I have written a lot of stories, and I believe I have a creative imagination. Because most of the stories are my fantasies, my main male characters tend to resemble me. This might quickly lead an astute reader to confusion, because in the various stories, my wife is either a nymphomaniac, or she's dead, or she left me for either a younger or an older man. My only answer is that to some extent all of those descriptions of her are true.

Actually, we have been married more than thirty years. A lot can happen in thirty years. We've laughed and cried together, we've fought and made up, and we've been on the brink of divorce a couple of times. My wife has always had my respect and love, even when I was ready to kill her. I'm sure she might say the same about me. We’re both looking forward to writing more chapters in our story.

In case you haven't guessed, I am a storyteller in real life. Given half a chance, I can turn an explanation of why I took extra time at the grocery store into an epic journey of peril. There are times when our friends are highly entertained by my tales, and there are times when they are annoyed to hear me talking again. I was inspired to write this true story by the telling of a related story.

A group of our swinger friends organized a meet-and-greet event for new couples, and my wife and I were sitting in on a question and answer session. The question that was posed was "Which of you suggested swinging and why did the other agree?" Most of the couples answered that the man suggested it, and the woman either decided it would be fun, or she went along to please her guy. Our friends nearly groaned when it came around for me to answer. They knew my answer would never be as simple as that.

My short answer was this: My wife and I had attempted an open marriage, and she was having way better luck than I was. I suggested swinging to even up the odds. My wife was reluctant until we arrived at our first meet-and-greet. It took her less than five minutes to meet a guy that she wanted to take advantage of, and when she saw I was willing to green-light the adventure, she was all in. I was a bit more reluctant.

By default, I was paired with the guy's girlfriend. She was good looking and quite the kisser, and I think we both were looking forward to whatever adventure we could find. I was reluctant because I knew my wife was capable of intense jealousy, and I didn’t want to trigger her. While my wife and her new friend put on a great exhibition of passion and delight, his girlfriend and I quietly had a good time.

I was asked a follow-up question about the jealousy issue. I truthfully answered that in ten years of swinging, jealousy had not been a factor at all for us and that my wife had left that issue in the past. I withheld the fact that there had been a couple of times that my wife was bothered by my attraction to another woman, but both times, we had talked it through.

One of the newbies persisted, asking more about how I had triggered my wife’s jealousy in the past. I deferred and pointed out that the telling of that tale is an epic story that I would gladly share at another time, and the discussion moved on. I was ready to let it go.

Apparently, the young woman was not. An hour later, she cornered me and begged me to tell her the story. When I checked with my wife for permission, she rolled her eyes and found a reason to walk away. The pretty young girl begged, and I told her the tale.

She laughed at the first half, completely disbelieved the middle, and then poked fun at me for the ending. She was young and cute, and I thoroughly enjoyed entertaining her for a time, so I didn't really care if she believed me or not. With any luck, I will meet her at a party someday, and she and I can write another chapter to the story.

So, without further delay, here is that story. Believe it if you can, laugh if you don't, and I hope you find it entertaining. And if you're a reasonably good-looking woman who's interested in an adventure, maybe you can run into me and we'll write another chapter as well.

===

My wife and I grew up in the same small Wisconsin town, although she is a couple years younger than I am. We started dating just as she was finishing high school and just before I joined the military. We got married a year later.

I was able to parlay my military experience into a job working for a friend's father's company in the Northwest Chicago suburbs. My wife had limited work experience, mostly due to the military shuffling us around, but she was able to pick up a job at a flower shop in Woodfield Mall.

The flower shop was a free-standing shop in the middle of the mall. My wife loved working there and loved meeting and helping customers, but she hated one thing. The nearest bathroom that they were supposed to use was clear at the end of the mall. My wife drinks way too much coffee, and sometimes the pressure buildup was painful.

My wife solved the problem in a most practical way. She became friends with a younger woman that worked at the nearby camera shop. When my wife needed a break, she would get that girl to keep half an eye on the flower shop while my wife snuck into the bathroom in the camera shop to take care of her needs. Instead of closing the flower shop for ten minutes or more, she could be out and back in less than two.

The woman at the camera shop was named Michelle, and she and my wife became fast friends. At first, they simply hung out together at the mall before and after work, and they often took lunch or dinner breaks together. Later, when Michelle turned twenty-one and therefore was of legal drinking age, they often would stop for drinks before heading home.

