My Loving Husband

by Adam Gunn

copyright 2013

This is a non-erotic story. There are no graphic descriptions of sex, only some consideration of the subject.

The suave gentleman was observing me at the charity ball, never rudely or in a fashion that might be obvious to others, but twice he caught my eye, the second time I smiled to him. I enjoyed the exquisitely tailored Italian tuxedo, the sweep of his Greek nose, the slight salting of his dark mane. If he was twenty years older than I, I didn’t disqualify him on that account.

And when I stepped onto a patio for air, I realized he was following me. A rock garden was below me, I led him to it.

“Are you stalking me?” I asked, the smile intimating my jest.

“I do hope I’m not that transparent. But you are charming, you know.”

“I glad you think so. I’m Jacqueline.”

He took my offered hand not in a shake but an embrace. It was then I saw the ring on his left hand. “Very pleased. I’m John. What an interesting name.”

“My mother had a crush on President Kennedy when she was young. What brings you here, John?”

“My wife, the woman with the larger than necessary hairdo, is the chairwoman of the event, and she seems to believe my presence necessary.”

We were simply two bored people sharing a drink on a balcony. “What do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a partner in the architecture firm of Miller, Young and Carter.”

“Hmmm, which one are you?”

“None of the above, my last name is Butler.”

“And would I know of any of your work?”

“Perhaps. The NCG building downtown?” A well proportioned skyscraper that I enjoyed looking at from across the river. “I had a hand in that. There are others like it all over the country.”

“It must be heady work.”

“There are times. But too much of my life is spent worrying about how many elevators a building needs or telling a client, no, the plans are finalized, can’t be changed. And what is it you do?”

“Other than flirt with married architects? I’m a branch manager for Frick Bank.”

“Which branch?”

“Downtown. Ninth and Grant.”

“And is being a branch manager of a downtown bank a satisfying position?”

“It has its moments. But too often I’m concerned with customers who seem to think it’s my fault they’ve bounced a check.”

We chatted for ten, perhaps fifteen minutes before John pleaded a need to discover if his wife required him, and again he entwined my hand in his, telling me how pleased he was to make my acquaintance.

It was more than a week later that one of my clerks hailed me. “Miss Schulman, a Mr. Butler is on the line for you.”

“Good day, how can I help?”

“Hello, Jacqueline, this is John Butler.”

“Yes . . .” The name failed to ring a bell within my memory.

“We met at the charity ball some days back.”

“Oh, yes, how are you?”

“Fabulous. And you?”

“Wonderful.”

“I was wondering if perhaps we might have a cocktail sometime.”

I took it as a social invitation, and might have turned him down for at that time I had no lack of potential dates and John, after all, was married. But I’d enjoyed my moment with him, and so agreed to meet him in the lobby of the Gouverneur Morris for nothing more than a glass of wine.

The assignation was filled with conversation, other than the handshake as we sat and departed there was a complete lack of physical contact. But our eyes searched each other’s face as we talked. On that night it was of the football team’s chance of making the playoffs, or the Broadway play that was coming to town, or where I’d graduated from college. After two glasses of wine I departed, somewhat reluctantly.

Days later, over a lunch at Ruth's Chris, he asked, “Jacqueline, may I ask why you aren’t married?”

“I tried that,” I confessed, “it didn’t work out so well.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was a scoundrel, I know of at least four affairs he had in the six years of our marriage, and when he grew bored of me I was relieved.”

“And you’ve been divorced for . . .”

“Over two years. I’m very happy about it now, actually. The best thing is that we never conceived, I thank the Lord I don’t have to concern myself with visitation rights and child support. And how long have you been married?”

“Twenty two years. We have two children, Rob is just graduating from Princeton, Emily is at Stanford.”

“And your wife?”

“A long story; I suppose they all are. She seems to have lost her enthusiasm for me. I’ve been devoted to her, but I’m not certain it’s the same as being in love.” I found the explanation likely to be truthful, sympathized with him.

Twice more we had cocktails or lunch, I became more enamored of the sense of romance in the man, the style with which he never failed to open a door for me or hold my coat. He had a limited sense of humor, and seemed to look to me for topics of conversation. He was obviously bored with his domestic life, and he mentioned more than once that any day he happened to be with me was interesting, even exciting.

When his wife departed for a three week sabbatical with several of her society friends, the invitation to dinner held a certain lack of surprise. I knew what the result of the evening was possibly going to be, had I had any intention of rejecting a physical relationship I would have never have met with him that evening. The restaurant he selected was dark, timbered walls, crystal and linen, and we found ourselves in a booth, mostly hidden from the gaze of other diners. The fare was Continental, hand crafted and delicious, the wine dark and red. John, of course, had little idea of how to begin a seduction, and so I assisted him by brushing his hand with a finger as he held his glass, placing my palm on his arm. He made no effort to return the physical touch, but his eyes alerted me to his desire.

When we returned to my house, I invited him in for 'coffee.' I clearly remember that first time we made love, how he softly kissed me, seemed almost reluctant yet anxious to fondle me, the shyness and clumsiness he exhibited as he donned the proffered condom. However, once we were entwined, he was strong and sure of himself, and his thrusts deep and stout. To my enjoyment, as he came he stared into my eyes as if he were trying to enter my mind as deeply as he was penetrating my body.

In the three weeks of his wife’s absence, he returned to my bed five or six times, often staying until morning. We came to know each other’s flesh as a cartographer studies a map. He reveled in my body, twenty one years younger than his, and I found his sexual techniques to be creative and delightful. Yet it was not purely physical, both before and after our congress we talked of our histories, our desires. Simply, we fell in love.

Following that first rush of lust we slowed, partially because there is only so much desire one can participate in, but mostly because John was required by societal pressures to be with his wife most evenings. Later that year, on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday, I was of course unwelcome at the party attended by eighty people including his close family, but he later told me that the private celebration I treated him to four days later was more moving.

