I blinked in the sunlight that streamed through my windows and stretched like the cat who lay on my pillow purring like a crazed motorboat. He’ll be here soon, I thought, and as if on cue, I heard the front door open and close and the cat tore off to greet our visitor.
“Good morning, TN!” I called.
“Good morning, Hyacinth!” he called back.
I fixed my eyes on the doorway and let him fill my view as he sauntered in, sheet marks pressed into his skin and his eyes puffy, but his cock enormous and jutting out against his shiny black basketball shorts.
I giggled at the image of his exhaustion mingled with a giant erection.
He walked up to the side of the bed and pulled himself free of his shorts, his taut, pink skin a slightly curved appendage for my viewing pleasure.
I wrapped my hand around it. “Mmm,” I said and stood up. “I have to pee. I’ll be right back!”
When I came back out he pushed me roughly down onto the bed and licked his hand. “I doubt I needed to do this. Hmm, let’s see. Could Hyacinth be wet already?”
“It’s possible,” I answered looking up at him. “You wake up with that monster between your legs everyday. I happen to wake up wet everyday.” He pushed at my opening and sure enough he slid right in.
We moved together in the sunlight, carefully avoiding each other’s morning breath and hugged and humped and clutched and climaxed. He pinned my legs onto his shoulders and moved until I was begging him to stop and then with a puffy-eyed grin kept going.
We were done relatively quickly, it being the morning and all. He gently removed himself from me and lay beside me. “Hang on,” I said and rolled over and grabbed my phone, something I’d done alone for so long.
I began taking pictures of us freshly post-coital. It felt intimate and odd, like a salty candy that gives you two flavors at once.
He left shortly after to go to work and I smiled, stupidly happy.
And then I realized how uncomfortable I am with happiness and how I am doing my best to destroy what little peace I’ve finally managed to accomplish with him: I suggested that he fuck other women.
The night I came up with this grand plan I had just met his parents. Over the course of roughly 4 and a half hours I’d had a glass of white wine while getting dressed, a glass of Prosecco before dinner, and a glass of Rosé with my scallops, but when I’d suggested it to him he seriously wondered if I were drunk.
“I trust you, TN, I really do. And I’m proud of you and I think you’re amazing in bed. I want you to be able to go out and have fun.”
He just looked at me, dumbfounded as I blithely continued. “No, really. I’m so happy with you, I want you to be happy, too.”
“Ok…” he said, incredulous. “But why the change of heart? You’ve never felt this way before.”
“It’s because you told me you loved me and I feel safe with you, content. I really feel like I could handle it.”
I’d dozed off then on his warm, furry chest and forgotten all about it. But he hadn’t.
The following day he brought it up again. “So, what you said the other night. Do you still mean it? Or were you just drunk?”
It all came rushing back to me: the warm glow of acceptance, the sense of safety, this ridiculous drive to prove I were invincibly in love with him. What.the.fuck. But I was too embarrassed to back out. “No, really, I do,” I replied and then began that weird dance that people in open relationships do wherein they try to think of every possible thing they can’t handle: no two dates with the same woman, no threesomes without me, no lies, everything has to be transparent to me. Then, of course I asked if he’d care if I slept around.
He was thoughtful, then said he’d be ok with me and another couple, but not with another man. I told him I couldn’t imagine fucking another man anyway, I already had my unicorn firmly in my grasp. He’d smiled at that and then I felt a twinge of something, like a tiny splinter: why would he want to fuck another woman? aren’t I good enough? the best? And that’s when I knew I was full of shit and actively trying to sabotage my own happiness.
The next night, after the sweet, yet brief morning love session, I came to him with hat in hand, sheepish and utterly embarrassed. “You’re right, TN. I can’t handle it. I think I’m just really uncomfortable with how happy I am. I mean, look, we’ve only been this kind of happy for 3 months and I’m already looking to inject it with chaos.”
He pulled me into his nook and stroked my arm. “I thought so,” he said. “Besides, I’m not a player. I’m really not that interested in opening this up.”
I’m almost 40 years old and this is a humiliating moment for me. I left a marriage that was safe, yet passionless, and embarked on a wild year or two of no safety whatsoever, but chocked full of passion. I manage to cultivate a passionate — and safe — relationship and the first thing I try to do is dismantle it.
After everything we’ve been through — 4 am girl, my secret sex blog, his resistance, my anger — we’ve made it. He wants me and my entire life and I am inexplicably uncomfortable with his unconditional regard despite my longing for just this very thing. I am a stupid bastard.
So for now we have agreed to just be happy with each other and I’ve vowed to immerse myself in this new sensation called happiness. It’s strange and terrifying, but I happen to like salty candy so I’m going to keep chewing.