One Woman, Many Years
In the recent movie Couples Retreat, there’s a comically-awkward, yet interestingly-profound scene in which Jon Favreau’s Joey asks Vince Vaughn’s Dave if after seven years he still gets turned on by the same woman. Dave responds simply, “I do.”
Joey is skeptical and immediately retorts, “Without going to the highlight reel?” An argument about the ethics of using the highlight reel during sex ensues, but that’s a topic for another essay. What I’m interested in is the implication that there’s no way a man can continue to be aroused by the same woman, year after year, without conjuring up some of his past sexual conquests—or, more to my point, dreaming up new ones that typically involve everybody except his significant other.
I’ve been married to Susan for almost 13 years. If anybody asks if she still turns me on, the answer is absolutely. In fact, not only does she turn me on, she steams up my fantasies. When I watch porn, it’s not the actors with their exaggerated bodies achieving all those exaggerated climaxes (after some exaggerated copulation) that get me excited. Nope, what does it for me is picturing Susan as the woman (or one of the women) writhing around in the sea of unabashed sex on the screen. So, while a lot of guys daydream about wanting to fuck a porn star—Jenna Jameson or Tera Patrick, perhaps—I imagine my wife (just Susan) being the porn star.
The point is, when I fantasize, I fantasize about my wife. Don’t get me wrong; I understand the appeal of building castles in the air with a porn actress or the redhead in accounting or your buddy’s new girlfriend. It’s just that I think the stimulation factor of a whimsical encounter with the hot accountant is multiplied tenfold if Susan is included in the cerebral carnality, too.
Even in my most outlandish sexual scenarios, Susan plays an integral role. For example, we were recently enjoying a few drinks in the bar at one of our favorite restaurants. After a couple Jack and Cokes, the conversation went decidedly NC-17. Then, a Britney Spears video started playing on one of the televisions and our discussion got even spicier. I will admit right here that I have a thing for Britney. Spare me the discourse about her lack of talent (it’s not like I own any of her CDs) and general lameness. I don’t know why I like her, I just do. Maybe it’s because she did it again and felt the only apology necessary was a half-hearted “oops,” or maybe it was the infamous night out commando style—again, oops—or maybe it’s just because she made out with Madonna (my first boyhood pop star crush).
Anyway, after another drink, I asked Susan if she’d get together with Brit-Brit if given the opportunity. “If she walked through that door right now and came over to our table,” I asked, only half-joking, “would you take her back to our room and, you know … do stuff?”
“I don’t think so,” Susan replied, giving it some genuine thought. “But I know you would, and I’d like to watch that.”
So now, even this ridiculous daydream involves my wife. Which brings me to a very important point: Having Susan actively engaged in my fantasy life works to ground all my most heated and far-fetched imaginations in a certain reality. I’ll probably never fuck Britney Spears (unless we’re both in Vegas at the same time, in which case the odds are definitely in my favor), but Susan loves to tease me about her, bring up the possibility during a little dirty talk, and trust me, that’s much better than consummating my crush all by my lonesome while sitting on the couch watching the video version of “If U Seek Amy.”
In other words, with Susan’s participation, both live and imaginary, my erotic fantasies can come to life. Or, if nothing else, have some life breathed into them. Because almost any sexual musings I can conjure up in my head have at least a flicker of hope in the real world when one of the central participants is my wife. And over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that fantasies with even the slightest prospect of materializing are much more exciting than the ones that simply will not.
B.Y.O.F. – Bring Your Own Fantasy
The biggest payoff to all of this fantasizing about my wife stuff, of course, is actually incorporating a bit of it into our regular lives. Imagining Susan as porn star or in some sort of voyeuristic threesome with Britney and me is nice, but actually watching a fantasy play out in real time during date night is much better.
For instance, I’m a sucker for confident, fun women in short skirts. (Yes, I see the connection to a certain pop starlet here, but I assure you I was a connoisseur of the mini long before her debut.) I think I can trace this obsession back to a junior high school science class when I happened to turn around in my desk and fortuitously spy one of my more comely classmates re-crossing her legs.
Nowadays, what gets me going is the thought of an “accidental” public flash. And by “accidental,” I mean not accidental at all, but instead an upskirt moment that’s very well planned, and carried out in the middle of a crowded place. Because, you see, accidents aren’t very sexy. What is, is a woman who wants you to see, dares you to look, even though you know you shouldn’t. It goes something like this:
Susan and Rydell enter popular nightspot. Rydell is in jeans and a button-up shirt. Susan is wearing a black blouse, blue (very) mini skirt, and knee-high boots, and people are pausing their conversations as she navigates the room. She smiles, says hello, pretends not to notice the overzealous glances. Suddenly, she’s the woman every guy wants at his table. Before sitting down, she offers to go to the bar for drinks. Rydell nods his appreciation, takes a seat, and watches. Susan approaches the counter, orders, but it’s too loud so she must lean forward, ever so slightly, to effectively communicate her request. And then it happens. It’s just a peek, but it’s perfect.
It might all seem like a happy accident, but in truth, it was thought out, choreographed, on the drive to the bar. What this sort of planning might do to detract from the spontaneity of the situation is more than made up for by the fact that it actually happened. I went most of my adolescent life—and a few adult years—hoping to catch a glimpse of a woman who “accidentally” had her bright red panties escape their pleated shroud with very little luck. But then I started to fantasize about my wife doing it, and here we are.
Whether she’s purposefully leaning over the bar or overemphasizing a stretch to retrieve her purse, she’s bringing my fantasy to life, and by doing so, she’s turning a regular night out into a pressure cooker of sexual tension and anticipation. There are times, after she’s shifted her legs to a more revealing position, when all I want to do is whisk her home and fuck. What keeps me out on the town, though, is the possibility of a few more skirt mishaps to come. Not to mention the looks from other patrons.
A fun and entertaining activity that comes about as a byproduct of Susan’s little shows is watching other men—and women—catching their own glimpses of her provocative poses. Eyes open wide, mouths gape, friends tap each other on the shoulder and try to be subtle about pointing out the smokin’ chick in the ridiculously short skirt who just straddled the barstool.
In that setting, it’s inevitable that other people are going to see, but that’s part of what makes it so exciting—the thrill of getting caught. And, besides that, it’s a huge turn-on for me to see these other guys, many of whom are certainly out on a single’s circuit prowl, ogling my sexy wife. They sometimes approach her, occasionally make little advances, but that’s all part of our game, and I understand it. What guy doesn’t want to go home with the hottest girl at the bar?
So yeah, they’re looking, coveting, but that’s cool. Maybe we’re helping fulfill one of their special reveries, and maybe someday they’ll figure out why it’s such an absolute joy to be married to the main character in all of their fantasies.