Author's Comment: This is another attempt to take a tired old plot idea and spruce it up with a little humor and a LOT of satire. So, if you're tired of reading the same old wimp-husband story, or a wife-sharing story, try this one on for size. If you actually get off on those kinds of stories, I give you fair warning that this one might not do it for you. And for those of you who are tired of stories about dense blond women ... here's one about a man instead.

You know, life is pretty strange sometimes. There's a song - I don't remember who wrote it, or sang it, but I hear it on the radio now and then on the oldies station. Anyway, in this song is a line that says "You don't always get what you want ... but sometimes you get what you need". Or something like that. I used to like that song, because it gave me hope that, if you wish for something, sometimes you get it. That's what happened with Brandy, anyway.

Brandy's my wife. When I met her and she agreed to go out with me, I thought I was the luckiest guy on the planet. If you look up "blond bombshell" in the dictionary, her picture should go there. They probably reference her in the entry for "brick shithouse" too. Anyway, the way I met her was like this:

I was just walking by Grabof's, which is a kind of combination corner store, gas station, and newspaper stand. They sell Greyhound tickets there too, so the bus stops there. There was a bus parked by the curb and I was walking by it when this woman pulled her suitcase out of the storage area underneath the bus, and turned around to leave. The suitcase kind of swung out away from her body due to centrifugal force and, she more or less slammed it into my balls.

Or I walked into it. It depends on who you ask. Of course my story was that she attacked me. I was about the only one who thought that, which is sort of an important part of this story. That's because this story is about judgement, and its role in making decisions, and how that can affect whether you get what you WANT, or what you NEED.

And I'm the king of making bad decisions. I didn't know that then, but I've learned it since. I was a loser, even if I didn't know it.

I've made bad decisions all my life. I think it was genetic, because my parents were both losers too. Not that that was so horrible. In a little town like Wilton, with a population of only a couple of thousand, and no real industry to speak of, there's a lot of call for losers. I mean there's only maybe thirty or forty positions where a real go-getter is actually required, so not everybody can be a mover and shaker. You need a bunch of losers in a situation like that. Somebody needs to buy all the used cars, and serve the fries and clean the motel rooms and do all that stuff that nobody actually thinks about setting out to do as a career. You just kind of get sucked into it, and if you don't have the skills, or education, or the drive to find something better, you just sort of survive the way things are.

Me? I was the kid who got slightly lower than average grades, and didn't play any sports, and had acne so bad I didn't even think about asking a girl out on a date. I was blond, which I thought was good, but my ears stuck out way far, which kind of cancelled that out in my own mind. I never got in a fight, and didn't have any hobbies other than being a member of the Crawly County Thespian Society. Well ... I had one other hobby. That was beating off. THAT, I excelled at. And my imagination wasn't bad, at least as far as things sexual went. I could work up the strangest situations in my imagination, and I got laid in all of them. By the time I was seventeen I had fucked all my mom's friends, their daughters, the entire cheerleading squad, every female movie star I had ever seen, most of the women in the catalogues that showed them wearing bras and panties, and, of course, the women in all my dad's Playboys. Don't get me wrong ... I only fucked them in my imagination ... but to me ... that was just as good as the real thing. That's because I was completely convinced that my penis would never touch a real live woman in any way, shape or form. It just could not possibly happen.

My dad is probably the source of my loser genetic material. My mom was a pretty normal looking woman. She had big breasts, that I fantasized about a lot, but never got to see. I hugged her long past the age when most boys continue to hug their mothers, simply because I got to press my chest against those mams.

As I write this story, I'm ten years older, and I know, at least in a cerebral kind of way, that I could have had a normal sex life back then if I'd have just given it a shot. The point is that I used some pretty poor judgement to make my decisions back then. They were generally bad ones. I made decisions based on what I wanted ... not what I needed. I wanted to squirt. I couldn't find a girl who would help me with that, so I invented one in my imagination. I was happy with her, she was happy with me (of course) and that was great.

I got what I wanted.

Of course, it wasn't what I needed. What I needed was the courage to ask some girls out, crash and burn a few times, get a couple of real kisses along the way, neck and eventually score for real. But I didn't do that, because I didn't think I could. I made decisions on what I thought reality was about. Imagine that. A fifteen year old thinking he knew enough about reality to make a decent decision.

Anyway, you get the drift.

When I got out of school, still single, still a virgin, and still unkissed, I opted for what I thought I could actually do. That was work at the feed mill. How intelligent do you have to be to shovel grain, and sweep floors? The machinery is all automated, so the most smarts you need are to know which button to push when you want something to happen. It's a dead end job. A loser job.

