Gillian Crowley and I met at a wedding reception for a friend of hers, Margaret Tilly; that was twenty-three years ago; we were both twenty-five and single. At any rate, I was actually a distant cousin of Margaret's. I was just adding my congrats card—with a crisp new C-note in it—to the pile of other gifts and cards, when a very pretty and sweet smelling woman doing the same bumped into me almost dropping her gift. Hers was a large box—I immediately thought microwave oven. She bumped me, excused herself, and thanked me for helping her keep from dropping her offering.

Later, seated two tables apart at the reception, our eyes kept catching each the other looking. Dinner done, a rather good band began doing its duty, and I asked her to dance. That dance led to a number of pleasant dates, and nine months later we were married—Margaret was Gil's maid of honor and Frank Cross, my best friend at the time, was my best man.

Maybe a little description of the two of us might be in order here. Gillian is slightly built and at five-eight rather tall. Her long dark hair is naturally curly and she generally wears it fluffed out and flouncy. Her butt is "oh so female" and she is inordinately proud of her very well shaped B-cups. Me? I'm right at five-seven, one-forty-five, somewhat thinning brown hair, and what Gillian describes as an interesting face—read, not really awful looking. Where Gillian tends to be playful and good natured, I'm more the serious type. I enjoy intelligent conversation and piano bars. Gillian is into partying and dancing. But, as for the dancing, she and I have both gotten into the ballroom thing and are actually pretty good at it; I just don't fool around with the hip-hop thing that she and a lot of her friends seem to also go for. And family...

Gillian's family all live on the East Coast far removed from us, and she gets along with few of them. Something to do with her mother and her uncle Charlie in times gone by. She never told me the story behind it, and I didn't push it. They were there and we were here, and never the twain should the hell meet. As for my family, except for a couple of distant cousins, like Margaret, I don't have any living relatives so it's a moot point.

For all of our twenty-three years together I would have to say we'd been happy. Sex was good, jobs were good, social life generally was also definitely good; yes, life in general was good.

As for our jobs, Gillian became a sales agent for Mobile Phone Inc. right out of college. Her bubbly personality and gift of gab made her a very valuable asset. And me? I'm more the introspective type, as I mentioned, with an almost neurotic propensity for detail which well suited the kind of work I did for Carter Laboratories Inc., a computer software firm on the rise in an ever growing field: I'm a cost analyst, I make sure the money goes where it's supposed to go. I'd gotten my job as a result of a job fair held at state during my senior year there. Hence, economically, Gil and I were doing quite well: I was pulling down maybe $200K annually including bonuses, and Gil maybe $75K. There were pressures, of course, mostly the result of our divergent personalities and the long hours our jobs sometimes required. But, all things considered, we got on better than most.

I always felt that one of the reasons, that we'd got on as well as we had, was because my wife had trained me well to be a good husband and lover. Yes, trained me: I was so pussywhipped that anything she wanted became my focus especially when it came to sex. I did everything in my power, as I saw it, to be worthy of her. And I was no fool, I knew that most marriages went stale, sexually at least, after a relatively short period of time, six or eight years was the norm or so I believed. I was determined not to let that happen to us. I didn't just love Gillian, I adored her. And no, the fact that at an almost five inches my dick wasn't all that, never made the slightest difference to her.

We'd had no children, and it wasn't for a lack of trying. But it just wasn't in the cards. I eventually had myself checked out, and, found I had a low sperm count. Having children wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, but it was a long shot. Helluva deal.

Gil took it well, my low sperm count, or so I believed. She even did her best to console me, if that's the right way to say it. Well anyway, and life went on. That is, it went on until now.

I held the one page printout in my hand. I'd read it three times and was in the midst of my fourth read through. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The words were becoming blurred by my tears. I heard her car pull up in the driveway out front. I waited.

My wife had been feeling real good for the past several weeks—no that's not right—she'd been feelin' positively ebullient! Why? There was no reason, and that was a reason for me to feel not good, or so I had begun to think. Sit around and wonder? Not me. I'd called a friend I worked with in the lab. Jiao Xu was a techie like no other; she could do anything with a computer, and the keylogger she had installed on my wife's had given up its secrets. And yes, I'd been concerned enough about things to feel the need to spy on her.