In those first two years, John never spoke to me of leaving his wife or divorce, I never asked him to make me anything but his lover. I gave up seeing other men, not because of a request from John, but because the longing for bodies other than his was no longer present within me. I was satisfied with the amount of time and loving John could spare for me, never begging him for more, always anxious for the next time we might be together. I accepted the generous presents he offered me – jewels, an antique table that suited my foyer, a fur coat – with gratitude and a sense that these were love offerings, not a payment for services rendered. And I gave him gifts as well, although my limited means meant they were less luxurious; John appreciated them nevertheless.

His acquaintances were off limits to me, I did not demand excursions to his country or city club, I knew my part as a mistress and accepted it serenely. A few times we were able to slip out of town for a romantic weekend at a hotel or bed and breakfast where we would gorge upon each other.

“Would you enjoy heading out with me over Memorial Day?” John queried eight months into our affair. I knew of the resort, eighty miles southeast of the city. A reproduction French Chateau, world class dining and spa, two golf courses for John. “Of course!”

“Some friends of mine might join us. Would that upset you?”

“Of course not, but aren’t you worried that your wife will find out?”

“These are my friends, not hers.”

On the drive John told me about Scott. He was from St. Louis and as a young man he’d been fascinated by the Gateway Arch, decided to become an architect. He received a scholarship to the University in our town, and at an Alumni event – John was well on his way to becoming successful by that time – the two met. Despite the difference in ages, the two had immediately become friends, and when Scott earned his Masters, John brought him into the firm. His wife was Margot, a wonderful woman who John’s wife was poisonously jealous of.

Over lunch at the resort I found Scott, only three years my senior, tall and handsome, wavy black hair, to be perhaps a little formal, but Margot, a petite blond enchantress, had an incredible sense of humor, irreverent but not scathing. “So you’re the lady John’s been seeing. Ooooh, I see what it’s all about! Nice work, John.” Then to me, “Honey, I assume you know he’s a sex maniac. Don’t worry about it, we all just ignore it.”

The chatter over lunch was about their child, John’s godson, five years old and incredibly precocious, and the architecture of the resort. I found myself drawn to this couple, obviously very much in love with themselves and John, I was drawn into the affection through osmosis.

After the meal with our permission and blessing the men played golf, Margot and I patronized the spa. We bonded quickly, chatted easily. It was not until three hours had passed, over a glass of wine Margot confided, “Scott was a little shocked when he found out John was having an affair. I wasn’t, his wife is a churlish woman. One time, when she discovered a woman she was on a committee with was a Democrat, she resigned! Can’t have degenerates like that in decent society, can you? I have no idea what John’s doing with her. Since he met you he’s been on cloud nine.” When she asked me of my tribulations as a mistress she seemed sympathetic, I trusted her immediately.

Dinner with the couple was joyful, the conversation sparkling, the anecdotes hilarious. Sunday and then Monday passed too quickly, strolls through the gardens, swims in the pools, conversations and cocktails in their room or ours. John was gladdened that his friends were now mine. The four of us became intimates, I was invited to their home for dinner, a place that was off-limits to John’s wife due to a contretemps I never completely understood, I sometimes met Margot for drinks.

It couldn’t last, of course, nothing does. Two years and seven weeks after John became my lover, his wife discovered my existence. That first evening, according to John, she was a tyrant, abusing him verbally, accusing him of sins he’d not committed although he never denied his adultery with me. That night he came to me and slept within my arms.

The divorce was as appalling as one might expect. John was determined to take the high road, and he gave his wife more than was expected, his lawyer advised him he was being over generous. And yet the woman wanted more, including revenge. Luckily, the grown children understood the divisiveness and kept a level head. The first time I met them they treated me civilly, even though they realized I was ‘the other woman.’

Even during the most difficult periods, when John was in the throes of losing his wife and more than sixty percent of the wealth he’d accumulated, there was never a time when he blamed me or rationalized it was somehow my fault. When he was depressed he came to me for comfort, understanding.

And then, suddenly, the papers were signed and John was no longer encumbered with a spouse. Margot threw a ‘happy divorce’ party at a chain restaurant, about fifteen people attended, and a savage roast of John’s ex-wife was the theme. I was welcomed not as her successor, but as another member of the group.

Of course, I wondered about my future, I loved John, but my friends warned me he would change, throw me aside for an even younger woman, desert me. I publicly denied that possibility, but secretly worried that the three years I’d spent with John would be for naught.

A month after the divorce, we escaped from the snows of February to a windward island, and for three days we did little but swim in the crystal sea, dine casually and make love. On the fourth evening, John asked me to join him at the table in the living room of our suite, and it was then that he laid his soul bare. “Jacqueline, you must know how much I am in love with you. I want to spend the rest of my days with you, and I hope you feel the same. But before you and I go further, I think you need to consider what I have to offer.” The first thing he showed me was an accounting of his financial status – it indicated that even after the divorce he was still worth a few millions of dollars, and his annual income as a partner in the firm was in the neighborhood of the mid hundred thousands. Then we discussed our age difference, and that if we were to marry we would have at the most fifteen to twenty good years. At that point his physical attributes would likely begin to suffer, while I would just be entering middle age. Finally, he told me that he didn’t want children, he considered offspring for men of his age was a conceited and foolish notion. “Now, I’m not going to do anything silly on this trip, such as propose,” he promised. “At some point in the future, months, perhaps a year, if we’re still together I probably will. But we need to forget the ugliness of the past few months, and you need to think through the situation and be certain that the life I can offer you is one you can accept.”

“I understand,” I smiled, and then sat on his lap and kissed him. We made lazy love before we dressed and ate a late supper.

I became more of a part of John’s life, although he kept his own apartment, sleeping there more often than at my townhouse. In the changed circumstances we could dine at restaurants without a sense of clandestine mystery, John introduced me as the woman he was dating to his friends and associates. When I agreed that playing golf might be an interesting diversion he arranged for me to take lessons at his Country Club and by the summer I was barely proficient enough to begin playing on Sunday afternoons with John and another couple. I was afraid, of course, that I’d embarrass myself or John with my incompetence at the game, but when I’d whiff, John would simply smile, he never told me ‘Keep your head down’ or gave other unwanted advice. His friends at the club welcomed me, but there were those, particularly women, who gossiped behind my back and ignored me.