I was perfectly suited for it.

And, because everybody else quit eventually and went on to bigger and better things, in three years I eventually ended up as the manager of the front end. The front end is where trucks come in and dump their grain. You have to be able to read the scales, and take grain samples (automated) and read the results. On a tough day, there's a clog in the grate, and you have to go out and poke it with a stick. It didn't take any brain power to do the job, which left me lots and lots of time to fantasize about things. I know now that I lived more or less a life of complete fantasy back then.

So you understand now ... right? I was a loser. You have to know this so you'll understand what eventually happened.

So there I am, walking along, and Brandy slams her suitcase into my balls. I fall on the ground and moan and groan and thrash around.

Brandy, of course, was horrified. Most everybody else was laughing. They all knew me, and what a loser I was. I had met their expectations for the day by walking into a speeding suitcase and attempting to emasculate myself. They would probably have approved if I'd succeeded.

Besides, they only paid attention to my writhing, moaning body for a few seconds. Then they paid attention to Brandy.

How to describe Brandy? Hmmmm. I already used the vernacular that is commonly used to describe beautiful women. And I don't know her cup size, like all those other guys do who write stories for the internet. She was just a fucking babe, with all this blond hair, and tits you could go to sleep on, like a pillow, and a pussy that she shaved and that got so slippery when she was turned on that you could almost hurt yourself, sliding around in it. I mean it's a good thing she wasn't a guy, because she got so wet and slippery that if she was a guy you could put an eye out just trying to lick her slit ... except that if she was a guy she wouldn't have a slit to lick ... but...

Oh fuck! See what I mean? I'm such a loser I can't even think up a good analogy.

Anyway, I was lying there, about to puke, and this vision of loveliness was bent over me, and her soft hands were stroking my face and she was babbling about was I OK, and telling me she was sorry and what could she do to make things better and so on.

I don't know exactly what I said. When you feel like your balls are dripping off your body like candle wax, you don't pay attention to what you say. But it was probably something like "Just fucking get out of my life!"

When your balls are mangled and hanging by a string, you also don't enunciate all that well, I guess. What she heard was something like: "Just get me up and be my wife!"

So she tried to pull me to a standing position, which isn't that easy when the guy is trying to maintain a fetal position, but she got me there, hunched over, and got me into Grabof's onto a stool while Alicia, the waitress, wandered over and wanted to know what was wrong with me.

Instead of telling her, Brandy ordered me a Coke.

Now what the fuck was that all about? Are women so clueless that they think a guy with busted balls can be all fixed up by taking in a little caffeine?

Anyway, by the time Alicia got there with the thing I felt a little better, and I actually WAS thirsty, so I drank the Coke through the straw sticking up out of it.

You have to understand here that Grabof's was an old time soda fountain, where they mixed their own syrup with fizzy water, and Old Mr. Grabof liked a stout glass of Coke, so that's how he had the mixing thingy set. You just haven't had a Coke unless you've had one at Grabof's. It'll get you on your toes and bright eyed in nothing flat. You might be a little mush-mouthed, what with all that extra syrup coating your teeth and paralyzing your cheeks and all, but you'll be very alert.

Which is why I suddenly noticed the vision of loveliness who had almost unmanned me, and perked up even more. I know. I was just as amazed. I should have been thinking like a eunuch, but when I saw those big breasts rising and falling on her chest, I was, as they say, smitten.

Well, we got to talking, and I learned she had left home after graduating high school to go out and make her mark in the world, and on the way to making her mark she took a job at a call center. Her supervisor kept trying to stick his hand up her skirt, and when she wore jeans he pinched her breasts, so she called the cops one night. She was from a small town too, and thought cops were there to help people. When the cop couldn't seem to keep his hands off her, she got on a bus to go visit her uncle, Horace Stinton, who lived in our town. She said she was just going to stay with him for a while, until she could get her breath and go back and get her stuff. She mentioned something about how she had accidentally kicked the cop in the balls, and how it was odd that practically the same thing had happened with me too, and that was why she was so concerned about my welfare.

I was, of course, as mesmerized by her as any other man would have been. So I didn't tell her that Horace had died peacefully in his sleep two nights ago, and was currently on display up at Hammilton's Funeral Parlor. When she asked me if I knew where he was I just nodded, but didn't tell her. I wanted to be around her some more. So, to keep her there, I told her all about myself.

I had to fudge things a little. My life hasn't been all that glamorous.

I suddenly had a past as a Marine that I couldn't talk about because of all the secret missions they sent me on. And I was the manager of the feed mill, as opposed to the manager of the front end, which was a made-up title anyway. I was the only one who worked there, and there wasn't anything TO manage. And that wasn't good enough, so I threw in there that, before I went off to serve my country and risk my life for the likes of her, I had been a photographer for Playboy.