I really didn't know much about Michelle. At the time, I was twenty-seven, my wife was twenty-five, and Michelle had just turned twenty-one. I didn't really have any interest in her, and my wife never brought her around the house. I was surprised to learn that she had been married and divorced. I only learned that because my wife was explaining why they had to go out drinking and looking for men. My only concern with that was that my wife not drink very much if she was driving.

I wasn't concerned when my wife woke me, one night, with an issue to discuss. She had been working the evening shift, which meant she didn't get out of the mall until almost ten at night. It was late when she woke me, and she was drunk enough that she shouldn't have been driving. She was also drunk enough that she wasn't worried about the late hour when she woke me up to ask a question that had been bothering her.

"How much trouble will I find if I go too far trying to help Michelle hook up with a guy?" she asked.

"Huh?" I groggily replied.

"Michelle really needs to get laid," she explained. "A couple of guys were hitting on us and buying drinks, and I think the dumb-looking guy would have taken care of her if I had agreed to fuck the hot guy. Michelle was mad 'cause she wanted the hot guy, so we didn't do it. She really needs to get laid, so will I be in trouble if I say yes the next time?"

"Sure, honey," I replied, and then promptly went back to sleep.

I'm pretty sure that was the right way to answer. My wife was more than a little hung over the next morning, and she didn't remember having the conversation at all. She did mostly listen when I lectured her about drinking and driving.

Several weeks went by, and every Saturday night, my wife and her friend Michelle would hit the bars on their way home. My wife drank responsibly, mostly because she knew I would stay awake enough to check on her when she got home. I don't think I'm a mean husband, but I was pretty firm on that one point.

I should have known that trouble was coming when my wife drove straight home the next Saturday night. She gave me a quick kiss and told me I didn't have to wait up. Moments later, a taxi showed up and she was off to enjoy herself with Michelle. I mostly trusted her.

I was almost entirely asleep when a commotion woke me. It took me a couple of minutes to wake up enough to make sense of what I was hearing.

My wife had opened the door to our apartment but was standing outside talking loudly to three other women. She was telling the two women from upstairs about how she was trying to get Michelle laid, and how they weren't having any luck. Michelle was loudly telling her to shut up.

My wife loudly said that if they didn't work out something soon, she was going to have to take pity on Michelle, and let her use me to satisfy her needs. The other two ladies squawked at that, and in a fit of laughter, they nearly dared my wife to do it. My wife asked if they had more alcohol upstairs because if they did, she would go drinking with them and leave Michelle to explore.

There was a bunch of squabbling after that, followed by the sound of three women heading up the stairs, and then my front door closed.

For several minutes, the only sound was the clomping of feet on the floor above us. There wasn't a sound in our apartment, but I could nearly feel the presence that snuck down the hallway and stopped outside my bedroom door. The door was open, but I couldn't even hear her breathing.

"John, are you awake?" she finally quietly asked.

"You thought I would sleep through that racket?" I quietly teased.

A long silence followed. She didn't even step into the doorway where I could see her.

"What are we supposed to do?" she finally asked.

I thought about it for a moment. I shook my head, and then almost laughed at myself for doing it.

"Why don't you come on in and talk for a while," I suggested. "I don't know what my wife may have promised you, but I know we aren't going to have sex."

She stepped into the room and stared at me.

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"I've known my wife long enough to recognize when she's testing me," I answered. "This is like when she points out a hot woman at the mall, and then punches me when I look. We can talk about anything you want, but she won't stop at punching me if I have sex with you."

Michelle seemed to shake her head in disgust and confusion as she wandered in and sat on the edge of the bed.

"There’s not really anything to talk about," she muttered.

"What?" I asked gently.

"The whole thing is stupid," she answered. "I see a hot guy and my insides get all mushy and I just want to touch him. I don't even know why I get all hot and bothered when the whole thing is so disgusting anyways."

"Disgusting?" I asked. I would like to point out that it was really late and I had just woken up.

"Maybe not for guys," she groused, "but, yeah, you know, disgusting."

"Uh," I answered. After a moment, I suggested, "The beauty of togetherness? The joy of release?"

"The painful entry, a couple of grunts," she said bitterly. "Yeah, that's beautiful."

"Maybe the first time," I suggested.

"It doesn't matter," she continued to grumble. "It's not like I'm ever going to find someone who wants to touch me."

"So let your fingers do some walking," I teased, purposefully misquoting an old ad line. "Just relieve some of the pressure, for now. I'm sure you'll be able to find someone."

