"Don't you agree, honey?" my wife asked as she squeezed my hand, trying to snap me out of my daze and back into the conversation.
"Yes, of course I do," I said, smiling, hoping to convince the rest of the group that I had been paying attention. The look on Sarah's face suggested they were already on to me.
Generally, I was good in these situations. I have the social graces, vocabulary and wit to thrive at my wife's work functions, even with her work involving the faculty and staff of a prestigious university. The professors with whom we needed to socialize at these events were the definition of snobbish, the height of hoity-toity. Passing the conversation between each other, attempting to outdo the previous speaker with some obscure, polysyllabic word embedded seamlessly in the conversation, they turned their noses up as they sipped their martinis.
This might put off some people, but Sarah and I had met at a different prestigious conservatory, and by now we were accustomed to it. We knew that these professors had never amounted to much more than their current profession, and the language they used around each other was simply a way of stroking each other's egos.
So as they passed the verbal hot potato, I drifted off thinking about the subtle track of cleavage emerging from the neckline of my wife's dress. She had an amazing set of tits, 36Ds, as soft and plump as you would ever find. They were the reason I was first interested in her, and they remain the part of her body that stimulates me the most.
That, though, is not particularly fair, as Sarah suffers from one of the most sadistic conditions currently on record: vulvar vestibulitis.
I know it is insensitive to compare such extreme maladies, but allow me to present my case that V.V. is the worst medical condition that exists. With heart attacks, there are treatments. With AIDS, there are support groups. With cancer, people walk miles through city centers to raise awareness and funds support victims, survivors and their families.
V.V., though, is something that the patient hides from society. They need to cope with it, sharing it with, at most, their significant other, and even then only out of necessity. Because how do you explain to your co-workers that you have a condition where they glands in your vulva are so sensitive, they automatically clamp shut when even slightly stimulated? How do you tell your parents that, because of that condition, your literally untouched hymen has grown to the thickness of a diver's wetsuit, and even if your husband could penetrate you, it would be nearly impossible for him to pierce that overgrown patch of skin? How could you ever explain to anyone that you have been married for over five years but have yet to consummate your marriage?
You don't. You internalize it, you live with it, and you share it with nobody. Her doctor told her that surgery could remove oversensitive glands, and they could cut away her hymen, but the resulting scar tissue would prevent her from ever enjoying vaginal penetration. We decided to leave that option as plan B, and hope that we could find a more natural solution before we aged beyond recommended child bearing years.
I've replayed all of that in my head countless times, and I found myself doing it again amongst these collegiate bigwigs, when I noticed some young hot shot had joined the circle. He was much younger, so much so that I questioned the legality of his bourbon on the rocks. He was also the type of handsome that even most hetero guys would admit to recognizing, and he appeared to be of Indian or Pakistani heritage.
I couldn't help but notice that he was avoiding the conversation for the most part, and instead trained his attention on my wife and I. He had this unsettling smile, as if he knew a secret but wouldn't divulge it in present company. I knew instantly that I didn't like him. But that didn't stop him from following me when I went to the bar to refresh my Scotch.
"Navdeep," he said, offering his hand.
I shook it and introduced myself.
"What do you do here?" I asked.
"I'm a student in the medical school, here from Bombay."
"That's great, welcome to America," I said, admittedly half-heartedly.
"Thank you, but I've been here for over a year at this point."
"What field are you studying?" I asked, feigning interest.
"Holistic healing. Alternative and natural treatments. Things like that."
And suddenly I had an interest in him.
"Really?" I asked, trying to think of a way to pose my problem to him without outing my wife.
"Yes, I was telling your wife about it at a party last month."
"That's great," I said, not understanding his point. He grabbed my forearm and stepped in closer.
"I know," he whispered.
"You know what?" He couldn't mean THAT. Sarah would never tell some random medical student about our deeply personal secret. Would she?
"It's OK. It is not as uncommon where I am from as it is here. I think I can offer a solution for you."
No. "A solution to what?"
He paused and looked me in the eyes. "You know what. I won't elaborate in present company, but come to me if you finally want to fuck your wife." His tone was hushed, but his words crushed me.
"I don't know what you're talking about, but mind your own business or I'll report this indiscretion to the dean."
To that, he just smiled. "Your wife loves you very much. I know you know that. She got a little tipsy at the party last month and spilled some information that she said she hasn't told anyone. Something about how I seemed trustworthy and kind, and that given my course of study I might be able to help. And she's right. I am trustworthy. Haven't told a soul. I just thought you might want to put a face to the name you should be thanking when I come up with the cure."
