You need to be 18 to read this.
Well actually you don't NEED to be.
You've been reading since you were 8.
And you've probably been jerking off since you were 12.
Come to think of it, I don't understand this rule at all.
It wasn't my fault. I hadn't meant to cheat on my wife. It's just that my dick took over. It does that sometimes.
Mostly I'm in control. I decide what to do and when to do it and who to do it with. I have a firm grip on myself. Uh, perhaps I should rephrase that. But every once in a while it's like my brain gives my penis a four star promotion or something and as it puffs up with pride the rest of my body just does everything my dick says to.
You know the feeling. Like you're sitting in a bar, your wife is two hours late because she's out buying shoes or somefuckingthing, and there's a beautiful girl just two seats away who keeps looking at you. BOING! Your dick tries to take over. You want to meet her, and you'd do almost anything to have your wife never show up. But then she does.
Or say you're shopping with your wife and the salesgirl bends over at the counter to package your purchase and you can see all the way down her blouse and stare at her tits. BOING! Your dick tries to take over. You tell your wife to go wait in the car, you'll meet her there, and anyway you've decided you want to buy the loaf of bread one slice at a time.
I'm sure you have similar stories. We all do. This is the story of once when my dick took over. I couldn't help it. Really.
It started at a party last year at the Wakefield's. I saw June talking with Shelly Shulman over in the corner. In fact I caught them whispering back and forth several times during the course of the evening. June looked guilty when she spotted me staring at the two of them. I just didn't like being left alone at a party. I'm rather shy and I like having my wife's company. That's what a wife is for. Well, to be fair, it's one of several things. It's also nice when they do the laundry. And when they blow you.
Anyway, it looked like they were talking about something important, because Shelly wouldn't leave June alone the whole night. Which meant I got to spend a lot of time drinking beers with the boys. I would have been glad to drink beers with the girls, but I would have been the only guy in the group in the kitchen, and anyway I hadn't read the new Cosmo yet so I really would have been out of it.
It must have been close to 11:30 when I walked over to the powder room to take a piss. The door was locked. I waited a few moments, then realized how badly I had to go and decided to try the john upstairs. When I got there I was surprised to find that it too was occupied. There seemed to be no sense chasing all over the house. I parked myself on the bed and waited.
Soon, bathroom sounds leaked through the door: the toilet flushed, water ran in the sink. When the door opened, it was Shelly. She took only a moment to survey the room, ascertain that we were alone, and then walk over to me. She was just a foot in front of me when she said, "Mike, thanks for June."
Now what the hell does that mean? I mumbled, "Uh, sure."
She continued. "I don't know what I'd do. I don't know what I'm going to do. It's so terrible." She seemed distraught.
"What?" I said, wondering what the hell she was talking about. "What?"
"Oh, I can't talk about it. I've been talking about it with June all night, and I can't talk about it."
"I see," I said, not seeing at all.
"Mike," she said, "Are you happy in your marriage?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure. I mean absolutely. Totally. June and I..." I didn't know what to say. And anyway, wasn't that kind of a strange question to ask a neighbor at 11:30 on a Friday night while he was crossing his legs trying not to piss his pants? "Listen, Shelly," I continued, "I don't know what this is about, but let's talk about it later, or some other time, OK? I really have to use the boy's room there."
"Of course, of course. Sorry," she said. "Could we talk about it tomorrow?"
"Sure, sure," I said, my bladder now beginning to float. "Tomorrow's fine. Anytime."
"How about 3 o'clock? At Sadie's?" I didn't have anything planned.
"Sure, sure," I repeated.
"One more thing," she said as I brushed past her into the john. "Don't tell June."
"OK," I said without thinking as I slammed the door. If I weren't standing within two feet of a toilet in two seconds flat, I was going to leave a puddle the size of Lake Xuchaba right there in the bedroom.
As I stood relieving myself, I went over the conversation in my head. Had I missed something? What was going on here? How had I got myself into meeting Shelly at a bar tomorrow afternoon? And why couldn't I tell June? When I finished I cleaned up and walked out. I looked for Shelly, but someone told me she had gone home. It figured.