It was in early December that John took me to New York for Christmas shopping and plays. The weather that weekend was warm, a Hansom cab clopped its way through Central Park, John asked him to stop at Bethesda Fountain for a photograph. Suddenly, John dropped to a knee and asked, “Jacqueline, will you be my wife?” I cried happily, and accepted as I had intended to all along. Scott and Margot were lurking behind a bush, at the drop of a ring they rushed from hiding to pour champagne and celebrate with us.

I suggested a pre-nuptial agreement, but John wouldn’t hear of it. “What is mine, dear, is yours. I trust that you are entering our new life with a commitment, I know you won’t take advantage of me.”

In February twenty-two people including his children, members of our families and friends such as Scott and Margot accompanied us to the island of St. Lucia where John and I became man and wife, and then three days later welcomed in 1995.

John and I purchased a five bedroom estate on an acre and a half. John never suggested or even hinted that I shouldn’t work anymore, but I quickly tired of the race now that I had no need for monetary rewards. John encouraged me when I quit to concentrate on landscaping our grounds and furnishing our house, playing golf with my friends and throwing myself into charitable causes.

John and I traveled each year, once to an American city, and again to a European or another foreign destination; it was my pleasure to discover new ports of call and plan the trips for John’s amusement. And in the winter, we escaped to one or another Caribbean island for a February escape, usually accompanied by Scott and Margot.

June and July were always particularly mirthful months. The third weekend in June was the Invitational golf tournament at Scott’s club, less prestigious than ours. On Thursday the boys would play a practice round, on Friday they’d spend the entire day at the club, boozing afterwards until the wee hours while Margot and I shopped and concocted new recipes for alcohol, on Saturday the final round would be played and then in the evening we would be feted at a ball, the women in extravagant summer gowns and jewelry, the men handsome in their suits and ties. If they had been fortunate enough, our men would be presented with a trophy for their fine play, then we would dance with our husbands and then with the opposite partner. Three weeks later, the process was repeated at our club.

Our lives drifted by, no emergencies of any sort, kindness and loving between us. John and I were, as many of our friends observed, the happiest couple they knew.

John and I escaped to the Bahamas for our fifth anniversary. On the exact date, our love-making was extended and delicious. Yet on the very next evening during a moonlight walk by the sea, John shocked me. “Dear, have you had an affair yet?”

“Of course not,” I said with distress in my tone. “Why, do you think I’m having one?”

“On the contrary,” he smiled. “I can think of no wife who has shown less tendency to stray. If someone were to offer me a large bet on your fidelity, I’d accept quickly.”

“Then why did you ask? Are you having an affair?”

“Absolutely not,” he contended, “and I doubt I ever will. You were the only woman I slept with during my first marriage, and I see no reason to believe I’ll choose to sleep with anyone else in this one. No, the reason I ask is that I suspect at some time in the future, years from now perhaps, you’ll have a need for another man. Not because you’ll fall out of love with me, I don’t think that will ever happen. But we both know that infidelity is commonplace . . .”

“I’m not common!” I interrupted.

“Of course you’re not,” he agreed. “But I was going to add that statistics show that women in May-December relationships have a greater tendency to require exterior stimulation. Jacqueline, everything suggests that you will eventually have an affair. Should that ever happen, know that I won’t begrudge you. Just remember then that I’m the man you love, that you’ve vowed to stay with me for the rest of my life. And realize I want you to enjoy your passion, not be furtive and unhappy with your choice.”

“Are you saying you want me to go to bed with someone else?”

“No, not at all. I’m simply saying that, if it ever does happen, you needn’t think it’s the end of us, or even that it’s wrong.”

“Well, I’m never going to do that.”

“I accept your word, then.” And we sat on the beach, he soothed my emotions, kissed my shoulder and in the sand we made love.

The years flowed, we remained happy, in love, and devoted to each other and our friends. I was never bored, never wanted more than the cornucopia I had been granted. Then, in the eleventh year of our bliss, tragedy struck.

“Mrs. Butler?” the voice on the other end of my cell phone asked with a twinge of unhappiness. I recognized the voice of John’s secretary.

“Hello, Joan, what is it?”

“Oh, I’m so, so sorry. Mr. Butler collapsed in his office, they’ve taken him to the hospital.”

“Oh, my God! Do they know what’s wrong?”

“They didn’t say, but it sort of seemed like a heart attack or a stroke or something.”

“I’ve got to get there!”

“Yes, ma’am. Is there anything I can do?”

“No, not that I know of. Thank you so much. I’ll let you know what happens.”

I didn’t care that my hair was uncombed or that my mascara wasn’t perfect. In a haze I drove to the hospital, then took another twenty minutes before I found anyone who could tell me of my husband’s condition. He’d had a coronary thrombosis and was in severe distress. A bypass operation was indicated, they would start in hours if I gave permission, which I quickly did.

I was joined by Scott and Margot, and they sat with me through the night and into the next morning, when finally the doctors announced the operation was completed, it would be days until he was out of danger. I saw him a few hours later, and his eyes opened.

“Hi,” he whispered.

I bent to kiss his cheek. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be, I just need you to get better. I’m here if you need me.” Then they kicked me out, told me John needed to rest.

For almost a week the three of us formed a vigil until at last John was released from ICU into a private room. Two days later, an ambulance brought him home, we converted a den on the first floor to a sickroom. For three months he recovered slowly, and every moment of every day I waited on him, prayed that he’d get better, and he did, in tiny steps. Everything about our life changed, from the things we ate to the time we ate to the exercise we took to the temperature we kept the house at. He talked almost every day with Scott, Margot often told him to get off his ass and stop malingering. When John was allowed for the first time out of the house to walk fifty paces through the garden, we thanked God for the miracle. Two weeks later, we went to the club and he managed to practice putting for ten minutes, it was wonderful. And on the first day that I drove him to the office downtown and he was able to put in half a day’s work, they threw a subdued welcome back for him.