The back screen door to the kitchen slammed shut. I'd be havin' to do a little work with the tension bar to fix that. It almost made me smile. Here I was with my marriage maybe threatened and I was worried about the damned screen door.

"Herb?" You're home early," she said. I nodded. "Herb? Are you all right? You look like you're cr..."

I dropped the paper onto the kitchen table. "What's that?" she said.

"I'm going to have to do something about that screen door," I said, avoiding her question. I was still sniffling. She picked up the sheet of bond and began to read it. Done, she looked up at me. At first she said nothing.

"It's a print out of an e-chat," she said. "From my computer?"

"Yes," I said.

"It's nothing, Herb. It's just a chat room friend I sometimes chat with. It's nothing."

"A friend? You mean Michael?" I said. "His name is Michael."

"Yes, Michael. But he's just a chat room friend. We e-com sometimes. Nothing serious, just talk," she said. "We've never met in person—really."

"Just talk. You've never met him. But, you tell him things you don't even tell me. How's that?' I said.

"Herb, sometimes—sometimes—a body needs—well someone to talk to..."

"What are husbands for, Gil? What am I chopped liver? You can't talk to me?" I said.

"Honey..."

"Gil, you have to stop this chat nonsense. Since, as you say you've never actually met the guy; well, I can forgive and forget this once. But, it has to end. I'm your husband, not this Michael guy," I said.

I rose and headed for the back door. I would be making a point to close it more gently than she had; well, until I was able to fix it. I stopped just before going out, turned and looked back at her. She looked to be a bit down.

"Gil, just tell the guy you're sorry, but that you and I talked about it and it can't go on. It's too close a thing to cheating on your spouse to allow it to keep on." Then I was out the door and headed for my car. I needed a drink seriously bad; The Red Barn had all manner serious drinks.

The name of the bartender, my bartender at the Red Barn, was fittingly—Red. And, yes, he did have red hair.

I'd gotten out of the house for two reasons. One, the more I thought about her online boyfriend, for that's how I was seeing him, the more desperate I got: one, I was mortally afraid of losing her, and two, I wanted her to have a chance to contact him while the iron was still hot, to borrow a phrase. I guess I was looking a little down. Red dropped his ever present towel on the bar in front of me.

"You look like the guy that didn't win the lottery," he said. I looked up.

"Yeah, you could say that," I said. "My wife has a friend."

"I take it you do not mean best girlfriend."

"No, it's a man. His name is Michael," I said.

"And, he's better in bed than you are, or so she thinks," said Red.

"No, no, it's not that. She's got an e-friend. You know, the chat room thing on the computer and stuff," I said.

"Chat room?"

"Yeah, chat room. She claims she never spoke to him in person, never actually met him. It's just an online romance—my words. But, she says it's no big deal, just something that makes her feel good sometimes."

"Doesn't sound too bad," he said.

"Yeah, well she tells him things that she never would tell me. I told her she had to end it. For me it's cheatin'. I know that that might be arguable in court, but it's how I feel," I said.

"Well, he can't get his hands in her pants electronically," said Red, but I do see where you're coming from. I nodded. "Do you think she will?"

"Will what?" I said.

"Do you think she'll break it off with the guy?" I looked at him and stared.

"She has to," I said. "As to that, there is no choice. Otherwise it would be a real bad festering sore in terms of our marriage. Oh no, she has to end it. She just has to."

"And if she doesn't?" he said.

"I honestly don't know. I guess that might end it for us. Let me ask you, Red, do you see it as cheating?" I said.

"I guess it is, kinda. I mean how intimate are their conversations? I mean if all they're doing is talking about sports or crocheting socks; then, no, it's not cheating. But..."

"Hmm, yeah, I see what you mean," I said. I became lost in thought. I was remembering the things I'd read from the printout of her chats with the guy.

