Bombshell in the Berkshires - Sex Stories

Bombshell in the Berkshires

... faced me with a ferocity I had only seen a couple times before in our twenty-plus years of marriage.

"Behind my back! Sneaking around! Doing sex with another... guy." She spat out this last word.

"Hey look, it's Roger. Not just 'another' guy."

She looked like she was going to say something, her face got all scrunched up, but her lips clamped shut. She held up a hand.

"Clay." This was a command. "We need to talk. A lot. But not right now. I'm too upset."

She turned away from me. "Get some dinner going and let me know when it's ready. I'll join you, but leave me be for the moment. I'll be upstairs."

She poured herself a glass of wine, and I heard her footsteps go up the old wooden stairs to our second story bedroom, sounding like the drumbeat at a dirge.

I made dinner, a decent fall stew with onions, potatoes, parsnips. My hands stayed steady some of the time while cutting the vegetables. I think one of the worst feelings in the world is when you have hurt someone, let them down, and you need to atone, make amends, not something I do very often or well.

I thought about every angle I might take in explanation. How I could outline the manner in which Roger and I had become an item, that it wasn't about cheating, or infidelity, it was just two married guys who'd found ways to make their cocks feel good. No harm, no foul. But nothing I said to myself sounded very convincing.

And then I thought about Roger. I was going to have a hard time with Barb, but ...

... once Carrie found out, there was going to be a lit stick of dynamite in the old Roger/Carrie marriage world. I felt my whole body tense up. Maybe Barb wouldn't spill the beans. Barb might manage this but not Carrie. But the moment I considered the chances of non-disclosure, I knew it would be inevitable.

At the kitchen table we ate in silence. Barb scarcely looked at me. Every noise in the room was magnified. Setting my knife down on the plate after buttering a bread slice. The wind rattling a loose window in its frame. The clank of a spoon along my bowl, fishing out the last bit of potato.

I stole a glance at her from time to time, thinking about our history together. Friends would describe her as a "horsey" sort of woman, down to earth, no-nonsense. She looked like she'd grown up on a farm, although she hadn't.

I had been thrilled when we got married, and our mutual enthusiasm went on for several years, diminishing a bit with our first-born Stephen. Then when Jon arrived two years later, life became more of a domestic Olympic long-distance event. But now it appeared I had thrown a big wrench into the marriage works.

Barb turned to me when dinner was done. "I'm going to bed. Please don't talk to me until tomorrow. But we need a conversation, Clay."

I was quiet and assented with a head nod, feeling contrite. I was at her mercy.

New Englanders are not known for dealing well with big emotions, and this certainly qualified.

That night was not a good one. ...