Why did I pick that? Well, I knew a lot about it, that's why. It's practically the only thing I ever actually studied. I was so taken by the pictures of those women that I was naturally curious about who got to be there ... WITH them ... while they were naked and wet looking and smiling like that. And I went to the library and read everything I could get my hands on about photography and cameras and why shooting fashion was so different from shooting food and all that.

I'd never held anything in my hands except one of those five dollar cameras that you take the pictures with and then turn in at Grabof's and they send it away and you never see it again, but you get your pictures back a week later.

She asked the obvious question. Why didn't I go back to being a photographer for Playboy when I got out of the Marines? All I could come up with was that, when I got out, I had to go someplace where "the enemy" wouldn't find me, cause they were still really pissed off at me for all the damage I'd done, and all the important people I'd had to (I raised my eyebrows and whispered) "deal with."

We were a rural, very small town. If she'd talked to any of the ten people within shouting range, she would have learned what kind of crap I was serving her up. But she didn't.

It turned out that Brandy was from a town just as small. Which is why she didn't recognize me for the loser I am. That and the fact that she was just a naturally trusting kind of girl. She believed everything I told her.

I hate to break up the story, but I have to go back to that thing about getting what you want. I had wanted her to stay there and talk to me. I didn't actually NEED that. She was a beautiful girl, on her way to move and shake the world, and I was a loser who was perfectly happy whacking off to pictures every night and going to the mill the next morning. But I WANTED to be around her, so I lied.

Well, it got to the point that she said she needed to go find her Uncle Horace, because she was going to stay with him that night, and I finally had to tell her he had croaked. She got all weepy about it, and putting my arm around her just seemed like the friendly thing to do. It affected me pretty strongly. She was the only real knockout I'd ever had my arm around before.

It was evening, and the bus was already gone, and the neighborly thing to do was to offer to let her stay at my place for the night. Actually for a couple of days, because the bus only came through town on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

She, being from a small town, and being a trusting sort of girl, and not knowing I was a loser, accepted my invitation. I sort of forgot to tell her I had a tiny little one bedroom house, with three rooms, not counting the bathroom, which was off the bedroom. I also had a kitchen and a living room. They were separated by the bedroom. That's just how I set things up. I figured the front door should open into the living room. I couldn't help it that the kitchen was at the other end of the house.

Long story short, I gave her my bed, and slept on the couch. She hadn't had time to pack much. After she kicked the cop in the balls, for feeling her titties while he searched her while she was making her complaint against her boss, she took off and caught a ride back to her place. She threw a few things in her suitcase and waited at the intersection of two highways where she knew the bus would go by and just paid the driver cash when he stopped and she got on.

So I loaned her a sweat shirt to wear to bed and let her rinse out her unmentionables and hang them up in the bathroom. There wasn't any hanky panky, unless you count my beating off at the thought of those breasts pressing into my shirt ... in the other room, of course ... but still ... it was a pretty hot fantasy.

She had come in on the Friday bus, so I had her all to myself on Saturday and Sunday. I had to work Saturday, and she just walked around town and looked at things or something, until I came home. I fixed some hamburger helper and opened a can of green beans and we dined like the royalty we both wished we were.

It turned out she didn't have much money. Her check book was one of the things she'd forgotten, and the only other thing she had was a credit card, which she didn't want to use because she had seen on TV that the FBI can track you if you use your credit card and she didn't want the FBI arresting me for harboring a criminal like her. She had assaulted a police officer, after all, and he was in the commission of his duties at the time, and she was pretty sure that brought extra punishment.

I had a car, and offered to drive her to wherever she was going. That's when I found out she didn't really have much of a plan. She had skedaddled while the skedaddling was good, and that was pretty much all of her plan at the time. She didn't actually have any place to go to.

So she just stayed there. And of course I fell madly in love with her. And there came a time when she came into the living room and suggested that the bed was big enough for both of us, and that I didn't have to sleep on the couch any more.

It took me probably ten minutes to get up the courage to actually go in there. I was hard as a rock and had to walk bent over because my whole lower body was all tied up in knots.

The very first words out of her mouth when I got into bed beside the very first woman I had ever even been CLOSE to in only my underwear were: "I'm a virgin."

You know what? That actually made me feel better. Yup. I was a virgin too, not counting the twelve million times my cock had fucked my hand.

And that's when I did something else I wanted to do, instead of doing what NEEDED to be done. I plugged in one of my finely tuned fantasies, and played the role of the tender lover who takes the faint-hearted virgin and gently brings her into the world of being fully a woman.