"Herb, doesn't think about me when we're having sex ... Sometimes I could just scream the way he acts around my friends ... Herb's a good guy, but he just doesn't understand me ... he dresses like he doesn't care that he shames us when we go out." The list of things she'd shared with him was long. And the things he'd shared with her. "My wife is a cold fish ... I haven't cheated, but frankly I'd feel justified in doing so..." He'd ended that last one with an LOL. Then, he'd propositioned Gillian, and they'd both LOLed when she'd declined his not very subtle invitation.

Oh yeah, pretty damn close to cheating. Pretty damn close!

"You okay, man?" said Red, as I resumed conscious thought.

"Yeah-yeah, I'm fine. Just a little confused, I guess," I said.

She was wrong of course. I did think about her and us when we were doing it. And we did do it kind of a lot, at least I thought that it was kinda a lot: twice a week. Thinking on it now, the stuff we did wasn't terribly imaginative, but it seemed to satisfy her, and it definitely did me? But, then again, maybe not her after all. What she'd said to the other guy—well—maybe not her.

I pulled into the drive and turned off the engine. I sat there staring at our front door. My stomach was roiling and I was almost on the point of puking. My conversation with Red kinda cleared my thinking some. I'd be talkin' to her. I'd be findin' out what else she'd been talkin' about with this e-friend of hers. E-friend? Helluva time we were livin' in. The old rules weren't the only rules anymore. I had to wonder what Dear Abby would've been sayin' about this e-stuff. I smiled at that. Dear Abby had an opinion on damn near everything.

I saw there was a light on in the kitchen. I could smell tea brewing. I looked at the clock on the living room wall: it was 1:00AM. She was still up. She looked over at me when I came in and sat down.

"I chatted with him," she said. I looked at her and she came to me with a cup of the tea.

"How did he take it?" I said. She looked at me with sad eyes.

"Herb, I'm not going to stop chatting with him. He—I don't know—he fills a need that I have, and I don't want to stop. I hope you can find it in your heart to try and understand. I need him for what he can do for me. You know, be a sounding board for my thoughts. A sounding board where there is no judgment, where there are no bad looks or bad vibes. Please, do try to understand," she said. "Herb, what he and I talk about doesn't change a thing about the way I feel about you, about the way I love you, my husband. It is completely separate from us. Please try to understand."

I just looked down. It was the worst moment of my life. I had no words. Her take it or leave it decision, and that's what it was, left me no room to maneuver. It very much looked like the end of our marriage. But was I over reacting? I knew that many would say that I was. But...

"I told him how you felt. He offered to stop chatting with me, but I told him no, that we would still be able to chat. I told him I would talk to you, reason with you, to not come between..."

"Come between the two of you?" I said, finally. She looked down. "Does it matter to you that he is coming between us? Because he is, Gil."

"Herb, he is not coming between us. He is outside of us," she said.

"I don't see it that way, Gil. You are being emotionally intimate with him at least that's the way it appears to me. Can you say you are not, can you honestly tell me you are not being intimate with this Michael guy in an emotional sense?" I said. She actually swallowed and looked away.

"It's a different kind of relationship that I have with him. It's most like one I might have with a close girlfriend. I do tell him stuff, but it is only..."

"It's hard when you feel you've been replaced, Gil. And, that is exactly how I am beginning to feel."

"Oh, now wait a minute, mister Herbert Miller! You are not being replaced. Far from it. If anything, Michael is helping us," she said.

"Now you wait a minute, missus Gillian Miller, we've been married twenty-three years. And, I don't want to see us ended because of some kind of computer love affair. And I very much fear it could happen. But, that said, I'm not ready to just trash our marriage and say sayonara. So, this is how it's going to be. In the end you're going to have to choose between your other man and me. Again, it's going to be your choice. I will give you a little time to make up your mind. But, while you are making it up, your mind that is, I won't be here. I'll be moving out tonight, now. I have my cell and you know the number. Call it when you decide what you're gonna do."

I rose, took a sip of the tea I hadn't so far touched, looked her in the eyes, and went upstairs to pack a few things. She stared at me in disbelief, but she didn't move or say anything.

I came downstairs and she was standing at the foot of the stairs waiting for me.

"You're really going to do this. You're really leaving," she said. She was still, I was sure, not quite believing her eyes and ears.