She gave me a puzzled look.

"Who would I call?"

I don't know if that was the moment I finally woke up or what. It suddenly occurred to me just then that she and I were talking two different languages. I don't know why I cared, but I suddenly felt the need to help her. It didn't bother me at all that helping her would not involve actual sex.

"Michelle, have you ever enjoyed sex?" I asked.

"What's there to enjoy?" she said painfully. "The guy comes in drunk, pushes inside, makes a mess, and he's snoring before you even get a chance to wake up."

"That's not how it's supposed to be," I suggested.

"That's how it was with my ex," she grumbled.

"Did you..." I started, and then stopped to think. I couldn't think of a way to ask without being blunt. I tried again. "Did you ask him to slow down and please you?"

"Please me how?" she pleaded painfully. "Slow or fast, it would still be disgusting, right?"

"You could have shown him how you please yourself," I suggested. I tried really hard to keep my tone light and supportive.

"What do you mean?" she asked suspiciously. I almost thought she thought I was blaming her for something.

I tried to come at it from a different direction. "Michelle, do you masturbate?"

"No!" she cried out. "That's disgusting, too!"

She shook her head for a moment and then added, "My mom would kill me if she caught me doing that."

"As advice to an adolescent, your mother was probably right," I said. "As an adult, it's a healthy way to attend to the needs of your body."

She continued to shake her head, but her frown softened. Finally, she nearly whispered, "I wouldn't even know what to do."

I thought, "You're fucking kidding me, right." Even though this all happened a lot of years ago, I had a hard time believing anyone had lived such a sheltered life that they didn’t know how to masturbate.

Aloud, I asked, "Will you let me show you?"

Before she could answer, I added, "I won't touch you, but I can suggest a thing or two. I should remind you that you and I can't have sex, but I can tell you that sex with the right person can be beautiful and exciting and sexy and messy and even disgustingly fun. It all starts with knowing what your body wants."

"I don't know," she stammered.

"Why don't we try, and if you don't like it, we can stop."

She looked at me expectantly. I may have mentioned that I am a storyteller. I put my skills to good use.

"My wife says you two ran into a couple of guys the other week, and one of them was good looking. Do you remember that?"

Her wistful look was exactly the response I was looking for. She nodded.

"He was one of those guys that made your insides squishy, wasn't he," I stated.

She reluctantly nodded.

"Close your eyes, and remember everything you can about him. What was the first thing about him that you noticed?"

Her eyes closed, and she smiled.

"His shoulders were really big," she remembered. "Like football player big."

"Imagine for a moment that he really is your boyfriend," I continued. "When you get close to him, what do you do to his shoulders? Touch them? Rest your head on them?"

She moaned softly, and her eyes popped open.

"Promise me you won't make fun of me!" she demanded.

"Not for this, I won't," I promised. "What do you want to do to him?"

She blushed, and her eyes drifted slowly shut. "I wanted to bite him so bad! Not bite-bite, but just taste him with my teeth, on his shoulders and his neck."

"Nice!" I complimented, and her blush darkened. Her eyes were watching me intently.

"Close your eyes," I reminded her, "and picture yourself unbuttoning his shirt, and tasting his skin. With your eyes still closed, rub your hand on your tummy."

She trembled as she complied. I managed not to laugh as I gave her more instruction. Her hand was sliding side to side on top of her clothes.

"Slide your hand under your shirt, Michelle. Sex is about skin on skin. Let your hands feel your skin. Let your skin feel your hand."

She moaned, and her eyes slowly opened.

"This is wrong," she murmured. "It feels too good."

"This is what you need," I reminded her. "Do you want it to feel even better?"

Her hand stroked back and forth before she nodded. When I smiled at her answer, she smiled as well.

"Close your eyes," I said again, and she did. "He's the kind of man that knows what will make you feel good. His hands are bigger than yours, but they are warm like yours, on your skin."

Her breath got all stuttery, and I was afraid she was going to pass out. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled at me. Her hand continued to rub, and her eyes slowly closed.

"He wants more for you," I said. "He wants more to make you feel good. He knows what you need, and he wants the front of your jeans open so he can please you."

She gasped as her eyes opened and she gave me a questioning look. I smile reassuringly and nodded. Her breathing turned excessively erratic as she popped the button and slid down her zipper. Her eyes begged me for more as her hand returned to stroking across her stomach.

I glanced down at her hand. "Is that where your insides are churning?" I asked.