Now Shelly was not my cup of tea, exactly. She had a regal air about her that I found stand-offish, and a nasal twang in her voice that was annoying. Oh, in the looks department Shelly was fine. Her aristocratic demeanor went perfectly with her high cheekboned face and primly cut hair. She was pretty in an elegant sort of way. Wouldn't need a facelift for 20 years, either, her skin was so soft but firm. And from the neck down, well, wow! She had a terrific body in spite of her 38 years on the planet. Firm high breasts and muscular legs and a thin waist. Shelly played tennis at the club and worked out three times a week and kept herself in shape. But like I said, not my cup of tea.
Anyway, I wasn't looking. I had June, who I adored. Still do. She's my best friend, my companion, my love, my sounding board, my support, and my sex machine. She loves to try new things. She swallows. She's as close to perfect as I'm likely to find. Only a moron would jeopardize all that.
Oh, hi. I'm the moron in the story. I'm Mike.
It was 3:00 on Saturday, and I walked in to Sadie's. It was a neighborhood saloon but it wasn't in my neighborhood. In fact it was a good 40 minutes from my house. I wondered why Shelly had suggested it. I scanned the room and not seeing her, walked over toward the bar. Just then I spotted her in a booth far in the back, waving at me. I changed direction.
As I sat down, a waiter walked by. I flagged him and ordered a beer. I slid into the seat.
"Oh, thanks for coming, Mike," Shelly said. "I really appreciate it."
"Sure, sure," I said. It was the only thing that came into my head. I waited.
"You OK?" she asked. I nodded. "Did you talk to June?" I shook my head. "Because June and I talked and talked last night, and that's what made me want to talk to you. But I don't think she'd appreciate it if she knew, so let's keep this between us, OK?" I nodded. "Did anybody else see you come in here?" I shook my head. I thought I should strap a bowl to my head and mix drinks for the barkeep. This was ridiculous, all this cloak and dagger. For what?
My beer arrived. The waiter slid it on the table and departed.
Shelly looked at me and said "Mike. My marriage is falling apart." I tried to look sympathetic. Actually I thought it figured. Her husband was an investment banker, a slimy little bastard that nobody liked. He was rude and brusque, and made a shitpot full of money. Two shitpots, maybe. And he acted like that made him superior somehow.
"That's why I was talking with June so much. And why I need to talk with you. You guys have such a good relationship in everything, and I don't. And I thought maybe you could help."
I cleared my throat. "Well, Shelly, gee, I'd be glad to help, but, uh, I'm not a therapist or anything. I mean, have you tried a marriage counselor?" If they hadn't I knew it couldn't be because of lack of funds. They were loaded.
"Yes, but I just couldn't confide in him. I tried another, a woman, but there were some things that she couldn't answer. So I talked with June. And now I'm talking with you."
I wondered where the hell this was going. "I don't understand," I said lamely.
"Sex," she said.
The word hung in the thick smoky air of the bar. "Sex." She said it again. "It's the root of all evil. No, I guess that's money, isn't it? Um, anyway, sex is my problem, or one of them, and I was hoping you could help."
BOING! My dick took over. See? It wasn't my fault.
"I'll try," I said. "What's the problem?"
"It's sex," she said. "We don't have any. And when we do, it's lousy. No, it's worse than lousy. It's terrible. Oh it's so humiliating. I'm so bad at it. It's going to destroy my marriage." I didn't think it could be 'love' of her husband that was making her so upset. It had to be the thought of Edward's income suddenly being pulled out from under her. But, I thought she'd get something, right? And then I realized he was such a sleazy puke he would probably figure out a way to leave her broke.
"What do you mean?" I asked. "I mean, well..."
"We hardly ever have sex anymore. That's what I was asking June last night. She said you guys still do it three or four times a week. Sometimes twice on Sundays. In different rooms in the house. Heck, she said in the car, on the beach, anywhere the mood strikes you. I think that's so wonderful. And she said your relationship is rock-solid, so I figured I could talk to you, and uh, you know, you wouldn't be threatened."
I had several thoughts: Then why wasn't I supposed to say anything to June? And why are we sitting in the back of a bar? Across town?
"Mike. I need some help with sex."
BOING! You know the feeling.
"I'll do what I can," I said. "Where do we start?"
.... There is more of this story ...