He recovered, we recovered, we were still alive, in love, and happy. After a seven month lapse our vacations returned. John regained his desire for golf, although his handicap climbed a dozen strokes, after a year’s hiatus we resumed the tradition of the summer Invitationals.

Unfortunately, one thing had changed permanently, John was no longer able to achieve an erection. The doctors suggested it might be psychological, the psychatrists could offer little help. John was refused Viagra, the doctors felt it might interfere with his medicine and cause another attack. They hoped, as we did, that eventually the situation would simply go away.

One night at a restaurant with Margot I confessed the plight, the frustration on both my and John’s part. She sympathized, then in her impish demeanor offered to share Scott. It was a joke I think, and besides, I didn’t want another man, I wanted John.

That didn’t stop us, of course, from doing everything that we could short of penetration. John became expert at satisfying me with finger or mouth, and we obtained plastic toys. Even if he remained pliant, I was often able to satisfy him with my mouth. We realized we could live without penetrative sex.

Three years after his heart attack, John and I were still living without it.

In June, my thirtieth high school reunion was held. John joined me for the dinner and dancing, and my old clique wanted to have another drink. John decided he’d had enough, my friends promised him I’d get a ride home, no need to stay.

We danced, a boy I’d dated a few times when I was eighteen spun me around the floor. Tony had no ring on his finger, he’d never remarried after his divorce fifteen years prior. His hair was still full, the lines on his face looked no more mature than they had in school, his clothes hung on him stylishly. When they kicked us out at two in the morning, it was Tony who gallantly offered me the use of his passenger seat. Through the dark woods of our suburb his convertible traveled.

“I can’t believe how beautiful you’ve become,” he complimented, “you’re even more good looking than you were back then.”

“Thank you. You haven’t changed much either.”

“Do you ever regret the fact that we never made love back then?”

“No, of course not. I didn’t do it with anyone in high school,” I confessed.

“Really! My goodness, I thought you and Tommy Boyce were an item.” I drunkenly giggled at the memories. It was then that Tony drifted the car into a wooded park, the path overhung with trees, after eighty yards of the road and a turn into a parking lot we were completely out of sight of other cars that might pass in the wee hours of the morning. A brook bubbled it’s song when Tony turned the ignition off, and when he bent towards me I opened my mouth in invitation. Suddenly my blouse was open, his hand was on my breast, my nipple was being twisted, I made no effort to stop him. Then his lips were kissing the little circle, dragging a moan from me. And when his hand crept between my legs, I stretched them apart, for in my drunkenness I desired his offering.

My own hand drifted to his groin, and there was a wonderful lump, the kind John used to have. Tony unzipped himself, pulled fabric around and suddenly the rod was unsheathed, my palm felt its heat, its rigidness. Tony slipped into my seat, above me, I knew I what I was doing, the alcohol in my system made it less concerning, but it was my own flesh that wanted the incursion. The altercation took fewer than five minutes and was less than explosive for me, although I tremendously enjoyed the sensation of a living man filling me again, the first time in nearly three years.

As he dropped me off, Tony asked if we might meet again. “Probably not,” I answered, “this was a big mistake.”

John seemed asleep when I entered the bedroom, and I tried to keep the running water I used to soap and rinse quiet.

The next morning John was absent from the bed, it was later than I normally woke, I was sure he was walking the dog or reading over coffee. I felt myself, my arms, my belly, my breasts and, especially, down there. ‘What a mistake,’ I thought. ‘What if the police had come by and caught us? My name would be all over town, everyone would know what I’d done.’ And although Tony was somewhat attractive, he’d never be my dream man, I’d simply used him like so much horseflesh. But when I remembered what had been done to me, and my fingertips came in contact with the hidden tip, I had to stuff a fist into my mouth to keep from screaming with the eruption.

John was in the breakfast nook when I came down. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, I did. You were out like a rock when I got home.”

“I was really tired. Did you have fun after I left? What did you do?”

“Oh, we sat and then danced some. Abbey drove me home,” I lied.

“That’s nice. She seems a sweet person,” my husband complimented.

It wasn’t until late in the week that my cell phone rang, Tony on the line. “I was thinking we could get together again,” he tempted.

“I don’t know, I don’t think we should.”

“You know you’d enjoy it,” he promised, “come over to my place.”

“Tuesday night, seven o’clock?” I caved.

At his apartment in the heart of the University district, I let him disrobe me, play with me, and then climb above me and screw me. I was surprised to find myself wet for him, and as he drove into me I waited for the emotion to charge through me, and I pulled him into me as I came.

Six weeks later, the emotions were making me sick. Everytime I traveled to Tony’s lair guilt racked my soul, and although while I was with him I was assuaged, on the drive home I’d tell myself I would never do it again, and some nights sleep would evade me until dawn.

If possible, John was even more loving than ever, and when I was in my darkest period he’d hold me, brush the hair from my forehead, soothe me. One night when I was low, he asked, “What’s wrong? How can I help?”

I knew we couldn’t go on this way, and so I tearfully confessed. “Oh, my love, I’ve been having an affair. I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. He means nothing to me. Please forgive me.”

John never moved, never stopped hugging me to himself, didn’t twitch one muscle in a manner that suggested annoyance or disapproval. “It’s fine,” he appeased, “it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“What do you mean?” I cried, “I’ve been unfaithful.”

“Have you? Have you really? Each morning, you’ve been here to see me off with a cup of coffee and a kiss. Each night, you’ve been beside me in my bed. We play together, we work together. A little thing like sex can’t make you ‘unfaithful.’ As long as you love me, that’s all I need from you.”

Like a flood, my stress dripped from me, the tears slid down my face, my man caressed me. “I can’t believe you’re being so forgiving about this,” I murmured.

“I’m not forgiving, because there’s nothing to forgive. I told you years ago that this would happen, that it would be all right when it did. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“So, it has happened. And why not, why shouldn’t you want something I can’t give you?” And he laid my hand in his impotent lap.

