Lisa finally got out a semi-coherent thought, “Harder, you son of a bitch!” she screamed as Jackson pounded her, her bare heels imploring. By this time, I had already masturbated to a fierce orgasm. As I went to wash up, I heard the perky sounds of her orgasm. Is there a lovelier sound than a woman cumming? When I came back ten minutes later, Lisa had cleaned up and was soul-kissing Jackson.
I had felt jealousy before, watching them fuck, but it was more of a blast of arousal. This felt threatening. It wasn’t as if Lisa could take Jackson away from me, but I was unsettled. Jackson had an advantage with her: she would be incredibly low maintenance compared to me, and that would be her pitch to him. Or something like that.
Judging from those soulful kisses, I wondered if actual feelings were building between them. That was not okay. After Lisa left that day, it occurred to me that Jackson and I hadn’t actually made love in a long time—that tender lovemaking you do with someone whose flaws you accept. Lisa, on the other hand, seemed able to let her tenderness show. She was willing to give him waaay more than her pussy. I, on the other hand, was still blocked. That scared me.
After she got dressed, I let Lisa know she would no longer be fucking Jackson. The shocked, enraged look on her face told me everything I needed to know. The door slammed behind her, and that was all I heard from Lisa for a few months. I thought she was ridiculous giving me the silent treatment after I’d let her fuck my husband again and again, but so it goes.
“What got into you?” Jackson asked a bit playfully as we sat together at the kitchen table, coffee brewing.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I didn’t like the way she was looking at you. It seemed like she was forgetting you were my husband.”
Jackson wasn’t mad about it. He was biding his time. He knew my cunt better than I did, dammit.
I told myself there wouldn’t be a next time, at least for a while … and maybe ever. I needed to believe Jackson and I had something he couldn’t find elsewhere. Until we make love, I can’t let him be with other women. But try as I might, kissing Jackson didn’t usher in the lovemaking. It was like kissing a sexy male companion. Fashion, not feeling.
I was tormented by the thought of another woman stealing Jackson out from under me. Our sex life started to diminish in intensity again. If I was an addict, I needed a fix.
The hell with that. I was determined to hold off until my obsessive urges went away.
But that didn’t happen. It all came to a diabolical head instead.
Chapter 17
For the last six months, my regional office had been terrorized by my new boss, Allen. Allen was everything you don’t want in a boss: he made tireless demands and enforced an inconsistent set of rules. He promoted a male colleague above me who had two years less experience and a forty percent lower sales record over the year. I thought that tying my work to actual sales would give me more power internally … but evidently not with Allen at the helm.
Allen was a skinny little motherfucker, the kind who wore wire-framed glasses to look hipster cool even while he bossed you around. Allen was an Internet smarty pants, super into marathon running when he wasn’t acting like a tool at work. You know the type: the holier-than-though, change-into-gym-gear-and-shower-after-lunch type, too fitness obsessed to have a regular meal with his co-workers. Protein shakes and performance reviews. And a sexist jerk to boot, but way too clever to admit it.
When I confronted Allen about the promotion, he said, without skipping a beat, “If you’re not happy here, we have an opening in Omaha.” What an ass—always pretending he was in complete control, always ready with a cocky comeback. Jackson offered to show up at my job and beat on him, and I was half-worried he might actually do it. I had enough issues on the home front without dreading my workdays. Something had to change.
I tried to sway Allen with my sexuality, just to see if I could crack him. I bought some sexy new outfits. Yes, the pencil skirts that clung to my hips, but also the plunging necklines. Aside from one time when I was presenting over him on the whiteboard, I couldn’t get Allen to flinch. It was like he looked through me, or saw me as asexual. Grrr ….
One Friday night, I found myself at a “girls’ night out” bitch session masquerading as happy hour. Once the drinks started flowing, we went after it. We were making so much noise at TGIF, they moved us to a private room. We started comparing notes on Allen, sharing tales of our tedious encounters.
