Just This Once Ch 01

Has the grass ever NOT been greener over somewhere else for us humanoids? Have we ever reflected on how good we may have it and yet NOT wanted for more? How many rich or powerful or accomplished men have said, "OK, that's good - I think I'll toss in the towel, even though I know I could go on and do even better?" My guesses are no, no, and precious few. I know I'm there. Things are good, I'm chugging along, doing well, loving my wife of a couple of decades, in great health as is she, with all the usual material needs satisfied.

It's the unusual non-material needs that I guess are at the heart of all this. I'm Don, never thought of myself as particularly brilliant or handsome or athletically adept, although I can hold my own in all three areas compared to whatever the average guy is. I'm fortunate to have a wife, Phyllis, who's better looking, younger by 8 years (my 55, her 46), great mom to our off to life and off to college respectively kids. The problem was, the infamous RUT!

We were in that rut of my schlepping off to work daily, her having gone to work part time when the kids launched, to have something to do, not a particular passion of hers to be a book keeper but filling some feminist need, I suppose. We both got good exercise, ate healthy stuff most of the time with occasional splurges, drank in moderation, and had sex weekly, almost always on Saturday mornings, in our master bedroom, naked, and exclusively with each other - no messing around, no affairs, not even any serious flirtations that I knew of in over 20 years of marriage. She always had orgasms, usually at least five or more per session, some pretty powerful, all very nice. I had enough staying power to make the sessions usually last about an hour, with more than half of that after initial penetration, although not continuously so. We both enjoyed oral (giving and getting, although she was only into giving to an already erect and not yet lubricated-by-her member), and she much preferred missionary but would bend to my requests as long as they didn't include anal, or dressing beyond pretty basic lingerie, or exhibitionism, or . . . you get the point.

So, that sounds awfully boring, and I don't mean to make it totally so. She's bright and funny when she's relaxed, gorgeous, about 5' 4" with C cups and an ass I love but she'd downsize if she could. She's blonde, and easy to stay groomed with little makeup needed or used, lush hair up top, and sparse curls down below which do a wonderfully lousy job of covering up a delectable pussy. She tastes and smells almost not at all, what there is of that making it a pleasure for me to get down and personal, spending pleasant time in cunnilingus almost every session. After all this time, when she comes back to bed from the bathroom on those Saturday mornings (usually soon after I've come back from the bathroom, and from electric shaving and teeth brushing) and crawls under the covers into my arms, either naked or maybe in a light shift kind of nightgown or t-shirt, I get an erection from being so close to her, feeling her breasts, cupping her ass to me, kissing the nape of her neck. It's all very pleasurable, don't get me wrong.

But dang, I found myself wanting more. Supply and demand and all that. I suppose if she always talked dirty and wore salacious underwear and loved to cavort daringly, I'd want her just nude and silent and well behaved. As it was, I usually got her nude and silent and wanted a vixen, a wild woman, a partner in fantasy. And for all the great things she was, she was pretty much vanilla and resisted anything more. Sometimes, particularly if a little, not a lot, of alcohol were involved, she could hint at being that flirtatious, alluring vixen type, so I knew it was a possibility; but that side of her rarely emerged, and was unpredictable - I couldn't summon it, but just enjoyed it when it came around from time to time.

I used to very rarely (rarely because I could tell it put her off) tease her, ask her about former lovers when we were screwing. She would matter-of-factly share how many guys she'd been with, tell me situations, all with the titillation of a Walter Cronkite newscast. She denied recalling any real details - did he do this? did you do that? did you like anything in particular that he did? She didn't remember an awful lot of the kinds of things I remembered about every woman I'd ever been with, and I suspected that it wasn't just a guy vs woman thing, but wasn't going to call her a liar and ruin any hopes of bringing her into a more intimate partnership.

And that's what I told her, that I wanted more of - intimacy - during the very few times she'd be willing to actually discuss things. "It's fine . . . I like it just the way you do it . . ." etc. were standard responses for us.

Then one morning, as we were cuddling post-sex, as we always did, I crossed a line. Lying there, I asked her, "Is there anything I can do to make all this Saturday morning thing better? Is there anything at all, at all, that you sort of yearn for from time to time?"

