Wife Wants Experiences

I hadn't planned to write this episode, but there were so many questions on how Scott and Jean went from part 3 to part 4, that this bridge seemed necessary. So, Part 3b:

The bitch was fighting the divorce. She and her bastard lawyer were throwing up every roadblock they could find. Why? First, I'm not enough for her, then she loves me and can't do without me. Make up your mind, bitch.

Funny. Three months ago, I couldn't imagine calling Jean a bitch. Or anything derogatory. She was perfect. She was my everything. My life. Now when I think of her, I get so mad and hurt that she's just "THAT BITCH".

I don't know what the worst part of the divorce procedure is. Going in knowing the best you can expect is to be royally screwed could be it, but having to sit in meetings with that bitch and her lawyer (is she screwing him? He kind of smirks at me all the time, but that could be just the dirt-bag lawyer smirk) is way up there on the list. Her crying and moaning, "But I love you! I don't want a divorce!" And I have to sit there quietly, not responding "Yeah, you just want me to pay the bills while you fuck every guy you see!". My lawyer says that it wouldn't be helpful to say that. So, I grit my teeth and check out my fingernails for dirt.

But today, I'm sure the worst is having to listen to the sanctimonious whore of a judge pontificating on how every effort should be made to save a marriage, especially one like ours where there was so much love. LOVE? Yeah, on her side, but with whom? And how many? Yeah, lots of love.

How the fuck did I get so lucky as to have a female judge? You know, before all this everyone thought I was a sweet guy. Now all they can talk about is how sour I've gotten. What the hell do they expect? Me doing cartwheels and jumping for joy at my wife's infidelity?

The judge finally finishes. "I'm going to agree with the respondent's request for counselling. I believe one to three individual sessions and twelve joint sessions would be in order, at the discretion of the therapist. The Petitioner may choose the therapist. If there is any question of acceptability by the respondent, please refer it back to me.

"We'll meet again in 14 weeks or following the report of the therapist." The fat cow hefted herself out of her seat and departed the court room.

Twelve fucking weeks? Up to fifteen meetings? At my expense, I suppose. "This is crap," I complained to my lawyer as we walked out. "I don't need any counselling sessions. There's absolutely nothing to save."

"Not your choice," was all the shyster would say, except to recommend William O'Connor for the therapist. I didn't care. I told him to set it up. Wasn't till much later that I found out he recommended "Liam" O'Connor not because he was the best, but because they were cousins. I also suspect he was getting a kickback.

I had the first meeting, solo, with William "call me Liam" O'Connor. I think I made it pretty clear that there was no hope of reconciliation. All trust, love and loyalty had been forfeited by that bitch. Whenever I thought of her or saw her, pictures appeared in my head of her fucking gangs of men. If I was into porn, I could have saved a bundle, just watching the images in my head. Instead, it made me sick. Constantly.

I just wanted that bitch out of my life and out of my mind. I explained that to "Liam", along with everything that had happened since Jean announced that she wanted more experiences. More men, she meant.

His response was, "That type of language isn't helpful."

That made me pause. What type of language had I used that wasn't helpful? It took a minute to realize he was objecting to my calling Jean, "That Bitch". I was amazed that that was his takeaway from my account of my life falling apart. I thought it was going to be a long twelve weeks.

"I want THAT BITCH" out of my life!" I repeated it at the end of the session.

O'Connor looked at me disapprovingly as I left.

Our next session was a joint session. I arrived last, purposely, and sat as far removed as I could from Jean. She immediately teared up and said, "Please, Scottie, Please." I did my best to ignore her. I was here by court order and that was going to be it. If I had to sit through these meetings to get my divorce, then I'd just grin and bear it.

"Ahem," began the therapist. "I've met with both of you, and my impression is that you Scott, feel blindsided and betrayed by Jean, that her desire for more experiences is at odds with her professed love for you."

I patiently waited for him to continue. As the silence grew and he continued to stare at me, I realized a response was called for. "No shit," I offered.

Liam rolled his eyes and reproved me. "Scott, I've told you that that type of language isn't constructive. Please show Jean and me the common curtesy and respect due by avoiding profanity."

"So her becoming the town pump is fine but my swearing is..."

"No, no, no!" O'Connor stopped my tirade. "Please don't make me report to the court that you're being uncooperative."

