Bombshell in the Berkshires - Sex Stories

Bombshell in the Berkshires

... attachment. I tried to tell her that I cared for Roger as a friend, that our sex stuff was just for pleasure, just for amusement, that it didn't infringe on our marriages.

We didn't make much progress. She did make a good point though, that this constituted our first major challenge together as a couple. Over the course of our marriage we had dealt with aging (and dying) parents, and each of us had come through for the other during hard times. We'd had difficult kid events we'd had to navigate. But we'd never had a personal crisis between us like this. It was actually an encouraging sign when she pointed this out, I even detected a trace of compassion in her expression during that talk.

But there was one thing I couldn't do, which I think would have made a world of difference for Barb, would have made for a complete apology. I couldn't say that I would never touch another penis again. I don't like making promises I cannot keep, and I do not like lying. Every time we got to this point, Barb's lips would compress and her face got hard. I felt terrible.

There had been a couple Amazon deliveries to her the last few weeks, a bit unusual since we don't tend to get much stuff online, preferring local buying if possible.

But I had spied a couple books on her side table once, the top one was titled "Hite Report" or something with "men" or "male" on the cover. Next time I passed by it was gone. She spent a lot of time reading alone up in the bedroom. More than once when I ...

... came into the kitchen from outside she would finish up a phone call, like she was in a hurry, then look hard at me, like I had interrupted.

Things got a bit easier, we talked about other life things more. We did Thanksgiving with her sister's family in Northampton. I don't think anyone noted tension between us. The d-word was not mentioned, or even hinted at. Life went on.

Her anger, of course, leaked out in various ways and times. As a couple we typically don't argue that much anyway and usually not productively. One Friday I came home from work and although we had been conversing more of late, about the usual range of practical matters, I found that every single sentence I uttered came in for critique.

"Amanda did not get married in July, it was late June."

"You said you'd paid the electric bill last week but the envelope's still on your desk."

"I would not describe Desmond up the hill as a 'sweet old man.' He's a loudmouth prick, not just to his neighbors."

I finally had had enough.

"Hey, Barb. Lay off, willya? I can deal with straight talk but not all this sniping. Did you do everything perfect this week yourself?"

We stared at each other, on the edge of a good fight.

She looked away.

"Sorry. I get it. But I'm still furious with you, Clay, and don't have a decent way of getting over this scene we've got here."

She had apologized, which I did not take for granted.

We didn't clear the air entirely that evening but turned the temperature ...