I had all these fantasies in my mind, and I had lived them countless times. Remember way back in the beginning of this story I told you I was a member of the Crawly County Thespian Society? Well, they put on two or three plays a year, drawing from four or five little towns around the area. We put on our productions at the "historic" Thurston Theater in the town of the same name, which was the county seat. Seeing as how I was living most of my life in fantasy mode, I was a natural actor, and usually got pretty good roles in the plays. In fact, twice I got more than one role in the same play. I thought I was "that good", but now that I think back on things, I think they just didn't have enough people to fill all the roles.

Anyway, I plunged into my role as the expert at deflowering virgins. I had read a few thousand stories on the internet about such experiences, and had tailored my own fantasy so that I figured I had all the best parts of all those stories down pat.

I almost forgot my lines when she took off that shirt. Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to concentrate on your lines when there's a real live naked woman right there with you? And she was a BEAUTIFUL real live naked woman too! But, with an effort, I kind of mentally shoved her aside and played my role to perfection.

She threw another wrench into the works when she produced a condom for me to wear. I didn't have any condoms in my fantasies. It took both of us to figure out how to get the thing on me. It didn't fit very tightly, and there was so much extra that we finally figured that it must be supposed to cover my balls too. Once we got them tucked into it, it was pretty firmly attached. I treated all this as though it were kind of like an intermission and, once that was done, I got back into character and set out to rock her world.

She gave me rave reviews too. When I pushed past her hymen, which she still had, and which I felt, and which I knew what would feel like because of all those stories I read, she didn't even complain.

"Oh," she sighed as I got all the way in her. "I thought it would hurt."

"I'm an expert," I said suavely.

"Can you put some more in?" she panted.

"You got it all, baby," I boasted. "You're a real woman now. You took the whole thing!"

I couldn't quite get the rhythm right at first. I think that's because I was having real trouble controlling the amazing feelings that my penis kept trying to send me. I mean she felt really hot and nice and I kind of just vibrated for a few seconds, until I blanked out that feeling and started doing what I thought I was SUPPOSED to do. I WANTED to make this the perfect night for her. That wasn't because I was completely concerned with her happiness. Sadly, I have to admit that, if it was perfect for her, then that meant I was the perfect lover, and that was what I wanted to be.

I know. I should have done what we both NEEDED, and that was just make love with each other and enjoy it. But ... I'm a loser. I did what I WANTED to do, instead.

Well, Brandy was the kind of girl who, once she gave up her virginity, figured that meant she was in love, and I was the kind of guy who was so completely overwhelmed by the reality of the situation that I more or less retreated into my fantasy world, where I could believe what I wanted. Had I grown up a little, and taken the time to figure that reality out, I might have found that we actually liked each other, and we might have grown to love each other too.

But I fucked it all up ... like a typical loser.

See ... I didn't have any good ideas of my own. I had to use other people's good ideas. I mean all my fantasies were other people's actions, and I just plugged myself into those, cause I wasn't original enough to come up with anything of my own. One of those fantasies was that I had this beautiful wife, and that I shared her with some other guy who was blown away by her and couldn't resist her, but she was mine, so he only got to borrow her.

That may be the real reason I proposed to Brandy. I mean the fantasy was that it was my wife I was sharing, not my girlfriend. I'm not saying I actually thought about all this at the time. But I've learned a hell of a lot recently, and as I think back on it I'm pretty sure that thought was in there somewhere.

And if Brandy had had a job, or prospects of some kind, I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have felt so beholden to me as to give up her cherry to me, and then get all confused as to that meaning she must be in love with me.

Anyway, when I proposed, she said yes, and we got married and she was really happy. That made me pretty happy too, because that meant I was a good husband, right?

One night we were having sex, and I was pretending I was the gorilla and she was the animal trainer. She didn't mind playing the games at all. She said they were really cute and innovative. So anyway, I was at that point where the Gorilla was finally pronging her and she's supposed to ooo and ahh and say how big the Gorilla is. I had to explain that part to her because her own imagination wasn't so hot and she hadn't seen the porn video where I got the idea in the first place.

She stopped for a minute and said "George? How big ARE you?"

"Huh?" I asked.

"You know..." she said. "How big are you in the man department?"

"What the heck are you asking that for?" I asked, upset that she had broken character.

"Well, you're pretending to be a gorilla, and you're saying how I'm supposed to squeal and say how big you are. Are Gorillas bigger than people?"

"Well sure they are," I said. "I mean just look at them."

"I've never seen a gorilla penis," she said. "Just yours."

I didn't know what to say. I hadn't seen any videos where any kind of conversation like this went on.

