Do you know where she is?

She told you it was a girls’ night out.

But is it? Or is it something else?

The subtle changes in her mood, her behavior, her body language, her schedule, her patterns. At least that’s what you perceive.

Is it real? Or just your fertile imagination?

Sure, you don’t have sex as often. What couple doesn’t after fifteen years? It’s entirely normal for a certain amount of sexual ennui to creep gradually into a marriage, right?

How long has it been since she’s gone down on you?

How long since you’ve given her a leg-shaking, eye-rolling orgasm?

Maybe it’s you. You’ve gone a bit soft in the body after all. A few too many beers on the couch on NFL Sundays. Less time at the gym.

She, by contrast, has kept her toned, tanned, athletic shape. Her lifestyle and exercise discipline show. She carries herself with confidence. Radiates a healthy glow.

You can see it when you enter a cocktail party. It’s the other men. The furtive glances. Sometimes the outright stares.

But even more, it’s the women. Sizing her up. Competition.

It makes you proud. And yet, a trifle insecure. As though you know you’re not quite worthy.

Your suspicions have been gradually building until they gnaw at you like a teething puppy. Is it healthy paranoia, or are you beginning to lose your mind to a reckless conspiracy theory?

There are ways to investigate these things, of course. That might put all your fears to rest. You could then relax, secure in the knowledge that she is still your beautiful, loving, faithful wife.

But you haven’t. And you won’t.

Because you don’t really want to know, do you?

Because you’re afraid of what you might find. That it isn’t just your imagination.

How did she look, heading out the door tonight?

Was that a mischievous twinkle in her eye?

Did she say not to wait up? Did she say “I love you”? Or just “see you later”?

Could you handle it? If you knew she isn’t out with her friends?

If you knew that instead, she is in a hotel room somewhere?

That, beneath the jeans and white blouse, she is wearing a set of lingerie that you’ve never seen?

That, at this moment, a handsome stranger is sliding that thong down her long legs and gazing with hunger at the carefully manicured triangle of pubic hair that always makes your cock twitch?

Would she worship his cock, falling to her knees, taking it deeply down her throat, eyes watering, mascara running, saliva dripping down onto her breasts and over her achingly hard nipples?

Would there be condoms? Or would she insist on nothing coming between her and his glorious cock? Will he claim her, sending her on her way leaking his essence, marked as another’s?

How would you react if you knew for sure?

Would you be crushed? Would you collapse on the bathroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably, your ego in shatters, reduced to a pathetic, inadequate shadow of a man?

Or would you be turned on, knowing that the woman you love is exciting, alluring, confident, and determined to get what she wants?

Is it your fantasy? Or your nightmare?

Would your heart ache? Or would you be on the edge?

Or both?

It could be your imagination. She might be out with the girls, chatting, laughing, having another drink.

But deep down, you know better. At least you think you do.

Because she can. Because she knows she can get away with it. Because she knows you all too well. That you’re far too meek and timid to inquire.

And that if she ever slipped up, you wouldn’t do anything about it.

Would you?

Sleep eludes you. You glance at the clock. 2:45.

Your heart pounds. Your cock aches. You’ve been edging all night as you turn this all over on your mind.

All it takes are a few quick strokes. Your groan mixes with a pathetic whimper as you erupt all over your stomach.

You wait for your breathing to normalize, then massage your shame into your skin, choosing to endure it as a badge of your humiliation. Physically exhausted and emotionally drained, you roll over, facing the empty pillow, and let the darkness engulf you.