"No, I've told you that before. I think we have a wonderful thing here. Why do you keep asking?" she said (although I'd estimate I'd ask that sort of thing maybe twice a year).

"Well, you're a wonderful lover, but I've got to admit, our sex life is just not very imaginative."

Ba-boom. The temperature in the room dropped about 15 degrees.

"You mean I'M the one who's not very imaginative. You mean I'm boring!" she came back, and I knew this was heading for tears at least.

"You're not boring, Phyllis - I'm saying WE just don't vary our sex life much. And, as you know, I'd sort of like to from time to time." There, I hadn't backed down, but I'd tried to smooth a bit.

"Do you want me to dress like a slut? Do you want me to suck you more often? You know I don't want to have a vibrator because I'm afraid it would desensitize me over time. You know I'm not interested in fucking anyone else and damn sure wouldn't stand for you doing it. And you know I'm not any good at remembering old times with other guys, and I can't make up stories - I'm just not imaginative that way!"

Her use of "fuck" showed me a bit of the anger that was seething by this time. But at least she had agreed with me on the initial point of disagreement, or complaint at least. The trick would be to turn that from complaint or defense into something better for both of us. I didn't know if it could, or even if it could if it actually would ever happen.

There was a silence, as I waited for her to realize that she'd just confirmed my issue, that of her imagination.

"OK, you're right - I'm not imaginative, and I never really have been, but I don't see anything wrong with that."

In for a penny, I figured what the hell, I may pay big time, but I needed to get all of this off my chest at least once. "I'm not saying it's wrong. It's not a right/wrong thing for me. I'm saying that we have a partnership made up of two people. One says she's not imaginative. One says he wants more imagination. Neither is right or wrong per se. But so far, we've been pretty much living in accordance with the unimaginative option. Which is to say, I'm doing things your way, but you're pretty much refusing even on rare occasion to try anything BUT your way. And going along grudgingly is not my way." There, I'd gotten it said, and I'd presented a pretty unassailable logical argument, if I did say so myself. Naturally, that was only one way of seeing it - my way. I realized that during the next silence that followed my mini-speech.

She was still silent for a bit, then she spoke very deliberately. "All right, then. We'll try it your way. I'm still not going to get a vibrator, and I'm not going to any nude or swinger resorts with you to cavort, as you've called that. I'm not going to abide your messing around on me, and I can't remember those guys before you, and I can't just start being imaginative. So, that leaves me fucking someone else, I guess!"

I knew she didn't mean that from the tone of her voice, but I wasn't going to leave anything on the table that day. "Well, since you bring it up, I do want you to know that in my fantasies, I'm there and participating - it's not about your sneaking around and my finding out about it or being told about it later - that would be demeaning and dishonest. But getting to make love to you along with another guy, and your finding that it's terrific, and it not leading to any emotional problems - that, to me, would be hot!"

"Hmmph," she hmmph'd. Then she got out of bed and went into the bathroom. I heard the shower start, and knew she was done with bed and with that topic of conversation, at least for the time being. I padded off to the kitchen, started the coffee, booted up and read emails on my tablet until I heard the shower stop, then the hair dryer start, then the hair dryer stop, then the bathroom door open. I headed back to find she'd gone into her walk-in closet and closed the door. I didn't know if she was really pissed off or just going about her daily routine. I suspected it was the former, so to give her space I showered as well, got dressed, and came back out to find her sipping her coffee and checking her own computer, with no mention of our conversation. The rest of the day was a bit puzzling but only because it was so typical. She didn't exhibit any coldness or anger - it was just like we'd never broached the topic and that was that. Oh well, I'd tried.

It was two days later, over a supper of leftovers, she said to me, while looking intently at her plate, "OK, I've given it some thought. This is your idea - don't forget that. I'll do it, but it will have to be just this once. And if we do it, I never want to hear your wanting us to do it again. I can't imagine anyone or anywhere or anytime that would work, so I'm going to make you figure all that out. But, it can't be anyone I know or anyone I'll ever see again. And it will have to be someone who's nice, and good looking enough, and of course good in bed. That all seems pretty impossible to me to work out, but there you go - I've agreed, but Just This Once!"

