I watch him watching her

My gorgeous husband is hot, sexy, sensual, loving and passionate, a tall drink of water, a thoroughbred in a sweet man’s body, a stallion. When he made the decision to make a commitment and ask me to marry him, he was serious. This wasn’t going to be a game for him—not a “first” marriage or a “fun” marriage, but a solid marriage with all its twists, turns, ups, downs and loop-de-loops. From the beginning I knew how important trust and loyalty were to him, not just that he needed me to be trustworthy and loyal, but that he wanted so very much to provide trust, safety and loyalty for me, for life.

Our sex life, from day one, was intense, vibrant and completely fantastic. It was no accident. He is a lover of all things woman; very skilled and adept—the way the chefs are on those Food Network shows. He could zone in on a woman he wanted, track her for five minutes, talk to her in the next 10, make her wet in the few after that, and then probably get her number. He didn’t need a sous chef or a wingman, an Adonis physique or a million dollars. He was just that good, that into it, that natural. It was thrilling to be around, exciting and titillating, and when he turned this mojo on me, well, I was completely helpless.

Therefore it came as no surprise to me that he had been with about triple the number of women than the number of men I’d been with. Nor was it a shock that he still thought about other women; still had vividly engaging sexual fantasies and dreams. Far be it from me to emasculate my virile lover. I asked him to watch porn with me, to look at naughty pictures, to read dirty stories. I offered to go down on him as he enjoyed his various scenes and he was completely dumbfounded, shocked that I wasn’t screaming or writhing or twisting with jealousy, that I wasn’t insecure.

“It doesn’t hurt me to watch something with you, or to do things with you, for you, or to you while you watch naughty antics,” I said (and repeated and explained and expounded), “but watching is where it begins and ends. To touch other women or engage in dirty talking, texting and emailing, holding or meeting other people for fun in bed would not sit well with me. In fact, you would be very surprised at the difference in the reaction you would encounter.” He nods his head in understanding and assent. The line is drawn and now we can play.

I watch him watching her, wanting her the way he wants me, wanting me the way he wants her, and wanting me to watch her, too. He’s not drooling, exactly, but he’s serious, focused, and the concentration is high, it’s like we’re “in the zone” as we would be before a big trig exam, the SAT’s, a job interview. The adrenalin is real.

I don’t break the mood or character even for a moment, for there is a sacred quality to this. He’s been a little amazed at my lack of jealousy, and even wonders if it’s real or if I just feign a jovial attitude toward webcam girls and their bored, exploring fingers. How can it be possible, he wonders, that I don’t freak out when he wants a two hour blowjob and wants to watch while I am down there, knowing I can hear but can’t see what he sees, knowing it’s okay with me.

What my husband is slowly starting to realize is that I know the difference between fantasy and reality and while, yes, I would be quite perturbed if he were to start actually cyber dating one of the models, or engaging in email exchanges, or beginning to talk about meeting someone, watching others onscreen is just not a freak-out worthy scenario; it’s hot entertainment, it’s fantasy moving through his range of vision, not through his fingers; he still touches no one but me.

Sometimes we act out scenes from something he’s watched and it’s fun; like a school play without all the inauthentic ideas of recreating Shakespeare. “Ooooooh, yea, Daddy, I’ve been a bad girl, spank me harder!” We’re rollicking and rolling, putting and taking off hats of various shapes and sizes, using hoodies, sweatshirts, stockings, high heels, lingerie and old T-shirts, nudity and remote controls, our voices, our words, our eyes.

Around the 45th minute of a really long, slow blowjob, I begin to get a little giddy. The girls in the scenes he watches moan and squeal, chirp and twitter, holler and talk about nothing at all. It occurs to me that the weight of being everything to someone is alleviated by our opening the door to this pornography business; if he can have a pseudo hunt-a-lot-o’-chicks experience, he can feel less hemmed in, less oxygen depleted in his desire to fulfill the monogamy he’s so clearly determined to maintain.

I benefit from this tremendously. No longer am I stuck in “wife” mode, being the source of his prison, being the reason he’s no longer free, being a walking, living symbol of the virility he gave up.

Also, it’s kind of refreshing at times to actually stay fully dressed and let some other woman tease, gyrate, get wet and then come, over and over, for my man, while I just relax and let him feel as pleasured as possible in the comfort and safety of his own home. Nights when I may feel, well, that not-so-sexy feeling, I still get to rock his world and don’t have to shave or even shower. Hey, now!

It’s a group effort when the intimacy of your lovemaking opens to the world of pornography and even tamer things, images, stories, dirty books. There’s still only the two of you, coupled, close, and physical. The third entity is in cyberspace, or on the television screen, no more real than last week’s episode of House.

Yet something secret this way comes, like Gollum, crawling on all fours, sick with desire, that Precious rounding the next bend, and all the power and lust and lust for power it shall bring. How do we harness this force, this magnetism toward the dual naughtiness of cheating/masturbating, this unconscionable pleasure? By keeping definite limits, continuing, as always, to talk, and knowing when it really feels great and when it really feels wrong, trusty, loyalty and commitment. Let the games begin!