My face must have been beet red, belying the truth of the matter, but I feigned ignorance. "Buddy, I'm not sure what the fuck you're talking about, but this conversation is over. I'm not interested in your voodoo."
He stood there with that same unnerving smile as I walked back to Sarah. I took her home immediately, not wanting to be around that creep anymore, and we had a huge fight that night.
"Baby, I've been letting our marital secret eat me alive for five years, and you spill the beans to some random kid? What the fuck were you thinking?"
"I'm sorry, babe! I was drunk, and I'm desperate for a cure. I don't want to feel like a broken, incomplete woman anymore." She was bawling, and I felt terrible about exploding on her.
I held her in my arms. "You know he's working on a cure for you, right? He told me about it at the party tonight. Do you know how awkward that was for me? I felt like a cuckold, at least in the proverbial sense. This random guy is going to enable us to fuck, like he's giving us permission? I don't want that looming over our first time!"
"Me neither, love. I'm sorry. It was an accident. I'll swear him to secrecy and tell him we're not interested in his cure, whatever it is."
This argument, as with all others, ended without makeup sex. Instead, I waited for her to go to bed, fervently masturbated on the couch, then fell asleep there for the night.
.....
The next morning, when she came downstairs, Sarah brought it up again.
"You know, honey, I'm wondering if maybe we should cut our noses off to spite our faces."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm saying that, just because you and Navdeep got off to a bad start, if he were able to come up with a cure, wouldn't you want it? If someone you hated enabled us to have pleasurable sex, would you really not fuck me over it?"
She had a point.
"What does he want from us in return, Sarah?"
"I don't think he wants anything, at least h hasn't made any demands yet."
"Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt to see what he expects as payment. You're right, if he can solve our problem, it would be worth your betraying our secret."
.....
I left it alone after that, and after several weeks without Sarah bringing it up, I assumed it had all just blown over. I didn't ask for any updates because I loathed the thought of Navdeep being our sexual savior. I was sure, given his bravado, that had he developed a solution to our problem, he would have brought it directly to Sarah, and not waited for her to ask about it.
Randomly, about a month later, I decided to surprise Sarah at her office. It had been a quiet, somewhat awkward few weeks since our argument, and I was hoping
that a little spontaneity would reignite our celibate romance. I stopped by her favorite restaurant, ordered her favorite meal, and made my way to campus.
Her office was behind locked doors, and I was surprised to find the main entrance locked. It was typically locked after Sarah left, but she was usually still here at this time. Peeking through the glass panel running alongside the door, I saw that her office light was still on.
'No problem,' I though. She had made a copy of her key which I kept on my keychain, and entering through a locked doorway would only amplify the surprise. But as soon as I opened the door, I learned that I was the one in for a surprise.
Navdeep's Indian accent hit me right between the ears. I was irate. Of course that asshole was here now, interfering with my romantic plans. Knowing I didn't want to talk to him, I hung back in the reception area and waited for him to leave.
Alas, he wasn't leaving anytime soon. Their conversation sounded a little heated, and I decided to creep closer to the open door to see if I could hear better. It was a decision I would quickly come to regret.
The first complete sentence I was able to hear clearly came from Sarah.
"No, Navvy...I'm not going to give you a blow job now." It was spoken in a quiet, submissive tone, but it completely blew me away. My heart skipped a beat, and in that moment I considered both that my wife was discussing giving a blow job to another man, and that she used the word "now." As if to say, "I'll give you a blow job later" or "I just gave you a blow job yesterday." The numerous interpretations swirled through my mind, and I braced myself against the wall so I wouldn't collapse.
Navdeep pushed the conversation forward, and I held back to see what I could learn from it.
"I'm afraid it has to be here and now, Sarah. The door is locked. We're all alone. And you owe me."
Sarah insisted. "Navvy," (I hated that she was using a pet name for him), "I'm appreciative for what you've done for me and my husband, but I have to know that it works before I pay you. For all I know, this could just be a tub of vaseline and you're playing me for a fool."
"Sarah, I have supplied you with the solution to your celibate marriage. I have done for you what professionals could not. What I just placed in your hands might as well cost ten thousand dollars. A hundred thousand! But all I asked for was some head, and you're going to pay me. A deal's a deal. You can test it right now, feel free. But I promise you it works."
I stood on the other side of the door frame, at once ready to barge in and beat his brains in, but also wanting to wait and see how Sarah would reply.
"Navvy, I didn't know you'd be dropping by right now. I have company coming over tonight. I have to get home." She was lying, and her shaky tone belied that fact.
"On a Wednesday? Come on, Sarah. Stop stalling. If you like, I'll wait in the corner while you try it out."