I glimpsed a sliver of his wisdom, and we cuddled. Half an hour later, I asked, “Is there anything you want me to tell you?”

“It started the night of your reunion, didn’t it?”

“How did you know?”

“It was obvious. When you came home, later than you should have, I was still awake, but I pretended to sleep, trying to give you space I thought you needed. I could sense the emotion in you when you came to bed. The next day, you were sometimes smiling unexpectedly, other times you were almost depressed. You didn’t hide your feelings very well that day.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” I asked.

“I had to wait for you to admit it freely. And now you have. And now that it’s out in the open, we can deal with it. How do you feel about this man?”

“His name is Tony. I went to high school with him. I don’t love him, there are times when I don’t even like him much.”

“But he makes you feel good.”

“Sometimes. Other times, it’s just something to do. I’ll stop, if you want me to,” I offered.

“There’s no need,” my loving husband consoled. “Have your affair, but come back to me after you’ve had your pleasure.”

The carte blanche that my husband gave me offered a freedom I didn’t know existed, and wasn’t sure I wanted. Tony desired me only for the sex, I knew that, but while we were having an ‘affair,’ before I told John, I felt obliged to treat Tony as a lover. Once I realized he was no more to me than a thing to be used only for physical relief, we moved to a different relationship. When I’d get incredibly randy, once or at most thrice a month, I’d visit his apartment, disrobe and engage in gymnastic exercises. In those circumstances, I rarely failed to have an orgasm. And if he called me, I might or might not gift him what he desired, I remained in total control. But it was never more than generic sex, I could have been with any other man.

John could sense when I’d been with Tony, often we’d be physical with each other soon after I returned from an encounter, pleasant faux sex that never failed to satisfy us, make the love we felt for each other even stronger.

Margot discovered my gluttony over drinks at a lounge. I’d crawled out of bed with Tony, satisfied and glowing, dressed and met for cocktails with my friend. “Something’s different. What’s going on, girl?”

I twirled my glass, cast my eyes at the table, smirked. “I’m having an affair.”

“It agrees with you. How are you hiding it from John?”

“I’m not. He knows and approves. Oh, don’t look at me like that, that isn’t how it is. He let me know that if I ever needed something – you know he’s impotent – that I should go ahead.” I gave her the details, told her of my unlove, that my venture had little impact on my marriage.

“Well, I’m no person to judge,” Margot absolved. “As long as you and John aren’t unhappy, I’m happy for you. Just be careful.”

“Have you ever had an affair?” I asked.

“No. I thought about it, just once. A bachelor at a health club I belonged to. He was handsome, liked to talk to me. I met him for drinks a few times.”

“What happened?”

“He invited me to his place, I was standing at the door, then didn’t have the guts to ring the bell. I never went back to the gym again. I have this idea he’s still waiting for me, but when I didn’t show he probably just called an escort service!”

Eventually, of course, Tony and I tired of each other. Fourteen months after that reunion, I called him one day, he told me he was seeing another woman. That was the last time I spoke with him, and truth be told, I didn’t miss him. Sometimes, in the deep of the night, I desired a scepter of hot skin buried within me, but it did not need to be Tony’s, and I did nothing to find a replacement.

“There’s a problem,” Margot’s voice lamented, although no tears fell from her eyes. “The doctors found something in my head.” It might be a tumor, tests would have to be performed, Scott was being strong but of course he was worried. Over the weeks I held her hand as she lingered in the waiting rooms, and I sat with Scott at night when Margot rested, talking, listening, sometimes allowing him to cry as a child on my breast.

The results came in, even worse than anticipated. The lump was massive and propagating at an astounding rate. The physicians spoke of surgery, of poisonous treatments, and these efforts were attempted but it made no difference, the cancer spread, even though we hoped and prayed. Margot made her peace, certain that within a short time her husband would be widowed, that she would not be present for her son’s wedding, she would never see grandchildren. She told me I was a comfort to her, with John’s sanction I often slept in their guest room, the better to assist both Margot and her already grieving husband. A scant four months after her initial diagnosis she was thin, wasting, in constant pain, and we’d talk during the interminable nights. She asked for my promise to help Scott through the agonizing adjustments he was bound to experience, and I gave my word.

The funeral service was beautiful, as her closest friend I was called upon to eulogize her. When the guests departed and the son went back to University, John and I knew Scott’s future was ours as well. In the ensuing days we insisted he stay with us, encouraged him with conversation and hugs, if he chose to sit in a chair and ponder we simply ensured he had sustenance and knew of our love.

The following week, John needed to journey on business, inspect a current building site, work with a client in the planning stage. He encouraged me to stay with Scott as much as possible, even sleeping in their guest bedroom. Scott welcomed my care, told me he was frightened of being alone.

I insisted that Scott leave for his office on Monday, he was required to begin the remainder of his life; he was only fifty-two, and although I understood his desire to immerse himself in the den, lick his wounds and never see the good in life again, we both knew the yearning would pass, for his own sake he had to live in the world, not outside it.

When he returned home in the twilight I prepared salads, he picked at his, I insisted he inspect the boxes I’d tearfully packed during the daylight hours. Tuesday evening, he remained maudlin, I decided the time was right for an excursion, we had dinner at a chain infamous for it’s barbeque. I ordered him a drink, joined him in one, and we talked. Over the second beverage I brought back a memory. “Remember the time we capsized the sailboat?” The four of us had been on a sunfish, the boys were kidding themselves what tremendous sailors they were, and a sudden gust of wind accompanied by a squall bent the mast and dumped us unceremoniously into the bay. The rain passed quickly, the water was warm, we were all adequate swimmers with life jackets, there was no danger, yet there was a concerted sense of imperfection. The boys swam circles around the useless boat, trying to right it and cursing. I was anxiously looking for the fin of the shark I knew was desiring me for a snack. And it was Margot who said, “So a minister, a priest and a rabbi walk into a bar . . .” That remembrance brought another, and another, and soon we were laughing loudly at Margot’s constant sense of presence, our sides aching with the levity, not caring that other customers in the restaurant failed to see the humor.