"God forbid!" I relied, laden with false concern. "We wouldn't want the judge to think I was uncooperative in this gigantic waste of time."

The therapist tilted his head to the side, quietly looking at me. I stared back with enough self-awareness to recognize that I was sulking, which wasn't helping move this giant turd along. I shrugged, mumbled an apology, and asked him to continue. He paused for another minute, just for us to recognize his dominance and control of the situation.

"Okay," he began again. "I think after talking with Jean yesterday, it would be most productive to have her explain how we came to be here; what motivated her and what empowered her actions. Jean?"

We both turned to regard my soon-to-be-ex-wife. She stared at her hands for a moment, and then began:

"Scott, I love you. You're more than enough for me; you're all I ever wanted. I didn't want other men, I thought I needed them."

I scoffed at that, and a "Bullshit!" slipped out of my lips before I could suppress it.

"Scott, please let Jean explain this to you, without interruption. Please recognize that this is hard for her." Liam recited that line as if he had prepared it in advance.

"Fine," I harrumphed. Just get through it, I thought to myself.

Jean continued, "Scott, I could see every time we made love how disappointed you were when I became too sensitive to touch. How you wanted more, you wanted to make love again, and probably again, but half the time I couldn't even let you penetrate me once you gave licked me to orgasm.

"I know you didn't know how frustrating it was to me, as well. Sometimes I would let you enter me when it was actually painful to me, because I wanted so badly to please you. It was always on my mind, and when Monica..."

"Fuck! Monica!" I blurted that involuntarily, just at the mention of that whore's name. Liam admonished me again. I waved my hand for Jean to continue, vowing to myself to remain silent going forward.

"When Monica told me that she could 'fix' what was wrong with me, that we could have a normal and fulfilling sex life, I, well, I went along with it for you."

"BULLSHIT!" Sue me. So, I can't keep quiet. Even the therapist seemed to understand. At least this time he didn't say a word.

Jean wiped her eyes. "Scott, I know it sounds like that. But do you know, except for the small orgasms you gave me with your tongue, I've never climaxed with you? Not even a small orgasm from intercourse. I tried hard to make sure you were satisfied, but I knew that unless I could get past my sensitivity issues, you'd never get the satisfaction you deserved. I was working with Monica. She promised that she could show me how to be multi-orgasmic, how not to be so sensitive after my orgasms. She said that once I learned, we could have sex for hours. Scottie, I want to have sex with you for hours! I want you to take me however, whenever you want, however many times you want. That's all, my love."

Jean dissolved into a wail of tears, sobbing almost endlessly.

It was too much. "You can't have an orgasm with me? That's the story now? So, you fuck other guys and get off with them? That's it?" I growled through gritted teeth.

Her face flew up, her eyes widening in panic. "Scottie, I never slept with anyone else." A wave of guilt passed over her face. She almost whispered, "Except Monica." She sat up and looked at me, sincerity in her eyes. "I did have sex with Monica. At the end she was able to give me two orgasms each time. She promised that once we got to three, I would be free. I would be normal.

"And it was working! I was able to have two climaxes with you! I actually enjoyed an orgasm during intercourse. I was so happy, so in love with you. I knew if I could have that third..., well, I hoped we could be happy, as happy as you deserve.

"But I've never sleep with another man. I've never even touched another man, knowingly. Monica had Buckie come in once, but I fled. I left. I couldn't do that to you. I know it was probably wrong with Monica, as well, but I had convinced myself that it was just oral sex, not real sex, and I was doing it for you. I'm not attracted to women. I didn't want her, or anyone else. I enjoyed the orgasms, but I think that was because I wanted it so much for you. I love you! I love you..." Jean broke down again in a full gnashing of teeth and wailing uncontrollably.

We sat and watched her cry for a few moments. I couldn't take it. "I think our time is up for today," I said, then got up and walked out of the room.

I was in a daze. First, apparently, I wasn't enough for Jean. She'd never had an orgasm through intercourse with me? I thought she had. But I'd also thought that her orgasm face was very much like a pain face. As I thought about that, I think I started to believe her.

And she'd never slept with anyone else? Only Monica? Did I believe that? And why did I feel so much relief at that? Did it bother me that she had oral sex with Monica? Images again leapt into my brain. Strangely, they didn't sicken me. In truth, they thickened me. I didn't like Monica, but she did have a sexy body. And I hadn't had sex in a while.

