her. "The only possible reason to go to that place would be to hook up with someone else. Is that what you want?"
She dropped her eyes. "No, at least not right away," she said. "If we get comfortable and like it, I thought we might at least consider it and talk about it."
"I've considered it, and we're talking about it," I told her. "After careful consideration, my answer is that there's no way in hell I'll ever step foot inside that place. I've also decided that this is the last conversation I ever want to have about clubs, spice or any of the rest of that bullshit."
"But..." she began.
"No buts," I said. "I see two options here. One is that you get out of bed, right now, go somewhere else to sleep tonight and I call an attorney in the morning. We'll be divorced as quickly as possible, then you can find all the "spice" you want, any time you want it."
She looked shocked. "No, Daniel, that's not what I want..."
"Okay," I said. "The other option is seeing a psychologist and a marriage counselor. I'll set that up tomorrow."
"Why do you want to see a psychologist?" she asked.
"I must be nuts," I told her. "Actually, the psychologist is for you. The marriage counselor is for us. The psychologist will help you figure out why you're trying to destroy our marriage; the counselor will try to help us see if our marriage can survive."
"There's nothing wrong with me," she practically yelled. "You are so stubborn and narrow-minded. You're the one with the problem. If you would get over your possessiveness, realize this could be so good for us, there wouldn't be a problem. Are you really that insecure?"
I rolled my eyes. "Why is it, Patricia, that when a man says he wants exactly what his wife promised him the day he got married, some slut is always talking about his "possessiveness," and him being 'insecure?'"