Strolling to our car, styrofoam boxes of leftovers in hand, Scott first put his arm around my waist, a substitute for the woman he could love no longer, at the automobile I put my head to his shoulder, and we transitioned from laughter to more tears, but these weren’t as salty.

Back at his house, we decided to get out albums that Margot had put together of our trips. As Scott and I inspected the pictures of tropical environs, the four of us smiling and clinking glasses, Margot’s flippant eyes, we sat together on the couch. His mood suddenly changed from mirthful to sorrowful, and I pulled him to me in what I intended to be a sisterly hug, but I sensed, as I know he did, a surprising shift from platonic to amorous. Was this what he needed, I wondered, what was required to move him forward? And if it was, should it be me to substitute for Margot? In the slight moment offered for consideration, I couldn’t be certain of the answers, but I made a abrupt decision to allow it. I raised my face, expecting Scott to kiss me.

Our lips hung, inches apart, I felt Scott bow towards me, hesitate, then the spell broke, he muttered, “I can’t.” He rose, headed for the powder room, and in his absence I began to putter, putting the albums away, taking the glasses into the kitchen. He returned, then apologized for what he perceived was his own momentary lapse, not realizing I was complicit in the offense. Before we separated for the evening, each to his boudoir, he hugged me once more, chastely.

Between the cool sheets, I wondered at the moment. Was it wrong? Would Margot mind if Scott and I would have made love? I doubted it, she was always practical, and she would have been the first to suggest Scott move forward after the trauma; if that’s what it took, she’d encourage it, and if there was enjoyment for me, she would have cheered me on. John? I remembered his kindness during my affair, he wanted only the best for me, and I knew he wanted the same for Scott. If we would become entangled, I knew John would respect my new relationship, probably would even encourage it.

I knew anything physical between Scott and I would, unlike the tawdry affair with Tony, be matched by a spiritual linking, but wasn’t that something we already possessed? Making love with Scott would be a completion of our feelings, not a wrenching.

But was I imagining this? Perhaps for Scott, it would be a betrayal of his love for Margot, for John. Even, possibly, he felt no physical longing for me; in the seventeen years we’d known each other, he’d never done one thing, other than the moment in the living room, that indicated any sexual feelings towards me.

If he needed me, I decided in the end, I’d gladly let him have me. But it had to be his decision. I waited for the knock on the bedroom door, the confession of longing for me. But when I fell asleep, long after midnight, I was still alone, as Scott was.

He was the perfect gentleman in the morning, and for the rest of the week. Although we shared meals and conversation, and he was incredibly warm towards me, neither of us spoke of the moment, we both seemed to evade any contact that might move towards flirtation. Thursday evening I showed him the progress I’d made on my tasks, he agreed that Goodwill should have this and that, other things might be sold. He offered me the pick of Margot’s jewelry, and I accepted two necklaces and a bracelet that reminded me of the good times, when I wore them on future occasions I knew her spirit would be upon me. Friday night we met John at a restaurant after his flight. And when we arrived at our house, Scott surprised both of us by insisting that the time of intense therapy was ended, he’d sleep alone at his house that night, although he quickly accepted an invitation to our Country Club the following day for a round of golf with John.

Over a drink, John and I spoke of Scott, and he questioned me about Scott’s emotional state. Through a series of questions he explored the week I’d spent with the other man, how I’d soothed and calmed him, and in turn had begun to cope with the death of my best friend. I confessed the moment of weakness that Scott and I shared, but that it had gone no further. Although John suggested it was probably for the best, he gave no indication that the alternative would have been a disaster.

Five months passed, Scott was with us often. He depended upon both of us for support, and he often asked me to have a solitary lunch or dinner with him, especially when he knew John was out of town or engaged during the evening. He wasn’t dating, had no desire to meet other woman. One time he told me, “If you weren’t married to John, I’d probably be asking you out.” I was flattered by the compliment, but there was never a moment when we were tempted to move beyond the siblingish relationship we’d established.

My fiftieth birthday rolled around, there was a large party held at the Country Club, a hundred and fifty of our dearest friends, John worked for weeks to ensure it’s success, and I thanked him publicly for the efforts, and for being my husband for sixteen years.

The next morning, an hour from John’s tee time at the club, he was still abed. I went to wake him, saw that something was amiss. John’s pallor was less fleshy, his energy seemed reduced. He decided to sleep in that day, surprising because, even though he was seventy one that year, he was always an early riser, and never failed to be excited about a round of golf. We chalked it up to the commotion of the party, he met Scott at the club for nine holes in the afternoon.

As a wife I couldn’t help but be concerned, and for the next three weeks I observed my husband, seeing small signs that I took for physical deterioration: more time in the easy chair, a tendency to drop off into a nap at odd hours, lack of appetite, fleshy whiteness where there used to be robust pink. Finally I suggested a physical.

John’s doctor inspected him, took EKGs and other tests, ordered blood analysis, and a week later sent John to a heart specialist. “It’s probably nothing,” the doctor said, “but it doesn’t hurt to be certain.”

The cardiologist kept John for hours at his office, repeating some tests, inflicting others on him, then his nurse sent us home, telling us we’d be contacted in a week or so. Then we were commanded to return to the specialist. A few things, such as the EKG and blood pressure, were taken again, and then the cardiologist saw us in his office.

“I wish I could give you better news,” he started, “but I’m afraid this is serious. Mr. Butler, without using Latin terms you wouldn’t understand, your heart is failing you. It’s very sick, it’s not going to get better.” He went on for another ten minutes, but the executive summary was all we needed.

John was blunt. “What can I do?”

“Other than the things you’ve already been doing? Proper medication, diet, rest, the right kind of exercise, that’s under control now, and you should keep that up. It’ll help your heart cope, but it’s not going to help it recover, nothing will.”

“How about a heart transplant? Will that help?”

“If we could get you a heart, yes. However, your blood type and other concerns mean you’d be a hard match. And to be candid with you, sir, your age is against you. If a heart that was a good match for you was available, they might skip over you and transplant it in someone younger. I won’t try to defend the practice, but it’s a fact.”

