I have always liked sex. I mean really, really liked sex. I have been accused, in fact, of “thinking like a man.” That is, of seeing sex as something wholly separate from love. When my husband and I first started dating, it was obvious even then that our drives were quite different. As much as he enjoyed sex, he didn’t need or want it as often as I did. But I fell so madly in love with him, I figured it didn’t matter.
I was terribly wrong.
Three years into our marriage, I began to feel itchy. So I had an affair. She was beautiful, an artist I met through a mutual friend. I deliberately chose to have an affair with a woman, rationalizing that it wasn’t as bad as sleeping with another man. (Simply by virtue of his gender, my husband never could be for me what she could be.)
She wasn’t the first woman I’d been with. When my husband and I began dating, I told him that I was bisexual. “I don’t care who you were with before,” he told me. “But once it’s just you and me, it’s just you and me.” And that’s why—as lovely and sweet as my affair with Artist Girl was—it was awful, too. I felt sick about lying to my husband, sick about wanting to be with her, sick for not just calling it off—or avoiding it in the first place.I thought hard about how I had gotten there. At first, I figured that my being with her really was about my bisexuality, about a part of me that I simply couldn’t brush aside. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that wasn’t true: It was about wanting more sex than my husband could offer, and sex different from that which any one person could provide.
My relationship with Artist Girl ended very, very badly. One night while in bed with her husband, she told him about us, foolishly thinking it would “turn him on.” It didn’t. He was furious and threatened to tell my husband. I knew I had to tell him myself. When I confessed, he was crushed, more because I had lied to him than because I had slept with her. I cried and cried, wondering if I had destroyed my marriage, if he would leave me, but also wondering if I would ever be happy, ever be sexually satisfied, ever find a way to make this work.
We didn’t talk about it much for several years. He couldn’t. I would ask him once in a while if he was “OK,” and he would tell me he was fine. Eventually, I believed him. I was keeping my nose clean, and we were bumping along—hitting rough patches, but bumping along. We had an adequate sex life; probably pretty darn good by some standards. Still, there were always things I wanted that I simply couldn’t get from him.
“I want you to talk dirty to me,” I told him. “To tie me up. To attack me in the middle of the day on the kitchen floor.”
“I can’t, baby,” he’d say, drawing me into his arms. “I love you.”
And slowly I began to figure it out. For my husband, sex with me was about loving me. And loving me was about caring for and respecting me. Although there are people who can manage that duality (or plurality), my husband simply couldn’t. And I wasn’t sure he should have to. But I also wasn’t sure that I should have to go without.
One day, on a whim, really, I asked my husband about a longtime friend of mine. She had once been a grad student at the university where I taught. I had helped her get through research papers, exams, and first-time teaching assignments. She spent a lot of long nights and weekend afternoons at our house during those two years, and we became close friends. Even after finishing her degree, she still spent a lot of time at the house.
“Have you ever thought about sleeping with her?” I asked him.
“No,” he said. My husband has no poker face. “OK, yes, but …”
“But what?” I asked.
“Well, first of all, she’d never want to sleep with me. She’s 10 years younger than I am. And second, I don’t want to be with anyone else.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “I mean, I don’t need to.”
“But do you want to?” I didn’t need him to answer me. It was clear that, in his head, he was already there.
“She’s hot,” he said.
“I know,” I laughed. “So … ?”
“So, of course I’d like to sleep with her. But what about you?”
“Of course,” I replied. “I’d like to sleep with her too, silly.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said.
“I know. I know. So … ?”
“So, bring it on,” he teased.
“She’s dying to sleep with you, you know.”
It was true—I knew she was interested. We’d joked about it plenty of times before. “When are you going to let me at that hot husband of yours?” she’d ask me. “Whenever you like,” I’d tell her. I started teasing my husband about it every now and then. Sometimes when we’d have sex I’d talk about her being there. It always was about wanting more sex than my husband could offer, and sex different from that which any one person could provide. pushed him over the edge.
Finally, I decided it was time.
“Let’s do it,” I said to her one night when we were at my house, watching yet another terrible, made-for-TV movie. She knew exactly what I was talking about.
“You sure?” she asked.
“Are you?” I asked back.
“Yeah,” she said. “As long as you’re positive it won’t mess us up.”
“I don’t think it will,” I said. “But you know I can’t promise that.”
“I know,” she said. “But promise me anyway.”
“OK,” I told her. “I promise.”
A few hours later, my husband came home. He slid onto the couch next to me, putting his hand on my right thigh, under the throw blanket. Her hand was already on my left. A few seconds later, I felt their hands accidentally touch, and I saw them look at one another. I’m pretty sure that was the exact moment my husband realized what was going on.
“I’m beat,” he said a short while later. “I’m going to bed.”
“We’ll be up soon,” I said. He kissed me, and began to walk away.
“What about me?” she asked. He looked at me, and then kissed her, long and hard. Laughing, he shook his head.
“You girls,” he said, as he headed upstairs. When the movie ended, we followed. We slipped into bed with my husband as if we’d done it a hundred times before, one on either side of him.
Everything that followed felt equally natural.
It was amazing to watch them together. It was hot, but it was also very sweet. She was so lost in him and he in her. I was able to see him as a human being, if you know what I mean. Not as my husband or my daughter’s father, but as a man, a sexual being, a person who wants to be wanted, who needs to be wanted.
And I know that watching her and me together was an incredible experience for him as well. She even taught him how to give me a G-spot orgasm, a feat that he had never managed. It sounds so deviant, I know. But it was charming, really. He held her long hair in his hands and watched her. He also stole looks at me. “I love you,” he mouthed. “I love you, too,” I somehow managed. And when I came, I couldn’t help but notice the glances the two of them exchanged. “Not bad,” his seemed to say. “See, I could teach you a thing or two,” hers seemed to imply. It was weird. But it was also, well, normal.
My husband and I had a six-month affair with my close friend. The three of us had sex. He and she had sex. She and I had sex. And, of course, he and I continued to have sex, just the two of us. The arrangement eventually faded out, and we all slipped back into our previous relationships. But my marriage was forever changed. Our experience with her was the catalyst that led us to explore open marriage............
By: Jenny Block
This is a pretty long article, I couldn't post it all so I provided a link so you could read the rest.
Click this link to finish the article. Portrait of an Open Marriage
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