She glanced down at her hand. Her eyebrows furrowed, but she didn't answer. I gave her a soft smile.

"Your hand knows," I suggested. Her breath started to catch again. "His hands know," I teased. Her frown deepened. "Convince yourself," I commanded softly. "Let your hand seek a little lower."

She whimpered, but her hand barely slid into the top of her panties. It continued to slide from side to side, and her eyes drifted shut. Watching her hand going side to side, I started to believe she really was naive about what was coming. I also suspected she was going to figure the rest out quickly.

"Your skin is hotter there, and your hand can feel it," I teased. She barely nodded. "His fingers are gathering the heat, and they feel hotter on your skin with each pass." Her body started to tremble. "The heat is a magnet, and it's drawing his hand lower."

Her body lurched as her hand pressed deeper, and her eyes popped open.

"John, something’s wrong!" she gasped.

"Don't stop, Michelle, you've almost got it," I promised.

Her body was trembling at the edge of control, and her hand was frozen in place. I had no doubt that her fingers were in her pubic hair. I needed her to go just a bit lower. Looking back, I have to laugh. I didn't care anymore about what she needed.

"I want..." she gasped in a trembling voice.

"Yes," I answered drawing the word out, drawing her out.

With a mighty frown, she closed her eyes and pushed her hand straight down.

The explosion that followed was epic. I have seen orgasms that were bigger, harder, wetter, and tragically more intense, but hers was so raw and so unexpected by her that it was a sight to behold. As much as I was tempted to do more, I simply sat there and watched and enjoyed her release.

She had mostly returned to earth when she suddenly gasped and pulled her hand out of her pants.

"Oh my god, what did I do?" she gasped in fright.

"Michelle, wait," I tried to interrupt, but she wasn't listening to me.

"Oh my god, I can't believe I just did that! I'm so sorry!" she cried out in a fluster as she jumped to her feet and closed up her jeans. "Tell your wife I'm sorry, and I'll talk to her tomorrow!" she cried as she raced out the bedroom door. Two seconds later, the front door slammed, and she was gone.

===

My wife is a happy drunk. She had a huge smile on her face when she came slinking into the bedroom two minutes later.

"She left in a hurry," she teased. "Want to tell me what happened?"

"I think your naive young friend just masturbated to the first orgasm of her life," I realized out loud.

"Get out!" she drunkenly slurred. Her hand slapped down onto my evident hardness. "That explains a lot. Was it fun to watch?" she teased. "Did you help her out? Was her pussy cute like mine?"

"Don't be mean," I teased back. "She was scared to death, and she didn't even take her clothes off."

"Oh, poor baby," she teased. "Are you all hot and bothered because you didn't get to see the action. Let me show you what you missed!"

She proceeded to strip naked and then sit astride my stomach as she masturbated to a nice orgasm. Afterwards, she pretended she was going to leave me high and dry while she curled up and went to sleep. I was on to her game, and we had a wonderful wrestling match that we both lost, and we both won.

===

The next Saturday, it happened again. My wife dropped off her car, took a taxi to go drinking, and returned loudly at one in the morning. Once again, she headed upstairs to drink with the neighbors while leaving Michelle alone at our door.

Michelle waited until we could hear them walking around upstairs before she came down the hall. She stopped and tapped on my open bedroom door before stepping inside.

"John, can I ask you something?" she asked right off.

"Sure," I replied in a reassuring tone. I made sure it didn't sound at all like I was teasing her.

"What..." she tried. She took a deep breath. "What the hell happened to me last week?" she asked.

"Do you mean the orgasm you had, or the embarrassment afterwards?" I asked gently. When she didn't reply, I added, "That's the way real sex is supposed to feel."

She gave a nervous laugh. "Oh, I've felt embarrassed after sex plenty of times." She paused for a moment and added, "My body has never done that before."

I did let her hear that I was teasing when I said, "If it were up to me, I would advise you to be really mad at either your ex or your parents, maybe both."

"Oh my god, speaking of embarrassment," she laughed. "I thought maybe I would experiment a little the other night, and the first time I made a noise, my mother was at my door begging to know if I was alright! I'm going to have to figure out how to afford my own place before I ever get to do that again."

I was laughing with her as I teased, "Well, you're always welcome here."

"What do you mean?" she gasped in surprise. “Like, now?”

I tried to keep my tone light. "Well, sure, now, if you wanted to. If you come by some evening on your day off, I'll go out jogging and you can have some privacy."