"So are you bigger than other men, or smaller?" she asked.

Well, if you're a guy, you know what I said. I mean no guy wants to think of himself as a shrimp in the man department. I was trying to be a gorilla here, after all. So I told her I was huge, and that I had probably ruined her for all other men already. I saw that in a video one time. This guy said "I'm going to ruin you for all other men." The chick he fucked agreed with him too.

"What other men?" she asked.

Well, the mood was broken already, so I decided to just switch fantasies.

"I mean that some day, we might decide to share you with some other guy who deserves a real treat or something," I said.

She sat up in bed, looking really serious.

"You'd let some other guy have sex with me?" she asked. Her voice sounded funny, and I hadn't been married that long, so I didn't understand tone of voice yet.

"Well, I think that would be pretty hot ... don't you?" I said.

"No," she said. "I don't."

Well, that wasn't the way my fantasy went, so I had to switch to another one right quick. I forget which one I switched to that night. I was pretty confused about things just then.

I thought she'd forget all about it. But the next morning she plopped some eggs down in front of me and said "I can't believe you'd let some other man have sex with me."

I tried something mostly original. That means I hadn't seen this actual comment in a movie. "But baby, you're so gorgeous, you're a national treasure. It wouldn't be fair for me to hog you all to myself."

She looked at me really weird, and didn't say "thank you" so I figured it hadn't gone as well as I wanted it to.

"You're all the man I need," she said, her voice kind of trembly.

Even I could tell she was unhappy.

"That's good, baby, because you got me, that's for sure," I said to make her feel better. "It was just a fantasy of mine, that's all. It don't mean nothing."

Yeah, I know, that's a double negative. Maybe she was smart enough to know that too, which meant that, to her, I'd actually said words to the effect that my fantasy about sharing her with some other dude WAS important to me. That wasn't exactly true either. It wasn't important, exactly. It was just something I wanted to think about.

I had a whole list of fantasies, so I didn't need to talk about that one any more. She wanted to know how come every time we had sex that I came up with some role playing things for us both to do. Since I didn't actually KNOW why I did that - not back then, anyway - I just explained that I was an actor.

I even took her with me to the quarterly meeting of the thespian society over in Thurston, and they decided to put on a play called "Missing In Action", about the wife of a woman whose husband is off fighting World War Two and she gets a report that her husband is missing. She thinks he's dead and is given solace by his best friend, who couldn't go to the war because he had flat feet, and they fall in love and so on and practically set up house. It turns out the husband is actually fine, but was in a prison camp and comes home to find his best friend and his wife in bed. It's a drama, which means I didn't much care for it. I like comedies better. You can't use most of the lines in a drama in normal day-to-day conversation.

The thespian society welcomed Brandy with open arms. In fact, they offered her the lead role in the play. She tried to turn it down, but the women all gathered around her and clucked like hens and told her who knows what until she said she'd do it. Besides, she was the only one young enough to be convincing in the role.

They offered me the role of the soldier, and were all giddy about it, seeing as how I really was married to the lead female. The role of my "best friend" in the play was given to the football coach of Thurston High, since football season was over and he didn't have much to do but teach gym classes.

So, Brandy and I started going to play practice two nights a week, which is how they did things. We took three months to put on a production, with practice twice a week for the first month, and then three times a week for the second month, and then as often as the director thought was needed for the last month. If you weren't practicing your lines, you helped with scenery and props and all that. We had to do everything ourselves, because we only charged a dollar to get in to these plays. Everything was low budget.

Brandy took to it like a duck to water. Whether it was the practice she got playing roles in our bedroom, or just because she understood things like that, I don't know. But she was pretty good. She had some flaws. When she and Coach Chuck had to do physical things together she was kind of stiff. I was painting a set one night and watching them rehearse. The director kept telling her to loosen up.

"But he's touching my breasts!" said Brandy.

"It's just acting, dear," said Mrs. Walinski, who had been chosen to direct this play because her husband, now dead, had actually been in World War Two. She was in her seventies and usually just played the parts of old women in the plays.

On the way home Brandy complained about it.

"Look, honey, I said. "Like Mrs. Walinski said, it's just acting. You have to make it LOOK real, so he has to actually touch you."

"This fits right in with that nasty fantasy you have, doesn't it?" she accused me.

"What fantasy?" I asked.

"The one where some other man has sex with me," she said.

"Oh, yeah, that one," I said. "Well, I guess it would if I'd thought about that. But it's just acting," I said.

"So you aren't mad that Chuck is squeezing my breasts?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Like I said, baby, it's just acting. Of course I don't mind. Like she said ... loosen up."