The Jig is Up

            An orgasm of epic proportion was stuck behind my cervix.  A girl can only do so much on her own – and even though I had become very proficient with my sex toys, I knew that The Big One was blocking my Chi.  My Kundalini was not rising.  Unfortunately, years of marriage had shown conclusively that my husband could not help in that area which is why I got a vibrator in the first place.  I had been afraid that I had turned frigid and couldn’t have orgasms.  That fear turned out to be completely unfounded, and I added a few more gadgets to my secret shoe box in the closet.
            Once my husband, Rick, watched me use them.  He found the spectacle overwhelming.  When he mentioned a few days later that he’d like to use my nipple clips on himself, I might have realized that dominating him could have perked up our sex life, but I really didn’t care about his orgasms anymore.  My position was that if he could only get off by doing it doggy for 90 seconds (or less) in the middle of the night that was cool, but I wanted comp time.  A couple of hours every now and then focused exclusively on my orgasms.  Every time we had this discussion, he agreed it was a great idea.  I would arrange for our kid to be out of the house for a block of time the following weekend, then Rick would manage to forget I was waiting in the bedroom.  
            The worst part about our marriage was that he never paid the bills either.  It wasn’t that we didn’t have the money for Con Ed.  He just hid the bills at his office until the lights got cut off, then he’d pay via phone and the lights were right back on.  It was all very odd, and two years of couples’ therapy didn’t change a thing.  The way I saw it was that you can be married without good sex if you have money.  Or you can be married without money if you have good sex.  But if you don’t have sex or money, there is no reason to be married at all.  I am willing to admit that my attitude about marriage may have been influenced by my Granny the ‘Ho who had five husbands – but it made perfect sense to me.
            Shortly after our 15th wedding anniversary, we had had one of those 90 second episodes in the middle of the night.  I didn’t feel like fighting about it, so I told him that one more time like that and I’d be flinging his stuff off the terrace.  As I stretched myself awake the next morning, a question lingered in my mind:  How long is a woman supposed to live in an intolerable situation?  I concluded that fifteen years was long enough.  Legal action ensued.
            True to character, though, Rick acted as if nothing unusual was happening and ignored the papers and motions arriving in the mail. Apparently, he was waiting for my extended bout of PMS to pass so I’d turn into a docile female.  In the meantime, I remained a good and faithful wife except for this one fellow who can only be called Transition Man.  Transition Man and I had friends in common, and we were all out drinking when he made a pass at me.  I liked the idea that somebody didn’t think of me as a frumpy housewife and started spinning fantasies that involved being tied to a brass bed.  The fantasies turned out to be better than the reality since we never got farther than the sofa in his office.  I reacted to romance much like the teenager I was the last time anyone had tried to get in my pants.  I was prone to making drunken phone calls, which is not an attractive quality in a mature female.  But he had unattractive qualities too – most notably a pair of leather pants which I considered problematic on a fifty-one year old bald man who has never been a rock star.  All in all, though, it was a good experience because in a few afternoons with Transition Man, I got my blow job skills back in top form.  That project was so diverting that I forgot about smacking my husband on the head with a canoe paddle. 
            The domestic front remained hostile.  As our 16th anniversary approached and Rick still hadn’t retained a lawyer, much less produced any of the documents my lawyer had requested, I served him with divorce papers to force the issue.  My moods swung between fury and despair, and there was nothing worse than feeling those feelings, so I developed a plan where I found a summer lover to dislodge The Epic Oh.  I clung to the hope that my husband would be living anywhere besides my apartment when our son went to camp in Vermont for eight weeks.  I started thinking of it as The Summer of Love.
            I activated a search committee to find me dates.  My lesbian friends all said that I needed to be with a woman, and I was open to the idea.  A couple of teachers where I work suggested I put a profile up on, but my lawyer frowned on that.  Then I heard about Ashley Madison dot com.  One of the dads at work told me about it.  A web site for married people who were looking for action.
            I couldn’t believe my ears.  I could order up an affair like stretch pants from the Lands End Catalogue.  Naturally I put the idea straight out of my head because Nice Married Ladies from Central Park West did not order up affairs on the internet, but it was an intriguing concept.
            Weeks passed like all other weeks.  One Monday night, Rick was watching the Star Gate Reruns on SciFi Channel just as he had for countless Monday nights.  Rick was captivated by Colonel O’Neil and Tealc jumping into the worm whole and traveling to distant planets.  He had watched so many Star Gates that I knew what episode it was by listening to the first five minutes of the show.  As much as I hated the routine, I could understand his television watching, though, because ignoring each other made peaceful coexistence possible.  I had spent two years playing the Sims and reached levels of proficiency that included burning his sister at the barbecue pit until she was graveyard dead and building a whore house smack dab in the middle of suburbia.  I was depressed, bored into a coma and pretending to work on my computer when an idea drifted through my head:  “I believe I’ll get laid.” 
            The computer was in a little office we had made from a walk-in closet in the main hallway of the apartment.  Even though his Barcolounger was only a few feet away in the living room, he couldn’t see what I was doing at the computer which was a good thing because the Ashley Madison screen was blazing purple.  An odd choice for a site that advertises itself as discrete.  The tag line, “When monogamy becomes monotony,” screamed across the top of the page.