"I could do that," she said. She sounded distracted like she was trying to convince herself. "I guess I can figure out what to do."

Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. In a light tone, I teased, "Do you need another instructional fantasy to get you started?"

"Right now?" she gasped again.

I was in too far to turn back.

"Sure, why not now?" I asked. "It's what my wife sent you down here for, isn't it?"

"I guess," she stammered as she moved over and sat on the bed. "She won't be mad?"

"She sent you, and she knows what she's doing. She won't be mad."

She was quiet for half a second.

"So, do I start with the guy with the shoulders?" she asked as she slid her hand under shirt to caress her stomach.

"That depends," I said in a teasing tone. "Have you met anyone since then that made your insides get melty?"

She gasped, and her hand froze, and I instantly regretted asking that question. I was almost afraid to continue. I really didn't want her to say it was me. There was no chance I was going to stop, though.

"Tell me," I quietly commanded.

She blushed and swallowed, and my heart started hammering in my chest.

"This guy came into the store yesterday," she admitted in a pained tone, and suddenly I was able to breathe again.

"Oh, I am so bad," she continued. "There was something about his lips. They looked so soft and warm and I couldn't stop from imagining what they would feel like if he kissed my neck. He saw that I was distracted and he gave me a smile like he wanted to feel my neck under his lips. I think he was disappointed when he came back for his prints and Dave helped him."

Her eyes begged for understanding. "When I ran his film through the machine, one of the pictures showed him and some friends with their shirts off, playing basketball. Oh, I could get in so much trouble, but I had to make a copy of it for myself."

My eyes reminded her to start moving the hand under her shirt as I asked, "Is that where you would start? Are you there when he first takes his shirt off, or do you arrive after they've worked up a sweat?"

As I spoke, she quickly unsnapped and opened the front of her jeans. She was wearing plain white cotton panties, and I don't think she even noticed that I could see them. Her breath started to catch before she even started to rub.

"Oh my god, he smelled so good when he shook my hand," she gasped. As the hand at her stomach started caressing circles just inside her panties, her other hand raced up to her nose. "I swore I was never going to wash my hand as long as it smelled of him. If he were showing off and sweating... oh... I can't even imagine!"

"Michelle, he knows you even better than you know yourself," I teased provocatively. "His hand down below isn't going to wait until the end to push down low."

Her eyes were staring straight into mine, begging me for more. I desperately wanted to watch her hand stroke vertically instead of horizontally, but I couldn't look away from her eyes. In her eyes, I saw her surprise when her first strokes didn’t cause an orgasm. I also saw her amazement at the amount of pleasure she was giving herself. As I watched, I kept the narrative moving.

"You already know he wants his lips on your neck. He wants your teeth tasting his sweat!"

She gasped as she started to tremble. Her eyes demanded more.

"He knows you so well," I reminded her. "He wants to give you what you need. He wants his other hand on your breast, on your nipple."

She gasped and froze, and her eyes slid down to her own breast. I had barely been able to see how her nipples were poking at her layers of clothes, and I needed her to show them to me. I knew better than to scare her by asking directly.

She was frowning as her eyes returned to mine, and I made sure my eyes were on hers long before they got there. She begged for an answer. I nodded.

And then I smiled for her as her lower hand started stroking up and down her cleft, and her other hand slid under her shirt. I was a bit disappointed that she didn't expose herself, but the way she gasped and started to cum as her hand reached her nipple made it all worthwhile.

When she finally opened her eyes, I could see her struggling with the need to flee. She blushed the darkest shade of red that I have ever seen as she pulled her fingers from her panties and stared at them.

"I made a mess," she reluctantly admitted, and then her eyes begged me to tell her not to worry.

"You can wash up before you go," I suggested. "Someday, when you've had more experience, you might test to see if you like the smell or the taste. How do you feel?"

"Scared," she said quickly. Her eyes were staring at her wet fingers like she was holding a snake. She managed to take a deeper breath, and then she smiled at me as she added, "Good."

"Better than good, I would think," I teased. "Will you be back again next week?"

She tried to smile, but she glanced nervously at her fingers. "Are you going to make me..."

She wasn't able to finish her thought. I gave her a reassuring smile.

"Only when you feel you are ready. There are plenty of things to learn before you ever get there."

"Okay," she answered. She looked nervous for a moment, but then she stood and said, "Have a good night."

"You too," I replied, and she left.

She stopped in the bathroom to wash her hands, and after she left, I heard her going up the stairs.

