Is it weird that I've never seen my wife's asshole?
I think it is. A husband ought to know what his wife's asshole looks like—as a sign of intimacy, I mean. Through normal, healthy, married living, a husband and wife will probably, at some point, catch a glimpse of each other's assholes, right? Multiple times, I would imagine. I should be able to, if Esther's asshole ever went missing, describe it to a sketch artist so they could print it on the side of a milk carton.
I barely know what her pussy looks like. In fact, if I had to pick it out of a police line-up, with my wife's pussy and four other random ones, I don't think I could do it.
"Well, this shouldn't take too long, sir. Please, just tell us which pussy belongs to your wife," they'd say.
I'd glance from one to the other, confusion and embarrassment written all over my face. "Fuck," I'd sigh, dropping my head, "I don't know."
I also don't know what her pussy tastes like, which sucks. Right now, if someone came to me and said, "Fuck your wife and I'll give you a thousand bucks or eat her pussy and you get nothing," I'd totally eat her pussy. It would be instantaneous, too, my decision. I wouldn't think about it for a fraction of a fucking second. Boom!—my face is up her crotch.
Esther has never sucked my dick. I've asked. I've tried quite a few strategies. I'd have dressed my cock up like it was going to prom if I thought it would help. Put a little bow-tie on it. A fucking cummerbund. Top hat. Give it a cane and do a dick dance number for Esther.
***
Geez, I fucked up. I fucked up bad. I should never have married Esther. It was just—I had so much invested in her at that point. The fuck was I going to do? Break up? That wouldn't have been me.
My Mom once described me as "fiercely independent." I liked that.
One of my teachers called me "obstinate." I didn't even fucking know what that word meant at the time.
This was the problem: I don't like people telling me what I can and can't do.
When Coach Newhart, an assistant for Boston College, told me I couldn't play quarterback for a power five school and that I ought to list myself as an "athlete," I told my high school coach to list me only as a quarterback. Fuck Newhart.
The head coach of Georgia Tech came to see me play during my junior year. Had one of my best games that night. I fucking dominated. He wanted me to play quarterback for him.
But, he told me he wouldn't offer me a scholarship unless I got my grades up. He said, "Hit the books, kid. We don't offer scholarships to fools."
I knew right then that I would never play for Georgia Tech. Fuck him.
It's not so much that I can't be told what to do. It's more like I hate people thinking they know me, know what I'm capable of. When they do that, this impulse to prove them wrong just seizes me.
So, when my high school pals called me an idiot for trying to date Esther—that there was no way she would ever go out with me—I decided that I was going to be her boyfriend no matter what the cost.
Later after graduation, when all kinds of people told me I shouldn't marry her, I went out and bought a ring.
***
I met Esther in high school. She was a Jehovah's Witness, and she wasn't supposed to interact socially with non-Witnesses like me, but I made her laugh in class.
Esther was the church freak that everyone avoided. To her own classmates, she didn't exist. You only remembered she was there when you heard her name during roll call.
My interest in her began in PE during my freshman year. Esther and I had gym together, and during our warm-ups, her mat was right in front of mine. Every day, I watched her stretch and do calisthenics. By October, I began to look forward to PE and those five or ten minutes.
There was a calmness about her that appealed to me. She was completely at peace with herself and her outcast status. She stretched like she was the only person on the entire gym floor. She would hum some churchy-sounding hymn to herself and stretch as if every movement were of critical importance. She breathed deeply and contorted herself without inhibition. I liked how she didn't give a fuck. She stretched like she was saying, "Fuck you. Laugh at me. I don't care." Of course, she'd never say anything remotely vulgar.
Esther had a heart-shaped face—big cheekbones and a tiny, pointed chin. She had brown eyes and thick eyelashes. When she smiled, which was rare, her teeth shined and her eyes became little crescents. She was pretty, and when she smiled, she was gorgeous. She didn't wear make-up.
Her white-blonde hair was insanely long, almost down to her ass, and very straight. It looked so silky and smooth, Esther's hair, like a waterfall. It was mesmerizing.
A line from an old movie came to me at some point later on: we begin to covet what we see every day. This seemed very true of how I felt about Esther.
We sat next to each other in English during our Sophomore year. I always greeted her, always asked her for help, and always tried to make her laugh. She became my obsession.
I didn't love her. She loved me. Her church wouldn't like us being together and dating, so we kept it a secret.
We made out, but that's it. Nothing more. To go any further, I knew I would have to marry her. By the time we were both eighteen and seniors, her pussy became this lock that I had to get the key for—no matter what the consequences.
A three-year starter at varsity quarterback, I should have been nose deep in pussy. All my friends were getting laid. They gave me shit about it.
Senior year, her parents figured out about us and told the church. She was "marked by the elders," which apparently was a pretty big fucking deal. It sounded to me like a bunch of old assholes jerked off on her face or something.
She cried a lot about being marked, but I managed to keep seeing her. She loved me.
After graduating, we got married, and she was given a formal "reproof" by her church. She was allowed to continue to attend, but no one could socialize with her—even her own family. She was not allowed to talk at meetings. People wouldn't even look at her. During the hearing, she explained to the elders that she was witnessing to me, otherwise they might have kicked her out.
Teams of Witnesses came to our shitty little apartment to speak with me about their faith. The minute they saw me, I could almost see them deflate.
I am a motherfucking predator. No point in trying to be modest about it.
I look like a fucking gladiator: lean, but stacked with rippling muscles.
Witnesses are non-violent. They're all pacifists, getting kicked out if they join the military.
Anyways, my physical build was the opposite of the average male Witness. My body looked poised to wreak havoc. Their bodies looked eager to surrender to any invading force, including one comprised entirely of chinchillas.
They looked at me and said their words. They gave me their books and pamphlets, then left. Really, giving a book to me was like handing a laptop to a baboon. They knew. One look at me, and they understood how I would never fit. It was useless.
So, to finally get some pussy, I married Esther and put off college. When I say college, the best I could have done would have been a community college. No university offered me a football scholarship or even admitted me because of my grades and test scores. I barely graduated.
I also married her because, like I said, people told me not to. So I married her out of pride, lust, and fear—all the worst reasons to get married. It was selfish of me. I took her from her own family. I knew it would create problems, and it did.
On our wedding night, I discovered that oral sex was not an option—for religious reasons. I probably should have done some research. Shit. Well, I put five loads of cum in her little pussy.
Fuck her pussy was tiny. Couldn't tell you what it looked like or how it tasted, but Esther's pussy was a carnival ride for my cock. It barely fit in that silky slit of hers.
My wife never had a conventionally sexy body. It was one you had to study and figure out to see its beauty.