What would I do? What should I do?

A part of me said that I still loved Jean. I missed her and our life together. Other than my anger, need for revenge and my campaign to "burn the bitch", I had nothing left in my life.

My second solo meeting with "just call me Liam" went badly. While telling him about the pictures running in my brain, which kept me awake at night and made me sick, I couldn't control my mouth, and swore like a sailor. That seemed to be what Liam wanted to focus on. Almost the entire hour was spent on his advice to me on self-control. I left thinking that the fact I hadn't beat him to a pulp spoke volumes about my self-control.

At our second joint session, I sat through more tears and professions of love from Jean. I had nothing to say back. I couldn't let go of the images of her, her orgasming uncontrollably for other men. I felt like my heart had a hard shell around it. I didn't know what was right or what was wrong.

But then Liam said that he wanted us to go on a date before our next sessions, just Jean and me, to "recapture the intimacy" we had lost. "Bullshit!"

They both looked at me. I think I realized that this was something that Liam and Jean had set up at their solo meeting. I stood up, shaking my head.

"Look, the court ordered me to come to these sessions. The judge didn't say anything about dates or meetings outside your office." I glared at Jean. "I think our time is up."

She was calling out my name, pleading as I walked away.

My lawyer called me the next day to inform me that the judge was unhappy with my lack of cooperation. I should try to repair that in my next meeting with Liam.

I decided I should talk with my father. I hadn't seen him or talked to him or my mom since learning that he and she had opened up their marriage at different times. I wasn't sure how I could look him in the eye, knowing that he was a cheater and a cuckold. However, I needed someone to talk to about my marriage and he had always been that person. I called him and arranged to meet for drinks.

My father was sitting at a table in the bar when I arrived. Our eyes met for only a moment, and then his dropped down to regard the ice in his drink. "Your mother told me that you know our story," he said.

I wasn't sure what to say. "Dad, I don't understand. You cheated on mom, and she slept around on you? And that's okay with you both? That's not what you taught Sheila and I."

He looked me in the eye then. "Son, we taught you the ideal. That's what you do for your kids. You teach them the way it should be, but sometimes seldom is in real life. People handle marriage in different ways. Your mother and I love each other, but we were separated a lot, while I was in the military. Sometimes you feel like life is passing you by." He took a sip of whiskey. 'And sometimes you're just goddamn horny." He looked at me ruefully.

"But it doesn't bother you that Mom's slept with other people? How do you trust her?" I couldn't understand that at all.

"Had your mom gone around behind my back, it'd have been one thing. But she didn't. She was up front with it all. And I opened up everything by cheating on her first, while I was in Japan. I felt so guilty, I told her about it as soon as I got home. I thought I'd lose her forever, but she forgave me." He looked at me intently. "Then it evolved into what we had. We were together when we were together, and we made the best of it when we weren't. But we were always honest with one another.

"And that worked for us. Your mother is my life, Scott."

I thought about that. I thought about Jean. She had always been my life. I'd been lost without her, except for the anger and malice that sustained me. I looked back at my dad. I was too choked up to talk.

He understood. "You don't know what to do about Jean, do you? How you can trust her, how you can get back to where you were?"

I nodded, still unable to articulate without breaking down.

"There's one question that always comes up, that some people forget to ask themselves before they destroy their lives." He took another drink and sat gazing, deep in thought.

I watched him for a minute, but he just sat there. I finally shrugged and raised my hands in frustration, gesturing for him to finish. He looked at me, seemingly puzzled by my motion.

"Oh," he said. "The question. Is your life better with or without her?" He finished his drink and got up. "You made me realize that I need your mother. Good luck, Scott."

As he turned to leave, he stopped and looked back at me. "Scott, you've been thinking about nothing but what Jean did wrong. Perhaps you should give some thought to the things that she did right, to the good times. Nobody's perfect, but you used to think Jean was." He smiled and left.

I ordered another drink and sat thinking about what my dad had said. I ordered another drink and thought about Jean. The Jean that I loved and adored. Another drink that I could cry into, still thinking about the Jean from the images in my brain, of her, Buckie and that score of men I kept imaging. A last drink just to think about the film in my brain featuring Jean and Monica.