"I'll be back as soon as you decide that what you and I have is worth more than your dalliance with this Michael guy. I mean if that is what you decide. If not, this is the last you will ever see of me. I love you, Gil. But, I do not share my wife with any man on any level."

"Herb..." But, I was gone. Sick at heart, but I was gone.

Her fingers were tapping a tattoo on the booth's table as she waited for her visitor, a visitor that she had never before laid eyes on: Michael Waring. Denny's was a good place for coffee, she mused, an excellent place, actually.

She saw him coming through the restaurant's entrance: he was wearing the identifying Stetson that he had told her he would.

He saw her looking directly at him; her look identified her to him. "Missus Miller, I presume," said the man, as he took his seat. She nodded. She smiled; he was a handsome man, just as she'd pictured him: tall, dark hair and kinda unruly, and flashing eyes.

"And you are Mr. Waring, I hope," said Gillian.

"Not the best of circumstances for a first in-the-flesh meeting," said Michael.

"No, not the best. Michael, Herbert has left me. He thinks that what you and I have—well I mean..." She started to break down.

He had taken the seat opposite her, and now, reaching across, he covered her hand with his. "Gillian, he'll come around. And, my offer to stand aside still stands. If that's what it will take to save your marriage, it's a no brainer. We have to end our friendship if it means that much to him, really to the two of you. I understand that; and, I am ready to do so, painful though it will be for me," he said. "Oh, and you are quite pretty. I had pictured you being pretty, and you are."

"Thank you for the compliment, Michael," she said, "and, yes, it would be painful for me too for us to never chat again. Herb just has to understand that there is nothing bad about what we've been doing. He just has to.

"Mike, I do not want to end our little chat thing. It works for me, helps me; you help me. There is nothing bad in what we do," she said.

"Gil, I will follow your lead in this. Maybe we should meet for lunch again tomorrow to see where things are at. Maybe..."

"Yes, okay. I'm good with that. Here?" she said.

"No the Tocadero Arms, it's where I live. And it's only a mile from your workplace at Mobile-Phone," he said. She looked up at him.

"Really. I guess I never realized how close we were to each other geographically," she said. "Convenient."

"Yes, I guess so," he said. The talk wound down after some little bit, and then he was gone.

After he left, she realized that she had never told him where she worked, but, he knew. She put it out of her mind; she must have told him at some point; she just didn't remember.

I could see her waiting for me, when I got off work; she was just outside the main entrance. Well, so much for my pronouncement that she wouldn't see me again unless she'd done a one-eighty on her decision not to end it with this Michael guy. Well, then again, maybe she had.

My place of employment, Carter Laboratories Inc. is a quasi-private research firm specializing in nano-technology and software of the kind used by large commercial organizations like banks and heavy industrial. I'm a financial analyst responsible for making sure that the requirements of both our private and federal grants and MOUs are adhered to. It's important work, and I knew Gillian had always been proud of me. Too, she was thrilled with the pay and benefit package my job commanded, which added to her own, had us all but on easy street. But now, I was all but certain that she was there to continue her campaign to convince me to go along with her reasoning that her little chat sessions with this Michael guy were no threat to me.

She stared at me from ten feet away as I exited the building. It was 5:10. She was dressed to the nines; again, I didn't have to wonder what her pitch was going to be. She was wanting to talk, to take another shot at me.

"Herbert?"

I'd been walking and talking to a colleague. "Go ahead on home, John, I'll see you tomorrow," I said, turning my attention to my wife.

"Okay," said John, glancing past me to my very pretty wife. "Hey, Gillian, You look great," he said, as he strode off. She smiled and nodded her appreciation of his remark.

We waited for my coworker to put some distance between us.

"Why are you here, Gillian? You decided to keep me? To lose the other guy?" I said. "If not you're wasting your time."

"Herb, I need to talk to you. I realized after you actually left—and I still can't believe you actually did that—that I had done a very bad job of explaining things and kinda left you no room to, well ... I was unfair. Please, let's sit down somewhere that serves decent wine and talk. Okay? Whaddya say?" I stared at her for a long moment. I couldn't imagine myself agreeing to what she wanted, especially knowing the way she'd talked about me. But, we did have a long relationship. I guessed I owed her another shot at the least.

