"Why does she have to be so angry?"
We had been sitting at the table playing a leisurely game of backgammon, our feet gently intertwining, when my wife stormed back into the house having forgotten her keys or something before her quick trip to the store. Irritably she had grabbed them, cursed something under her breath and thudded back down the hall, slamming and locking the front door behind her.
The moment is ruined.
I hang my head in depression and ask the question.
"It's OK baby, let's go upstairs and talk, come on."
Meekly I follow, holding her hand. She leads me to the office couch as far away from the outburst and the lingering anger as we can get. She knows me well, holds me well, cradling me in her arms. I turn my head and kiss her, lovingly, gently, always amazed by the perfection of her lips, by the spark and the joy and the warmth and the emotion that pass between us.
"Why does she have to be so angry?" I ask again. "Why can't she just live and love and accept all the joy in the world? And if she can't just accept it, why does she have to go and stomp all over mine, and make me angry?"
"Make me angry? Yes. Now I've got all this pent up rage I need to get rid of."
"How do you want to get rid of it? We can just sit here, and I can hold you, and it will all go away."
"No. That's not what I want, and it's not what I'm in the mood for."
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to fuck you, fuck you fast, and fuck you hard."
"No. On our bed. I want to lock the bedroom door and fuck you right there on our bed. That's what she gets and that's what she deserves."
She is nervous. I can see it in her eyes. She is scared of the consequences, unsure of this violent, albeit distant, use of sex as a weapon and her participation in it, but at the same time she is turned on by the rawness of it, by the opportunity to avenge her own pain, by my forcefulness, by my open emotion, by the opportunity to bond in this moment without walls, in our shared love and fury.
"What if she comes back? What will your kids think if they see the bedroom door closed?"
"I don't give a fuck, and it didn't hurt me when I saw it, now come on." and this time it is me holding my hand out, her taking it, me leading, her following, back down the hall to the bedroom, our breathing, hers especially, labored with fright, excitement, and anticipation.
We enter. I turn and close and lock the door. Turn around again, and face the bed.
She is already naked, her two items of clothing on the floor, lying at a 45 degree angle across the flowered quilt my wife picked out, her legs spread wide, her eyes closed, pinching her nipples and rubbing her clit in quick, furious, violent circles, her wrist twitching wildly.
It is the hottest thing I have ever seen.
I am out of my two items of clothing and in to a condom and on top of inside of her in three seconds. There are no preliminaries. No necessities. She is wet and eager and angry and I am hard and eager and angry and driving toward a shared goal, the bed, my bed, my wife's bed, our bed, shaking and banging with each violent thrust that rocks her hips up off the quilt and pushes her back across it. Ten of those and we are both coming, collapsing, kissing, jumping up, throwing on our clothes, opening the door, rearranging the bed, throwing out the condom, and are still sitting, right where my wife left us at the backgammon board when she returns five minutes later, only slightly less angry but unable, at least for now, to upset me.
|[previous] [stories] [next]|