            I leaned back in my office chair so that I could see where his head was while I brazenly checked off sexual activities I open to trying.  The process took me a while since I kept switching from the site to an article about Early Childhood Education whenever he adjusted his chair.  I was intimidated by the idea of being with a man again, but the little time I had with Transition Man convinced me that the size of my breasts more than compensated for the size of my stomach.  And although I was concerned that posting a profile on an adult website was sluttish, I figured that when you considered some of the things I had done as a kid, I could do anything I damn well pleased now that I was grown. 
            Over the course of the next couple of hours, a new persona was born under the screen name Summer Secrets.  I might as well have stood in Times Square, thrown my panties into the air and shouted, “Pussy’s On!”  By the end of the first day, I was corresponding with ten men or so, all wanting to take me out for drinks or lunch.  One of them, a tall, muscular black man allegedly in his mid-thirties, called himself Dimitri.  I had said something in my profile that indicated I was new to “playing,” which I learned is how most people who cheat on their spouses prefer to describe what they are doing.  Dimitri was interested in my progress.
            We shot emails back and forth several times a day.  Once we had established that I had never been with a black man, his big, black cock was frequently a topic of discussion.  He told me he wanted to do me from behind while we looked out the window of an expensive hotel onto a city view. He described it in great, graphic detail.  I had to admit it was stimulating and sure beat doing my homework for grad school.  My date book was starting to get crowded when Dimitri asked me squeeze him in for brunch the next Sunday afternoon.
            It was a beautiful day in May, and my husband happened to be out of town when I met Dimitri at a restaurant in the meatpacking district.  The restaurant turned out to be closed for a private party, though, so we wound up on the patio at the Maritime Hotel.   During the first double Grey Goose, Dimitri wanted to know about the date I’d been on earlier in the week with Max, an older man who called me twice a day.  I told him that Max was nice, but when we went up to the apartment he kept in the city because his wife preferred to live way out in New Jersey, I saw that he wore the same kind of undershirts as my dad.  As if that wasn’t enough of a turn off, I could see his erection was small.  Dimitri and I were into our second round when he asked me whose dick I thought was biggest of all the men I had been making dates with, and I looked him in the eye and said, “Yours, of course.” 
             “Good answer,” he replied and we got on the subject of blow jobs.  Since I had decided that a woman my age needed to perform at an advanced level, I was always eager for information, but I was also concerned about loosing weight.  I explained that I could hook my ankles around a man’s neck, but with this tummy I didn’t look as good doing it as I wanted to.  He asked, “You can do it, though?”
            I answered, “Sure!” and ordered another drink.  Dimitri suggested that we get a room and have lunch sent up.  I did my best to give him a withering look, which is difficult when you’re not exactly sober, and said I would never agree to such a thing, but he might as well see if there were rooms available.  They were booked, but as it happened, Dimitri knew of a place nearby called the Liberty Inn that rented by the hour.  We left in a hurry, stopping at a gas station on West 14th Street to buy condoms
            As it turned out, we could have just gotten condoms in the vending machine at the Liberty Inn.  They had condoms, soda, water and assorted snacks in the hallway that acted as a lobby.  I sat on a bench while Dimitri checked in, paying with cash.  The smell of bleach was so strong that if I didn’t know better, I’d have thought there was an indoor pool on the premises.  I followed Dimitri up the beige carpeted stairway to the third floor, down the narrow beige hall to the tiny beige room.  The sheets were as clean and bright as any sheets I’d ever seen hanging in the sun on a Clorox commercial.
            I didn’t particularly like having sex with Dimitri, though., because he gave orders like he was directing a porno video.  He said,“Touch yourself so I can see what I’m getting,” and stuff like that.  I’ll admit I needed some direction since I hadn’t been with another man in 20 years, except for transition man who didn’t count, but Dimitri was too bossy.  There was no denying that his dick was every bit as big as the advance publicity.  When I got on top, he had to hold my hands and lower me as if he were directing a 747 into a tight hanger.  He wanted to hear all about it, however.  Evidently, I was supposed to say, “Ooooh Dimitri!  Fuck me with your big black cock,” but that seemed stupid to me because he knew damn well he had a big cock.  His vanity was probably the reason that the epic orgasm remained stuck.  He did clear out the cobwebs, though. As I was pulling on my jeans, I couldn’t help but say, “That’s what I’m talking about.”
            I was glad that Rick was out of town because I was sat funny from my date with Dimitri for a couple of days, and I was a bit alarmed that I got liquored up and went to a cheap hotel with a 34 year old black man whose dick was the size of a maglite.   On the other hand, I did have a spring in my step that said, “Get down with your bad self,” and I could swear that black guys I noticed on the street looked at me differently.  Maybe they knew I was wondering if there was a maglite in their pants, too.
            Later in the week, I went out to lunch with Dan the Microscope Salesman from Long Island who later became known as Airport Dan because he thought our second date should be at a short-stay hotel out by LaGuardia.  Our first date at Payard had been expensive and grand.  We sat in a secluded table upstairs while he rubbed my thigh, looked me in the eyes and confessed, “You know I’m 53 years old. Seven years older than you.”  A week later on the phone he when he said he’d buy me perfume from Bergdorf’s for my birthday, I believed that too.
            And so began the quest to Release the Epic Orgasm.

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