| Straight: Infidelity: The Count (1/4) |
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Just call me “the count”. That’s what the fertility clinic starting doing, after I went there often enough. But, even if you checked your sperm count 1,000 times, it still wouldn’t change. And I didn’t have what it took. My younger brunette wife Carol, 26, with an incredible figure (35D breasts, hourglass waist, fantastic legs), stood mutely by while her dreams of a family commensurate with our wealth evaporated. Two months after getting the last word on “my count” (probability of a stork bringing us children more likely than our having them), my wife got an unexpected call “out of the blue” from an old flame. Holding the phone, Carol asked me if it would be okay if an old boyfriend visited…she would understand if I said no. Thinking of the rich disappointment I just gave her (for a family), I magnanimously said alright. She told a relieved caller that we would pick him up. The next week, with his flight due, my wife was a flurry of activity. She began two hours before our planned drive to the airport, asking me about this outfit and that. While I grumbled that I was watching football and it was a close game, I asked her why all the fuss? Carol said it was her first boyfriend, and only black boyfriend, and she wanted to make a good impression. Apparently he had had a problem in his marriage too (that went right by me, as I watched Peyton Manning). He had been so depressed that, he told her he hadn’t had any women for six months. Carol said she knew the feeling (oh, yes, I didn’t tell you: my wife thought the whole thing about my count was either made up or could be changed if I “stored it up” so she had withheld “it” from me for 3 months). Watching the game, I didn’t listen to everything Carol said, or I would have heard of a six month sex-deprived black stud about to re-join up with his lost-love white hottie who was three months pent-up herself. Two runaway trains were about to meet and I was oblivious! My wife finally settled on an oriental number, tight fitting dark silk, body hugging, with a slit up the skirt to the panty level. I should have noticed…there was no panty visible. Her perfect legs, bikini wax smooth just yesterday, were there for anyone to see; her perfect breasts bouncing and thrusting at the front of that tissue thin dress; apparently, she forgot her bra as well as her panties. Oops? My Lincoln Towncar was virtually a limousine; when my wife asked if she could sit in back with him to “catchup on everything”, I thought nothing of it. At the airport arrival platform, an incredibly slinky and sexy Carol hugged a hunky older black man of great stature (he had been a guard for his college team in basketball) and guided him to the backseat. I shook his large and powerful hand and then started the long 90 minute trip home (did he have to fly in at 9 pm?). Instantly, they started a hubbub between them. The dim intermittent light of highway lighting and car lights made a strobe effect in the back. Flash: they sat on opposite ends of the long bench seat in back. Next flash: they were seated side by side on his side of the car. Next light: they shared an old memory, laughing. Next, she took his hand and looked at it intently, before placing it on her |
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another stupid story...
