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A Testimonial From A Man Who Willingly Watched His Wife Have Sex With A Stranger And Regretted It

The Following Is A Testimonial From A Man Who Willingly Watched His Wife Have Sex With A Stranger And Regretted It:

Like most people who consent to watching strange men have sex with their wives, I consider myself to be a sophisticated, impotent, and very wealthy man. I am rich enough to have most of the world's amusements at my disposal, and yet I often find myself quite bored.

My wife and I have been married for seventeen years. It's been a good, loving marriage, but the spark has certainly faded. One night we were brainstorming what we could do to bring a little excitement back into our marriage. When I suggested that she have intercourse with a stranger while I watched, we both thought it was worth a shot.

We went out to bars to find a stranger who might be willing to take part in our little experiment. And while my wife and I are alike in so many ways, we soon learned that the one area in which we differ is in our taste in men. I was looking for someone of medium height, but rugged. The kind of fellow who might have been on my college lacrosse squad. My wife, however, wanted a black. As is often the way with a marriage, this would take some compromise on both our parts.

The way we lured our gentleman caller into the fold was simple. I sat at a table with two small flags, one red, the other green. My wife would circulate through the bar and flirt with men she found attractive. When a man returned her flirtation, she'd look to me for my opinion. I'd wave the green flag if I found the man appealing and thought I might like to see him enter my wife. If the man in question was not to my liking, I'd wave the red flag and my wife would move on.

At first I found myself refusing men for the smallest of flaws. This one's eyes are too small, red flag. This one's shirt's too loud, red flag. This one wears his hair the way my dead brother used to, red flag. It was exciting enough for me just to watch my wife move through the room and draw men's attention her way, but she soon grew frustrated with me. I knew I'd have to be less judgmental.

"This is Gordon." My wife stood arm-in-arm with a man who was three inches taller than me and ten years younger. He didn't look quite so tall when I'd waved my green flag a moment earlier. "He's into it," my wife said.

Gordon and I shook hands. "You'll be discreet?" I asked. Gordon mimed turning a key in a lock on his lips and then tossing the key aside. That was good enough for me.

My wife rode in Gordon's car on the way home, and I followed in our car. We were all so excited that we would have made it home in record time if Gordon hadn't pulled into a drive-thru to pick up some burritos.

Back at the house, we drew up some ground-rules that we could all agree on. We made it clear to Gordon that would be no violence, and that if we felt he had crossed a line he was to stop on our command. Gordon only asked that he be allowed to choose the music. Once we finished our burritos, we all retired to the bedroom.

When the actual sex came about, it became clear that I was wrong in everything I had anticipated. First, Gordon didn't help the mood much when he chose to play a Creedence Clearwater Revival disc from my CD collection. Additionally, since we had not had a great deal to drink and all of us were a bit over-full from the burritos, we were all rather formal with each other. My wife remained on her back and kept a kind smile on her face. Gordon seemed to try a little too hard to do right by us, repeatedly asking me if I could see okay. And when I put my feet up on the ottoman I grew more concerned with the dire state of my pedicure than with what was happening on my bedspread.

That's not to say that it was all so clinical. Gordon eventually hit his stride, about midway through "Lookin' Out My Back Door." And he effectively wiped the polite smile from my wife's face. This should have been the highpoint of the affair, the invigorating rush of a forbidden indulgence. We had pursued this encounter in an effort to feel more alive, but as Gordon made my wife's face contort with a kind of pleasure I was certain she had not felt in decades, all I could see was death.

I saw the death of the passion we once shared. The death of that animal craving that once left us with no place to go but into each other's arms. I saw the death to come, the passing of my wife and myself. A passing each of us would take alone. With every grunt and spray of spittle from Gordon's lips, I felt my self sinking a little further into my own grave. With only a limited number of days left in my life, I had chosen to spend an evening watching a strange man penetrate my wife at my behest. I no longer felt sophisticated, only quiet and weak.

When it was all over, I thanked Gordon and sent him on his way. My wife stayed in bed and wept with her knees pulled up under her chin. It would be several weeks before we would be able to speak to each other again.

Ultimately, this evening of playful, supposedly "youthful" experimentation only served to call my attention to my own mortality. I feel older and more fragile than I've ever felt. By inviting Gordon into our bedroom, it feels as if he has impregnated us with the seed of our own demise.

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