"You follow in your car. We may not be going to the same place when we're done, but if you want," I took a deep breath, "I guess we can talk," I said.

"Thank you." We each headed for our cars.

The Calaboose was my second most favorite watering hole after the Red Barn. It had the added virtue of really good chili. Plus the bar girls actually made one want to commit crimes against the sixth commandment; well, but we, or at least I, never did. Plus the red pinot noire was pretty good. I'd half-finished my first glass before she said word one. I was about to take another sip when she finally did.

"I guess maybe I should start since I called this little sit down," she said. I nodded. "You—you probably know that I talk--chatted with him again today." I nodded. And, yes, I caught her almost slip of the tongue.

"As I have sometimes in the past, I asked for his advice," she said. "You know, about all of this." I nodded again. I waited. It was her show.

"He said I was crazy to risk my marriage over what he and I have," she said.

"He's right," I said. She sighed.

"Herb, if I were talking to a psychologist, you wouldn't have any problem. Would you?" she said.

"No, but you wouldn't be getting emotionally involved with a professional," I said. I remembered what Red had said. "Look, Gillian, if you were talking sports or about your latest crochet masterpiece; well, there'd be no problem if that was all it was. But, all the smack about me? And the other stuff? Go ahead and justify that shit if you can." She was silent for a moment.

"Herb—well—I was getting even with you. I shouldn't have been. And a lot of it was over the top, the words I mean. They were uncalled for," she said. I think my mouth was hanging open.

"Getting even with me! What the fuck for!" I said. "What the fuck did I do for chryssakes?"

"Frankly, Herb, much as I love you, and never doubt that I do; you've done a lot of stupid stuff," she said.

"Like for instance?" I said. I was a little miffed.

"Most of the time when we go out, you'd dress for comfort but never for me; you know, to make me proud. You just don't seem to care that a woman needs to feel proud of her man. Or we go to family or friends' do's and you drink too much and make an ass of yourself never caring how it makes me feel or makes us look as a couple. And, the worst, Herb, you hardly ever show me any affection anymore, not publically for damn sure. We cuddle a little at night, but that's about it. And the sex? Well, let's just say, that of late it ain't exactly been all that fucking wonderful. There's more, Herb, but you get the idea," she said.

"Last night when we had our conversation about my chatting with Michael, you mentioned that you thought that I should have been talking with you about the things—well—that I needed to talk about. Because you're my husband, you said. I've tried, Herb. In the past I've tried, and you always blew me off. So, I stopped trying," she said.

I sat there staring at her. "Gil! I never meant to blow you off any time," I said. "I'm sorry if I did. But replacing me is not the way to get even with me or to fix things between us. Not even."

"Herb, you're a man. Men—most men— don't think; they just want; they just seize the moment! So long as you can fart, and swear, and down the next shooter; well, then your satisfied. You've demonstrated your macho manliness. Well, some women, and I'm one of the some, need a little more than that from their guy, Herb, sorry, but it's true."

I looked at her. "And, this Michael guy, isn't like most men, I take it," I said.

"I don't really know. But no, not on the chat wire," she said. "Having him to chat with allows me a way to vent. I don't know, I guess it helps, helps me." I nodded.

"Gil, this guy Michael, as much as I am beginning to understand where you're coming from, and, maybe what you need; I have to say that I feel threatened by him. I know what you said. But, how can I be sure that I won't come home some night and hear you ask for a divorce.

"Herb, that is just not going to happen. I promise you. And besides, he's married too. If that makes a difference," she said.

"Okay, Gil, I'm real antsy about this thing, but I guess as long as you never meet in the flesh..."

Her look? It could have been my imagination, but her eyes seemed to dart away for the briefest of moments. But then, she tendered me a reassuring smile. I let the look slide.

"Herbert Miller, I'll say it again, you will never lose me, not to Michael, not to any man. And, share me? You're not, not in any real sense of the word. I love you too much for any of that. It's just that, well, I need this little chat thing on the side.