Aside from the story of how he’d promoted my colleague Randy over me—well within his discretion—we couldn’t dredge up much dirt on Allen. He was squeaky clean all right.
One lady, Gretchen, had the misfortune of following Allen around the country. As his executive assistant in three different regions, Gretchen had worked with him the longest.
“Gretchen, didn’t he ever make a pass at one of the interns?” I asked hopefully.
“No … dammit!” Gretchen said. One course away from her MBA, Gretchen was busy plotting to get out from under Allen the Taskmaster. The prospect of greener pastures was probably the only thing keeping her from a meltdown.
“But if he could fuck them with his eyes, we’d have him!” Gretchen said. “Violet, he’s stared at your ass so hard I thought he was going to pop a tent,” Gretchen said.
Ahh, so he did stare at someone. That was a start!
“Ewwwww!” Violet said. Violet was our college intern, one of those young, spitfire women too confident to know what she was in for. Or maybe she would just bend the world to her will. Violet had one too many tattoos for my liking, but I kept my lecture about career-limiting body art to myself; I enjoyed her company too much. Besides, I always hated it when older women lectured me about my future back in the day.
“I hate the thought of him working me over!” Violet yelled out, squirming as if she’d eaten a slippery raw oyster. We all laughed at her predicament.
“If I catch him doing it …” Violet threatened.
“Oh, he’s nailed you from behind many times!” teased Jeannie, a middle-aged battle horse who went to just enough aerobics classes to keep herself in that middle-aged sexy zone. A bit too much makeup for my taste, but Jeannie had a heart of gold. Not to mention all the times she’d saved me with her PowerPoint wizardry.
We burst out laughing at the miserable look on Violet’s face.
“It’s not all bad,” Gretchen teased. “Maybe you can be the first intern to get Allen to spread ’em!”
“Ewwwww!” Violet said again. “He’s so skinny, I’d break him in half!” Violet was a big athletic hipper like me. We laughed.
“Give it a shot. I hear there’s a position open … above Corrie!” Jeannie cackled. I gave Jeannie a little slap on the behind for that one—not a hard slap, but the sound sent everyone but Jeannie into another gale of laughter.
“Besides, I’ll bet he has a tiny penis!” Violet said.
And the mockery continued.
“You know what the worst thing is?” Gretchen blurted out.
“What?”
“His wife, Sirenna—she’s so damn hot. He does not deserve a woman like her.”
“No!” we all said.
“Maybe he is packing!” Jeannie said.
A pause … then, in unison: “No!!” we all agreed, or at least hoped.
“When he comes out in those Lycra shorts, there isn’t much to see,” said Violet.
“You mean you look?” said Gretchen, indignant.
“Maybe she’s getting something on the side,” Jeannie said.
The other girls laughed, but I didn’t. Realizing that she had touched a sore spot, Jeannie said, “Sorry, Corrie.” The group grew quiet. The other girls knew about my troubles with Jackson, at least the part about him cheating.
Someone eased the conversation into safer territory. I tried to move on, but for some reason the comment stuck. I left the ladies in their gaggle fifteen minutes later and summoned an Uber.
On the ride home, something odd occurred to me. I thought bac
k to a support group I had attended for about a month. It was for women whose husbands had been unfaithful. To be honest, the group hadn’t given me much comfort. I got way more catharsis from the Alicia and Brad Show.
There had been a woman in the group—a striking blonde, the kind of woman who makes you wonder why men invariably mess up the best things in their lives. She was a model type, blonde as all get out, except instead of skinny model hips, she had pin-up girl, hourglass hips like mine. Her breasts were perfect, hanging in the air, taunting women like me who were torn between accepting our smaller breasts and going for unnatural-looking boob jobs. Though I would never get a boob job, this girl had the rare ability to make me think twice about it.
Listening to her made me horny as hell. This woman’s name was Sirenna. Now, we don’t live in a super small town, but how many Sirennas do you know?
I found myself thinking about Sirenna, remembering some of the things she’d said. That her husband had cheated on her a couple years past. That she was not unhappy in her marriage but worried about her own capacity for cheating and revenge.