My mind shut down, I felt the tears begin to leak. But John remained strong. “How much time do I have?”

“Hard to say, very hard,” the cardiologist answered. “We deal in probabilities over time. I’d say that the chances of you surviving a year are much better than 70%. Five years out, I’m afraid it’s less than 15%. Of course, I could be completely wrong, you might outlive me.” He paused, you could tell he was expert at these discussions. “If I can, I’d like to leave you with one thought. You are alive today. Live well, appreciate every moment.”

“That’s good advice, doctor, thank you.”

After a few days, the doctor’s counsel had sunk in, we made a conscious decision not to obsess, but simply accept and enjoy what we already possessed, especially our love for one another. John went over his will and such, I was aware that he was leaving me with the house and forty percent of his wealth; I could expect to live out my years in comfort. We’d always realized this day might come, when I as a relatively young woman would attend John’s funeral. But I wanted more years, and although I didn’t feel cheated, I did think the gods might have been kinder.

John retired, sold his partnership and backed completely away from the business. When we were home, we were at the club daily. John continued to play golf with me and his other friends, but sometimes after nine or fourteen holes he might decide it was enough. John’s children wanted to see him, of course, and were welcomed to stay as long as they could. Scott often stopped at our house for dinner, or just to see how John was doing.

One night, after I’d tucked John into bed, I sat with Scott in the den, a glass in my hand. I remember being keyed up, as at that point John and I had essentially given up all thoughts of a physical relationship. Scott picked up on my vexation, wondered what was wrong. “The truth? There are times that I wonder why this is happening. I’m a young woman yet, years ahead of me, and I’m wasting away.” Then I chuckled, “Margot would make fun of me, you know, one time she suggested I borrow you for the bedroom. Do you think she would have minded if I took her up on it?”

Scott smiled, “No, I don’t think she would have, even when she was alive. A couple of months before . . . well, she told me that if I didn’t have another lover within a year, she’d come back to haunt me. I don’t think I’m going to make her timeframe, I still don’t have any desire. But if I did, you’d be the person I went looking for.”

“You’re a friend,” I said, hugging him. “You’d actually do that for me?”

“It’d be a sacrifice,” he laughed, “but I’d try my darnedest.” Of course, nothing happened that night, or any other night, but I thought of how nice it would be with Scott, and I suspect he fantasized about me as well.

We travelled to the places John loved. The south of France, the links of Scotland, Prague, the Caribbean. The first time we went back to the sea, Scott refused to go with us. He gave an alibi that had to do with business, and perhaps it wasn’t an excuse, but I sensed the underlying reason was that he was still too confused to place himself at a resort with the two of us but without his love, Margot.

After fifteen months, John was much worse. Three, sometimes four naps per day, he could barely putt on the practice green for five minutes, walking the stairs of our house was an arduous chore. The doctor observed that John’s heart would probably stop sooner rather than later. And John decided he craved one last trip to the windward islands.

We chose our favorite resort, I ensured we’d have a suite on the first floor only a few yards from the ocean with a marvelous view. Concierge service was available for the times we’d need to eat in the room, I talked directly to the resort doctor, paid for a nurse to be on duty every moment we were there, alerted the manager to our known and potential needs. I even decided to charter a private jet, knowing that the additional cost would be worth John’s comfort. Scott, realizing this might be the last trip ever with his comrade, decided to accompany us, we booked the room adjoining ours for him.

As the small jet reached cruising altitude, John signaled to the attendant. “Bring these two sad sacks a mimosa and an orange juice for me.” When we had the drinks in hand, he toasted, “L'Chaim.” ‘To life.’ I sniffled back a tear, and drank to the life this generous man had had. And, as if he’d read my mind, John lectured both of us.

“Listen, you two, this is supposed to be a party. We’re on our way to the best island in the world, and you’re acting like it’s going to be a funeral. Well, I’m not dead yet, so don’t bury me. Scott, if Margot was with us, what would she be doing?”

He laughed. “She’d be telling you to get up off your ass and stop malingering.”

Again, John raised his glass, this time to our friendly ghost. “And that’s the attitude I want on this trip. When I can, I’ll be active. I intend to dance with you, young lady. I bet I can wade out to the floats and get sun burned. And the three of us are going to play golf. When I’m napping, I expect you two to go have fun. Snorkeling, tennis. After I go to bed at night, go get drunk in the bars. And Scott, you’ve never been any damn good at the tango, practice it with Jacqueline. Are there any questions?”

There weren’t, and this time all three of us loudly proclaimed, “L'Chaim!”

Thanks to the speed of the jet and the waiting limo, we’d spent less than five hours in transit, but still John required a nap. I was tempted to sit in the room and wait on the off chance that he’d require something, but Scott argued, “Let the nurse do that, isn’t that what you’re paying her for? There’s plenty of afternoon left, put your swimsuit on.” We headed for the largest pool, full of people, many of them younger, but not more beautiful, than we. A rum and juice from the swim up bar, then a sit under the palm tree.

“John’s quite a man,” Scott commented.

“That he is!”

“He’s got a point, you know. We need to have fun while we’re here, not only for his sake, for us too.”

“Yes, you’re right. Let’s make a pact. No sorrow, not until . . .” In spite of my brave words, tears sullied my cheeks.

Scott tenderly wiped them away. “No sorrow, until we bury him. Then we’ll both cry. All right?”

“All right,” I agreed. “Come on, let’s make a reservation to go snorkeling tomorrow.” We skipped across the resort, hand in hand. When we got back to the rooms, John was awake. “That’s the way I like to see you two – with smiles on your face.” He had his swim trunks on, and he did indeed paddle out to the floats, climb aboard one, and ordered Scott into the beach for a fresh round of drinks.

“You like him, don’t you?” he asked me.

“I’ve always liked him, from the first time I met him.”

“Yes, but I mean, you like him – in that way.”