Surprised would be a gross understatement. I was speechless, not sure if I'd even heard her right. She followed that with, "I've going out for a walk. I'll see you later." Fortunately, we live in a very safe neighborhood, and evening walks by us and by neighbors are common. She left me to my thoughts, which were racing and jumbled. I was thrilled and puzzled and turned on and anxious and no doubt several other things. I also had no idea how to proceed. We'd just gone from my being frustrated that she wasn't adventurous to her challenging me to create the adventure, which was one I'd never really thought through.

Life went on with nothing more said about it, for about a month. Then one day at the local gym, I was getting my weekly torture session from one of the available-for-fee trainers there, a red head named Eric. Eric the Red was how I'd thought of him since we'd met a year or two before, and he did look a bit Viking-like, dark, not carrot-top, red hair, taller and broader shouldered than I but with not an ounce of visible fat. When Phyllis and I joined the gym a couple of years before, we took a workout class from him, and as it was only about a half dozen folks, we all got to know each other, with Phyllis and I liking Eric personally as well as in his trainer role. Phyllis had gone on to other exercise options, but I kept on and eventually did one-on-one personal trainer sessions with him weekly, doing my own workouts on other days. He was one of those typical physical trainers - well-developed muscles, combination of easy going when not training you and drill sergeant demanding when he was.

I'd pretty much forgotten about it, but I recalled dimly that Phyllis had once complimented his physique, saying he was cute enough but really had "whoa" shoulders. I'd asked her what was wrong with mine, my male ego taking a hit there, and she said that mine were "fine" and that she loved them and me. I'd pressed, and she'd said that she knew I thought she had "fine" - again that term - breasts, but that she knew that there were women who had the kind of breasts that really did turn men's heads, and that she'd seen mine turn at times for "whoa" breasts. And that it was in that guise that Eric had "whoa" shoulders. I knew she was a shoulder fan, and I suspected that her enjoyment of pro basketball was largely linked to those visuals. At the time, I'd asked her if she'd like to jump in the rack with a set of shoulders like that, and while she denied it, she did sort of admit that it was an interesting idea, taunting me a bit with that rare twinkle in her eye as she did it. I'd let it go at the time, but one day that all came back to me.

Additionally, during one workout early on, Eric mentioned to me that he was going to get me into good enough shape to deserve my gorgeous wife - that comment surprised me (his being younger than we by about a decade, and that being a bit over the professional trainer line), but I took it as a compliment and as a bullshit kind of thing a guy might just say. I'd laughed at the comment with him and said that if physical condition was the criteria, she'd no doubt prefer him to me, but I already had staked my claim. He laughed in return and said that if she ever got free, I should let him know so he could follow up. I related the story to Phyllis, and she was flattered, but that was all. She knew I went to him, and knew him by sight, but she did other things to stay in shape, so was barely acquainted with him. She concluded that all males were soulless cads and that was that.

One day, a few weeks after Phyllis had set down her "just this once" criteria, and just after Eric had turned me into spaghetti yet again, I headed off to the shower. He mentioned during the session that I was his only appointment that day and that he was going home afterwards. For some reason, that day he really seemed down - just didn't have the usual energy or "up" attitude. I initially figured he was just tired and that everyone was entitled to be off his game from time to time. Thinking nothing more of it, I went to the locker room to shower. He came along, but headed off down a different row of lockers from mine. As one does at the Y, I stripped down and strolled to the shower room (they have soap and shampoo dispensers in the showers, which are gang style, with 8 showers - 4 each on vertical poles facing outwards in each direction. I was soaped up and started to rinse, hence clearing my eyes, when I saw that Eric was in there as well.