Sirenna never had the arrogance to say it in our group, but men had to hit on her a lot. Yet up until that point, she had toed the line. But with “our flat-lined sex life,” as she put it, and a disappointing lack of intimacy, how long would that last? She wasn’t sure.
One group meeting, she was actually driven to tears. Unlike Jackson, Sirenna’s husband hadn’t been patient with her. It seemed like he gave her a fixed amount of time, then expected forgiveness. It had to be the same woman, had to be! The couch sucked me in. I crashed with late night TV scrolling by, my head on Jackson’s lap, pondering coincidences.
At some point I woke up, chilled from a cool fall night. I stumbled into my bed, wrapping the comforter around me selfishly; I always claimed our blankets during the night after Jackson feel asleep. While I slept, evil threads connected. Watching the sun rise under the coziest quilt we had, I began to concoct a devious plan.
I went and woke Jackson, who had fallen asleep on the couch, even though I’d long since welcomed him back into the bedroom. He was playing his cards expertly, and that meant respecting my space to a fault. That is, when he wasn’t taking me sexually.
“What is it?” he said, concerned by my intent stare.
“Honey, I need your help.”
“Sure … anything.”
“I need you to seduce a woman for me … at least I think I do.”
Chapter 18
I told Jackson the plan.
It’s not as hard to do these things as you might think. Which is a bit scary, I guess. Catfish is for real.
It wasn’t hard to figure out where Sirenna hung out.
It wasn’t hard to get my eager-to-fix-our-marriage husband involved in my plot.
It wasn’t hard for him to join the gym and the aerobics class she was in.
It wasn’t hard for him to make small talk with her and get to be pals.
A month later, Sirenna and Jackson were chummy. Oh, and she said her husband’s name was “Allen.” Bingo.
One week after that, he was making her scream.
Okay, so that last part wasn’t easy. Most men either shy away from hot girls or go for broke, with one over-the-top approach. Jackson, however, knows that girls need some warming up.
When you are a hulking guy like Jackson who can intimidate with his bulk, it’s all the more disarming when you prove to be a funny and gentle companion. Most guys think girls want tough and stoic, but what really gets them is danger and mystery wrapped in debonair charm. Once you make the girl feel both hot and safe to explore her flirty ways, you step back and let her do the rest—go down a path you cleverly set her on. That’s how Jackson describes it to me, anyway. Something emanates from Jackson that forces a woman’s hand, yet she thinks he is taking the lead. It’s fucking twisted.
That’s where most men go wrong. Even when they do succeed in establishing a witty rapport, they push ahead, sending out whiffs of desperation, or they pull back, trying to act indifferent … and nothing happens. Refusing to accept this ego-denying reality, the man pushes ahead again … and gets rebuffed in ways subtle or direct.
If Jackson pulls back and the girl doesn’t pursue, he doesn’t sweat it. He moves on to the next girl. He knows the odds will favor him sooner than later. Besides, if he manages to fuck one of her friends, she might come back around. During the flirtation, Jackson acts thoughtful, interested, and considerate, but he makes a point of dropping little hints about his virility.
Often these are visual cues, like showing up to an aerobics class in spandex, or getting a bit of a hard-on during a flirty moment. Now and again, he might allude to sex in a way that shows he has experience—nothing outrageous, but enough for a girl to get a distinct feeling that this very nice man is also a man.
Of course, when Jackson is impatient or horny, he just tells a girl bluntly what he wants. He’s been laid more than a few times by simply having a drink with a hottie and saying, “I want to fuck your brains out with my big dick,” or something equally direct.
It’s not his most successful technique in terms of percentages, but it works more often than you’d think. There are plenty of girls who love skipping the small talk and the difficulty of gauging what the man is after. Add to that a guaranteed “big cock encounter,” and Jackson often finds this is the most effective way to get laid quickly.
But with Sirenna, he didn’t want to risk the direct approach. She seemed like too much of a married lady, used to discretion and decorum. So I asked him to charm her into a casual friendship.