I knew what John was getting at. He was rarely as blunt, but I assume he realized he had little time to be obtuse. I was as honest as I could be. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. I’ve never really tried to find out.”

“Why not? You know I wouldn’t object.”

“But when I’ve got you, why should I want something else?”

“One time you did.”

“That was a mistake,” I speculated.

“I’m not sure,” John suggested. “Yes, you know you weren’t in love with him, but he gave you what you needed. With Scott, you could have that, and love too, if you wanted it.”

“You’re a dear to propose it,” and I made it clear that more colloquy on the subject would be unwelcome.

John felt well enough to go to dinner with us that night, and if he only tasted his salad and entrée, drank only half a glass of wine, still he felt our love for him. Afterwards, he wanted me to take him back to the room and prepare for sleep, by 9:00 he was out.

Scott and I headed for the night club, and for two hours we watched the floor show, then danced. We walked back to the rooms, I made certain John was peaceful, then Scott suggested a moonlight swim, a tradition the four of us had in other years. My favorite pool was the laguna de l’amor, there in the deeps colored by the rose tinted lights we swam in the tepid water and engaged in discourse.

Scott started, “While you were dressing, John and I had the strangest talk. Has he become unhinged lately?”

“No, not at all. He’s always been completely lucid, except when he’s tired.” This suggestion worried me. “Was he manic? I didn’t see that.”

“No, he seemed completely in control, but what he said was odd. Basically, in a round about fashion, he advised me to make love to you.”

This, of course, made sense to me. John, having an abbreviated view and wanting to ensure that we were well cared for when he was no longer with us, was attempting to play match-maker. “Yes, he mentioned that to me as well. He’s in his right mind, you needn’t worry.”

“What do you think about that?”

“About his sanity?” I balked.

“No, about the idea that we might become . . . well . . . more than friends.”

Gently, “I’d need to think hard about it. You know I like you very much.”

“And I, you. I must confess, there are times I’ve fantasized about you.”

“Since we lost Margot?”

“Even before. She knew I found you attractive, and in the privacy of our bed she encouraged me to dream about you.”

“Knowing Margot, she had a fantasy man of her own.”

“Oh, she would have easily traded me in for a young Sean Connery. You understand, this was simply a game, neither of us ever acted on our urges. Surely you and John have similar games.”

“Ours took a different angle,” I agreed.

Facing each other, I crosswise on a float, he treading water, we shared an awkward hesitation. When his face drifted toward mine, I braced myself for the collision and was not disappointed. Our lips brushed, open mouths, I tasted the sweetness of his tongue. It lasted less than a minute, then I kicked away from him. Nothing more was said about the encounter, and though we were unwilling to share our thoughts, it was obvious we had them. He dried my back gingerly, we strolled through the gardens filled with the night calls of tree frogs, I placed my hand in his.

When we parted, neither of us knew how to end the evening. A hand shake? A hug? A kiss? A romp between the sheets? We settled for a verbal wish, ‘good night.’

John was peacefully sleeping. If he clung to the pattern of home, he might not awake until mid-morning, I had no concerns about him, no duties at the moment.

A shower, I decided, would clear the air, purge the uneasiness from my psyche. Under the hot water, streaming over my mane and shoulders, I considered needs, desires, options. My loving husband was preparing me for the time, fairly soon we were certain, when I would not be required to concern myself with only his needs. Was he wise in this suggestion?

And what of my own desires? In my care for my husband, I’d hidden them, consigned them deep within my heart. Was it time, yet, for me to reach inside, clutch at them, allow them indulgence? Perhaps, once they gained their freedom they would somehow capture me, twist me away from my primary purpose?

No! Until the moment of his death, I would love, I would care for my husband. Then I realized he was preparing not only me, but also himself for the instant he could no longer care for me in return. If I twirled from him for a moment, would I actually be twisting back towards him? Confusion infused my soul.

The towel was soft against my skin, sensuous. My damp hair was dried with warm breezes, then brushed into thick, soft curls. I rubbed creams into my flesh until each inch was silken, donned a light peignoir, nothing more, attesting to my modesty, but leaving my flesh cool, my spirit enfolded. Finally, a spritz of rich perfume, I was prepared. But for what?

John continued in his slumber, at the moment he had no needs I could minister to. And, the other man? Did he have needs? And could I, should I, attend to them? My tormented soul whirled, and suddenly, as if a compass needle swung then rested on north, it steadied. I embraced my future.

Stepping outside the threshold, the air was cool, the palm trees pendulated in the tropical breeze. I stepped to the next door, found it unlocked.

The next morning, John devoured a hearty breakfast, eggs, fruits, toast, thick black coffee. “You two are trying to hide something. Should I change my name to Lord Hamilton?” Scott didn’t catch the allusion, but I answered, “Only if you choose to refer to this gentleman as ‘Admiral Nelson.’” John smiled, his wish for his two best friends had been granted. “I’m happy for you. And since this is a fait accompli, let us celebrate it.” Three, not two, glasses of champagne were called for, and John saluted, “To the ménage-a-trois. Let us be happy.”

For the rest of the vacation, I spent every moment with my husband when he was awake, satisfied his every need and desire, but while he was unconscious I spent hours with my lover, on a boat, in the water, and in his bed. We were satisfied.

Only three weeks after our return, John urged me to play golf on a Thursday morning with my friends as I normally did. John didn’t answer the phone after the round, I assumed he was sleeping, but after the lunch when there was still no response, I drove home.

John was sitting in his easy chair, a gentle countenance on his face. I called for an ambulance, but knew there was no hope, John was at peace.

I was praised at the funeral for taking it so well, our friends didn’t feel much need to console me. Yes, a few tears fell, but in the sadness was happiness, for I’d spent nineteen years with my loving husband, he’d provided me with all I needed, and left me not without hope.

Will I marry the man I’m having a love affair with? I have no idea. Perhaps he will become the second man I love, my third husband, but we both need time to heal, to reflect, to assure ourselves that the rest of our lives will be spent happily, peacefully. I’m sure both John and Margot will be content with such an outcome.

Back to Adam Gunn Home Page