"Herb, I promise you won't regret it. Girl scouts honor," she said, and she raised her hand and proffered me the girl-scout salute.

"Gil, I won't pretend to feeling good about it, but I guess you deserve to have your little chat room thing. So, okay, so long as you never get physical with him, start meeting with him face to face, well, I guess I can live with it," I said. There was that look again; but also again, she smiled broadly. She came to me.

"Mister, tonight you are going to be rewarded and that big time. And a lot of other nights too," she said. "You and I, big boy, are going to be getting our act together," she said. "Let's get out of here." The ride home was quiet, but she sat close to me and let her hand rest on my thigh as we drove. We'd left her car in the lot to be retrieved later.

At home, we wasted no time getting inside. She took me by the hand and led me toward the stairs. I wasn't sure how I was feeling about things; but I was currently, and for the moment, in her thrall. I'd made her happy, and she seemed determined to make me happy, not him, not for the moment at any rate.

We slowly undressed each other; then, stood slightly apart staring into each other's eyes. She was beautiful and slender and delicate and female and absolutely in ownership of my heart. I hoped against hope that this might be the beginning of something very good for us—especially for me. At our twin ages of forty-seven, and near twenty-three years of marriage; we'd gotten a little stale; I knew that now. But, maybe things could change. Maybe she'd been right about her chat thing being good for the both of us.

I reached for her and gently kissed her, no tongue, not yet, just softness. She leaned into me and her hardening nipples made me know she was ready for me, ready to give herself to me. There was nothing ambiguous in her eyes now, no darting eyes now: she wanted me. And oh my God how I wanted her.

She led me to the bed and lay down on it, her legs splayed wide for me. There is something almost divine about a woman willingly surrendering to her man. I realized at that moment what was meant by the phrase "forsaking all others." It meant these kinds of moments could be shared only between spouses. Her chats would never be anything like this. Michael, whoever he really was, could never have this, not in some virtual chat room. As I lowered my face to her mound, I felt myself accepting her reasoning about the chat thing; I no longer felt challenged by it.

Sliding up her body I kissed her. I probed her slit with the head of my cock and pushed. I slid in easily. She rose to meet my thrust and then she was impaled and I was screwing her. She mooed and moaned and shivered when she came. I knew she wasn't faking it. The look on her face was stunning. I'd not seen that look before. She looked—what—frightened? She stiffened and saliva dribbled from the side of her mouth as a cataclysmic spasm seized her. I reached my own climax not but seconds behind her. I felt guilty: I suddenly felt sure it was the first time that I had ever given her an orgasm. In twenty-three—years! I held her and comforted her because she was crying.

She reached for a tissue on the night stand by the bed. "I love you, Herb. That was wonderful."

We weren't done. We rested for a little while, and then, rolling her over, I took her once more from behind. I think she had a smaller orgasm that time too; but, I wasn't sure. We slept.

Our sex life was energized. We did it at least once every night for that next week. But, we didn't seem able to quite recapture the thrill of that first moment the week before. She, for her part, was very giving. I was getting my first blow jobs in a long time, and she was initiating sex as often as I was. For my part I was doing my level best to pleasure her. I knew, almost as an absolute fact, that I had been able to get her off at least one other time during that ensuing week. She seemed satisfied. That, the way I saw it, was both good and bad.

She seemed satisfied but not thrilled, not excited to be making love to me. I hoped I was just being paranoid, that I was wrong. I didn't want to believe she was just allowing me mercy fucks. Sex for the sole purpose of keeping "me" satisfied so I wouldn't rain on her chat room activities. But, I just couldn't shake the feeling. And, on another level, the full realization that for our entire married life, I had failed her sexually. My guilt at that probable reality stunned me and sickened me. The time would come when I would be getting down on my knees and begging her forgiveness for my selfishness, but not yet.

In the weeks immediately following our excellent night and the rest of that first week, things did gradually slow down. We went from doing it anywhere from three and four times a week to as little as once a week by the time a couple of months were in the books: fewer, actually, than before the big blow up. She didn't seem to realize it either; or, realize that I did.