The bartender and the bouncer had to peel me out of my seat and into a taxi. The bouncer fished out my wallet and gave the cabbie my address. That's how I ended up back in my house. Jean's house.

I woke up in the morning not all there. The world seemed a little woozy, a little remote to me. But in my arms was my Jean and it felt right. Without thinking, I hugged her tightly and whispered into her hair: "I love you."

When I woke up, I was alone. I missed Jean. Having her in my arms made me realize how much I'd missed her, how much I needed her. If only I had talked to her, had found out what she'd been thinking when she upset my world. Or if only she had talked to me.

But even then, would I have really listened? I still think she was wrong. She should have been honest with me, not Monica. (Brain flashes of Monica and Jean, naked, in bed. In this bed.) No, she was wrong. She should have talked to me, we could have seen a real therapist (Not fucking Liam), a sex therapist and addressed her problems, had I known about them, not asking to have "new experiences" (Fucking brain flash of Jean being gangbanged, in this bed).

I ran to the bathroom and vomited.

After I had rinsed out my mouth, showered and dressed, I found Jean in the kitchen making breakfast. She gave me a shy, tentative smile, looking like a fearful deer ready to leap away into the forest at the first hint of danger. I smiled back, barely able to suppress the movies from playing in my head.

"I made breakfast," she said, pointing towards the stove.

I smiled and sat at the table. In silence, she served up a plate of ham and eggs, and set it before me. "Toast is on the table," she said.

We sat and ate breakfast, in a surprisingly comfortable silence. It felt good.

As I finished, I ventured an olive branch. "I think we should, maybe, try that date that Liam suggested."

Jean looked up with hope and an anxious joy in her eyes, but simply and quietly said, "Okay."

My "How about tonight?" was greeted with a rapid set of head nods. "We could go to Dominick's. You always loved their White clams and linguini."

We arranged a time for me to pick her up and she promised to make the reservations. As I rose to leave, she jumped up. I think she hoped for a kiss or an embrace, but without thinking I instinctively moved back. I guess I wasn't quite ready for that. She seemed diminished as she walked me to the door.

As I turned to leave, I put my hand on her shoulder and said, "I'll see you tonight."

She smiled and brightened at my touch. "Tonight!' she responded.

I drove home, thinking about what my dad had said and about how good it had felt to have Jean in my arms. The movies in my head quieted as I began to believe that she hadn't slept with another man or men. No gangbangs, none of the DP's I'd been envisioning.

But I still couldn't accept that she had even asked or had wanted to sleep with someone else.

I did let the film of her, and Monica play out in my head. I had to adjust myself before I was able to get out of the car.

That night, dinner at Dominick's was pleasant. We talked about work, friends, and family while we ate. It felt so familiar and comfortable to be with Jean. We opted for some coffee and liqueurs rather than dessert. Over coffee, we finally began to address our problems. And this time, I listened. I wanted to listen, and I wanted to believe. I was already beginning to remember that my life was better with Jean.

"I never wanted another man," Jean began, her eyes looking at me like a puppy waiting to be whipped. "Monica insisted that it was what was necessary for me to fully open."

Tears started to pool in Jean's eyes. "Scottie, you don't know how hard it is for me to know that you're still erect after I've orgasmed and am too sensitive to be touched. I try with blowjobs to satisfy you, but I know you're frustrated and that you want intercourse. I try to suffer through it when I can, but it's always painful. Yet it hurts so much to know that I'm not satisfying you, that you are unfulfilled and putting up with it just for love of me.

"Sometimes, I'm afraid that you'll find someone else and leave me. I know that there are other women out there who would be happy to satisfy you in ways that I'm unable to. Some nights when I've had to turn you away, I'd cry through the night, discouraged by my limitations and fearful of our life together.

"When Monica promised to 'fix' me, I was stupid and naïve, but so desperate, so ready to invest in anything that would help me please you. But when she tried to bring Buckie in, I couldn't do that to you. I stopped it right away and left. But Monica insisted that I was almost there, almost ready for that third orgasm that would set me free, but that it might take multiple partners, so I stupidly listened and tried to ask you for permission. I was stupid, I should have talked to you, I never wanted to hurt you. Scottie, you're my life. You're my soul. I'd rather just be with you than have the greatest sex in the world with anyone else. Please forgive me."