He was pretty hairless, very pale skinned, compared to my typically darker but still Caucasian complexion with more chest and leg hair. He was also a couple of inches taller than my average height; but more noticeable, he was sporting a hefty package, compared to my more modest endowment. I'm not so small as to be embarrassed to be in the showers, but I know I'm also not the biggest gun on the block. He wasn't the very biggest either - gyms such as ours are where the really well hung get to strut their stuff without recrimination, and I suspect from the strutting that that's exactly what some of them are doing. But Eric was sure a caliber or two bigger than what I was packing, in both girth and length. The damn thing hung down a good four plus, circumcised fat inches, emerging from a sort of sparse carrot-colored patch of hair. I'm not sure I'd ever seen a red head's cock and balls, and was glad he was shampooing at the time, so that his eyes were covered with suds and closed. We were the only two in there, and I took my time checking him out, immediately considering him as a candidate for Phyllis's just this once deal. She knew him well enough to know he was a nice guy and that they had gotten along okay, and she'd mentioned those "whoa" shoulders, so that took care of the nice and good looking part, maybe - but she then again she did at least sort of know him, and she could be expected to see him again, so that was a non-starter, but the idea still stuck.

In fact, as I thought about it, I realized I was getting a bit aroused by the imagined images, so I turned my back to him, shielding the evidence, rinsed off and left without speaking other than to mention I was leaving, returning to my locker and dressing. On my way out, I turned down between the lockers and found him, finishing dressing.

"Eric, you seem down today. Care to grab a beer? Besides, you made me think I've earned one today!" I said to him.

"Sure - like I said, I'm done for the day, so why not?" he answered.

"Trader's?" I said, mentioning a watering hole just a block or so away.

"Sounds good - see you there in 15." he said, and I left, driving down to Trader's, a darkish dive that was pretty empty, on that Tuesday afternoon.

I grabbed a booth, ordered a local ale, and mentioned to the barmaid that there would be two of us shortly. Eric arrived and found me waving at him. He asked for an IPA, which I took to be a good sign.

We talked about nothing memorable and had our beer, then I ordered another round, except with shots, and told him Boiler Makers were a favorite of mine. He cheerfully downed his, while I sipped on mine. I was working up my nerve, not knowing just where this might lead, but I was determined to follow it - just this once. I managed to get him another round, and noticed that he started slurring his words just a bit. Somewhere along the line, an attractive woman who'd been sitting with some guy at another booth got up and walked past us on her way to the ladies room, I figured. I watched Eric as he watched her ass sashay past. That solved the hetero question for me, as I'd been wondering if he might be gay, being an in shape guy who worked with other guys mostly. Just to confirm, I remarked, "Nice movement there."

"You're right about that," he answered.

"But a guy like you must get plenty of company whenever you want, right?"

"Not lately, not lately . . . " he murmured, with a distinct tone of morose.

"Woman problems?" I asked.

"Yeah, you might say that," he said.

"Care to talk about it?" I pursued.

It was likely the alcohol, but I guess he'd had just enough to welcome a shoulder to vent on, and so he did. It turned out he'd been engaged, no date set, but all committed to her being his one and only, when she up and left him, and town, for another woman yet. Now, I could stomach a woman leaving me for a woman a lot easier than leaving me for a man, but I know some guys just don't see it that way. He was one. She'd left the month prior, and he'd hidden it well. But inside, he was crushed, and that had led to him doing the self-doubting thing, and that had led to his having been unable to perform just a couple of days earlier, with the only woman he'd tried it with since she'd left. To top it off, that woman apparently hadn't been particularly kind about the performance failure, so he was in that self-defeating spiral, and he'd let it get him way down.

He continued, that it had freaked him out so much, he'd applied for, and been accepted, to run the gym program in a big city in another state, starting in another several weeks. He was leaving our gym the following week to get all the moving and such things done. More money, better position, but most importantly, a chance to start over psychologically, to recapture his performance thing. Between all the things needing to get done with a move and a job change, no wonder he was tired, and with the woman thing on top of it, I really felt for him. After dumping all that on me, he stopped talking, abruptly.

I was thinking that here was a perfect solution for us both. He thought Phyllis was hot. She owed me this once thing. If they actually got together, she could be therapy for him - I couldn't imagine a hetero guy not getting it up for her if she wanted it - now that might have been awfully presumptuous on my part, but maybe with some aid from hops and corn, it made sense to me at the time. Plus, he could be just right for her - all muscles and shoulders and yeah, as I knew but she didn't yet, a memorable package.