We executed “Operation Sirenna” to perfection. After Jackson met Sirenna at her gym, we compared notes to make sure she was a match. Leggy blonde with old school sex appeal? Check. Large-but-not-huge tits, nearly six feet tall? Check.
Yeah, we deceived Sirenna. I had not deceived Jackson, however. He knew she was my boss’s wife. Yes, he was worried this scheme might blow up, but I wasn’t having any. There were plenty of jobs out there.
Jackson was blinded by his desire to somehow eradicate my discontent. He had broken me down sexually, but he had no idea how to fix my heart.
You probably want to know how the seduction happened. Jackson simply adjusted his work schedule around Sirenna’s aerobics class. I got a kick out of watching him shimmy his landscaping pants over his Lycra workout shorts in the morning.
Under normal circumstances, I didn’t like him wearing those shorts; they were a billboard for his cock, all bunched up in that cramped space. It looked like he was stuffing his pants.
I hated thinking about the ladies in the class flirting shamelessly with Jackson. He played it down afterward, but there must have been some heavy estrogen in there. Typically about twenty people showed up; Jackson was one of three or so guys who made a regular appearance.
It wasn’t hard for him to strike up a conversation with Sirenna. One day, he offered her a Kind bar when she was complaining to friends about leaving her lunch at home. The next week, he asked her to teach him a leg stretch before class, claiming a hamstring issue.
After each class, I’d ask Jackson, “Did you get her number?”
And he’s say something like, “Not yet, baby. Let me do my thing.”
Jackson was using a seduction tactic he called “The Smooth.” The Smooth was a long game tactic that got the woman to warm up to him as both a friend and a sexual object. This works best in situations where the woman can see Jackson around a lot, hopefully in informal settings. That way, Jackson doesn’t have to push the sexual envelope too fast and risk a rejection before the woman knows what she is rejecting.
In this case, The Smooth had a very good chance of success, because Sirenna had the chance to furtively check out his body over time and observe how he carried himself in a flock of women.
I was getting impatient. Allen was being a prick again, in his own conniving way. He gave me a project that involved a client presentation in dreaded Sioux Falls
, South Dakota, even though the client was a friend and would have met me in Chicago.
I asked Allen to let me do the gig in Chicago, but he insisted I go to Sioux Falls. WTF? Had he heard me carrying on in the break room about how much I hated staying in Sioux Falls? Our corporate hotel there was the pits—I was even bitten by bedbugs once.
After the promotion incident, Allen continued to make dismissive comments about my qualifications. He had the nerve to tell me to finish my MBA. In the big picture, he was not wrong. But I felt he minimized my on-the-job performance.
Somehow, he could see right through me with his needle-y eyes. I felt like Allen could see what a depraved slut I was, hidden so expertly in my corporate persona. I didn’t usually feel so naked around a colleague. I felt naked around Jackson in my power suit—an incredibly hot feeling. With most of my male co-workers, I felt totally in control, able to reel them in whenever I wanted. But Allen was unaffected by my demanding hips. I could just feel him passing judgment. Yuck!
“C’mon, Jackson!” I said impatiently, after the third week in aerobics class had yielded nothing … unless you consider a five minute chat with Sirenna at the water cooler a breakthrough.
“I got this!” Jackson assured me over spiked tea. “I got this!”
What Jackson didn’t tell me was that Sirenna had been looking him over more thoroughly while they talked. Women are very careful about staring, but Sirenna was starting to gaze. Jackson tells me that when a girl stops being discreet and brazenly stares, that means she is getting more comfortable with him. It also means she is advancing the intention within herself. The primal attraction is taking hold, whether she is conscious of it or not.
Then, he tells me, it’s simply a matter of maintaining a comfortable vibe, getting the woman into an environment where one thing can lead to another.
Given that this was a more delicate situation involving a married woman who hadn’t crossed the line before, that environment would usually include alcohol.
My Husband's Adventures Page 12