A couple of minutes later, my wife came storming in with a huge smile on her face.

"Michelle looked happy," she announced. "Did you enjoy helping her out?"

Her hands found my hardness. With no pretense, she started the wrestling match, and she intended to win.

Afterwards, she held up my boxers.

"Why were you wearing these?" she asked. "You knew what I would want, and they were in my way!"

Before I completely fell asleep, I tried to reassure her that I would comply with her wishes the next time.

===

The next several Saturdays were a repeat of that night. Although she wouldn't admit it, Michelle learned that she loved the way I looked at her breasts, and by the fourth week, she was masturbating topless for me. It only took a little pushing from me for her to slide her jeans and panties down the next week. She was complaining about how she was ruining her panties, and I offered her a towel to sit on.

The week after that, I convinced her to try full-nude. She was embarrassed and terrified until she learned how much deeper she could penetrate herself with her legs spread wide. She even let me convince her to go a second time that night.

The first signs of trouble between me and my wife showed up later that night. My wife was not pleased with how quickly I tapped out. I tried to point out that an hour of live sex happening right in front of my face was hard to ignore. She grumbled a bunch, and for the whole week, she let me know I was in the dog house.

Of course, that didn't stop her from going out with Michelle the next weekend. And it didn't stop her from heading upstairs while Michelle came to visit me. I promised myself that I would only let Michelle go one round before politely sending her on her way.

Michelle was quick to get naked, and even quicker to tell me about her latest infatuation. She had learned that she loved to start with her hands on her ribs and her neck, and she quickly moved from there to caressing her own breasts. She would keep one hand moving between her breasts and her neck while the other worked on penetrating her entrance and rubbing her clit. She came quickly.

She saw the look in my eyes and she knew I was going to ask her to leave. I shouldn't have waited for her orgasm to end like I did.

"Are we in trouble?" she asked.

"No, but I don't want to get too worked up from watching you," I admitted.

"What do you mean?" she worried. Before I could answer, she added, "You can't be enjoying this."

"Are you kidding?" I teased, and I waved one hand in the general direction of the tented blankets that covered me as the other indicated her naked display.

"I make you hard?" she gasped. Her eyes were huge, like she was astonished that I might find her attractive, or that watching her was arousing.

In slow motion, she threw the blanket back, and she gasped again. Per my wife’s instructions, I was naked. Michelle’s eyes raced back and forth between my hard cock and my smiling eyes. In an even slower motion, she vaulted onto the bed.

I knew I was in trouble. I knew I had to stop her. All I could do was smile at her as she straddled my body and took me inside.

She cried out, "Oh," and then "Never!" as she took me to the hilt. Her eyes stared at me in astonishment as her body started to shake with the orgasm that claimed her.

Even before it ended, she couldn't stop her hand from sliding down to rub her clit. The timeless magic of sex claimed her and she started to thrust against me, and another orgasm exploded in her. The timeless magic claimed me, and I slid my hands up her body to squeeze her breasts and pinch her nipples. Her eyes begged, I started thrusting harder, and we both came together.

Eventually, she lifted her head off my chest, and she smiled at the squelching sound as she lifted away down below.

"You're right," she teased. "Disgusting and messy and I can't wait to do it again."

I tried to wake up. I tried to warn her. I failed.

The next thing I knew, ice cold water was splashing over my groin, and I was kicking and gasping and trying to wake up.

"Clean that shit up, you cheating bastard," my wife yelled at me. "I'm sleeping upstairs tonight, and tomorrow we'll talk divorce."

She slammed the door on her way out, leaving me in a bed full of water and ice.

Needless to say, I was shocked at the intensity of her jealousy. I understood that she would be jealous, but I was surprised that she was so angry about what happened when it was obvious how far she had gone to set me up to fail.

Obviously, we eventually worked things out. Many years later, when she and I talked about what had happened with Michelle, I was surprised to learn that she doesn't remember it quite this way. She does remember that she was already having an affair, and she was more worried about getting caught in that than worrying about what I did with Michelle.

We can almost laugh about the incident, but there is one question I posed to my wife that we cannot agree on an answer to, and I pose that question to you, dear reader. If things happened mostly as I recall, did I cheat on my wife or not? Even if we stipulate that the answer is "Yes", don't my wife's actions assuage my guilt?

Thirty years is a long time, and I love and respect my wife. I am more than happy to listen to her arguments against me, and then the answer will be, "Sure, honey."