1
I knew what I was going to walk in to. I knew, and yet I continued on. It was like one of those horror movies where you internally scream at the girl for being so stupid as she is about to be murdered in the most gruesome of ways. I was that stupid girl.
I suppose that deep down this incident was inevitable. Not that I was excusing what was before me, but I understood it. A wife should never have to walk in on her husband having sex with another woman, but I wasn’t surprised by it. I should be mad, devastated, hurt, and destroyed. I should be shaking with fury wanting to kill the woman who was wildly riding my husband. I should scream or throw something at them. Shouldn’t I? Then why was I simply watching this woman give my husband pleasure? I watched with a morbid fascination, a sickness really.
She raised her ass slowly and then pushed down with a driving force. He, of course, just sat back and enjoyed the ride. She seductively grabbed her breasts with each hand and began to rub and slightly pinch her nipples. She separated her luscious lips to let out a soft moan and angled her back to position his cock to reach just the right spot. Her creamy white skin glistened, and her wild hair cascaded down her back. She lowered her pink manicured finger to her dripping wet pussy and swirled it around her engorged clit. Her moan became louder, and her breathing became ragged. She rode his languid body with intense passion, thrusting herself down onto his ready cock, encompassing him with her soaking wet pussy. She worked unaided on her approaching peak.
She really was gorgeous, and she was doing an excellent job giving ecstasy to my selfish husband. She seemed to be doing all the work. It was erotic, sensual, sexual…but not because of him. By his moans and his tightly squeezed eyes, I could see he was close to orgasm. Of course he was close to orgasm. He was always close to orgasm. I actually felt sorry for this woman because it was very likely he’d be finished long before she had her needs met. And with that thought, I decided to do to him what he so often did to me, and soon to this woman. I was going to stop them before he could reach completion.
There I was, standing in the doorway of the bedroom I once shared with my husband, watching him have lousy sex with another woman, and I was actually smiling. I crossed my arms smugly and leaned against the doorjamb. Very calmly, I cleared my throat. My husband jumped up in surprise, and the woman quickly covered herself with a sheet. I actually got quite a bit of amusement in their embarrassment.
“Jesus, Neely! What the fuck! How long have you been standing there?” He reached for a blanket to cover up. I found this funny. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what he looked like naked.
I smiled at him and the traumatized woman. I didn’t say a single word to either. I turned around and slowly walked out of the house, my house, for the last time.
This was what I needed. I needed to know for sure that I was making the right decision. Leaving my husband wasn’t something I took lightly. I believed in the vows I took. I believed in happily ever after. When I walked down the aisle in my ridiculously priced dress, on my absurdly priced wedding day, I truly believed we would grow old together. But I couldn’t have happily ever after if I wasn’t happy now. Seeing my husband have sex with someone else only gave me the closure I so desperately needed. I could move on, knowing that he had. He had been the first to step out. Betrayal in a way. So the guilt of ending our marriage could be on him…right?
My husband didn’t want the divorce, or so he said. He wanted me, he cried for me, and he begged me. But what he never did was fight for me. His sensitivity and his gentle soul was everything I thought I needed until I realized that it made him seem weak. I had no respect for this man. He was highly intelligent and extremely kind, but it was never enough. I wanted something more—for him to be stronger somehow. Our relationship was at war and I wanted—no needed—a warrior to battle for us.
The sex was average. Average wasn’t bad, but it also wasn’t good. It got to a point that having sex was like a chore or duty. It lacked passion and fire. We lacked excitement and desire. Two years of marriage and we no longer had sex. I was to blame as well, because I gave nothing. I couldn’t find anything to give. Have you heard the term “limp noodle,” or “dead fish?” It was fair to say that was me.