Page 1 of Hotwife

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One of my flaws was that I had a morbid desire to quiz every man about his sex life, but only right after I had sex with him.

Before we hooked up, I couldn't care less. But after? The curiosity took over. I didn’t care if he thought I was crazy. I’d already gotten laid after all, so I didn’t care if I got a call or text back.

I don’t want to pillow talk about that weird dream you had last night or how watered down the drinks were at the bar. I wanted to know how many women you’d slept with. How many men you’d slept with. Sex in public? What number lay was I that year? It’s like after we’d gotten naked and fucked, the floodgates opened. The barrier of propriety crashed and you let me in, to some extent, to your sexual experience. So now I wanted to ask all the things you’re not “allowed” to ask people.

“Am I the fattest woman you’ve ever been with?”

Maybe it was a defense mechanism. If I scared them off by being an intrusive weirdo and they didn’t call; I could blame it on my antics and move on. That sure beat feeling used or tossed aside when they didn’t call. No, I wasn’t down to analyze what went wrong. I wanted sex and only sex. That was the rule. No feelings, check your emotions at homeboy’s front door, get yours, then leave before he can toss his rubber.

The next part was always the same. A nervous, throaty chuckle as he pulled the sheets up. A sign of insecurity or wanting to hide, my old therapist would say. A weak attempt at an answer like, “You’re hot, that was fun.” Then, before he could make up an excuse about an early morning, I was up and shimmying into my curvy stretch jeans.

This guy was nice. He fished my silk camisole out from the tangle of sheets and handed it to me tentatively. What was his name, Kirk? Kevin?

“I’ll text you-”

“No, you won’t-” I paused, not confident enough I knew his name. “And that’s alright.” After clipping my bra, I began buttoning my cami. This was my first time with this particular guy. His profile said he was 6’0 so naturally, as any woman knows, you deduct three inches from that for his real height. 5’9 was still a few inches taller than me, though, and he was hefty with a muscular build. Shorter guys always made up for their height with muscle and sheer determination. I didn’t mind. Beggars, or in my very specific instance, horny hotwives, can’t exactly be choosers and he was a decent enough lay.

“No, really, let’s do this again.” Slight panic laced his tone and caused me to side eye as I pulled the elastic off my wrist to gather my red post-sex curls into a lumpy ponytail.

“My job takes me all over the country, but when I’m in town, I’d love to hit you up again, Ruby.” He remembered my name, well, my fake name. At least one of us was paying attention over drinks earlier. After yanking up his briefs, he stood, following me to the door. My mind shuffled through a quick checklist. High-rise apartment overlooking Seattle, actual furniture, and I almost had an orgasm. I guess I could try adding this fellow to my roster.

Fishing my phone out of my purse, I handed it over. “Alright, let’s exchange digits. I’ve got to get going though, early dance recital.” I’d never danced a day in my life.

“Oh yeah, of course,” he replied mindlessly as he typed in his contact information. “I’m scheduled to fly out tomorrow if the weather’s good. Might be back in town the week after next if you want to get drinks again.” Not meeting my eyes, he handed me his phone, and I did the same, only entering the number on my burner cell phone. Ruby, my alter-ho-ego’s phone.

“Cool, well, fly safe-” I quickly glanced down at my phone, “Kenneth,” and smiled like I’d known the dude’s name the entire time. With a returning grin, he leaned in before my firm palm pressed against his bare chest.

“Sorry, cold sore.” Turning the door handle behind me, I gave a half wave and darted down the hall. Rules or not, I had no desire to kiss that guy. He smelled like stale coffee and cheap cologne. Pilot or not, the guy had no game.

But these were the majority of my suitors.

It was a far cry from the steamy and erotic trysts I had in mind when I first began hotwifing two years ago. I imagined suave men whisking me away on helicopters to rooftop dining and sex against a skyscraper window. I imagined rock-and-roll bad-boys pulling me backstage and fucking me over their drum kits.

Instead, I got short awkward guys on apps that smell like gas station beverages and think once they come, sex is over. Fun.

I’d considered stopping several times. And there were weeks nestled into the past year where I did stop. I decided celibacy was easier. My husband wasn’t interested, able, or willing to make love, and was more than happy to outsource my pleasure to other men- provided I abide by his rules.

But eventually, the lonely nights, the mounting tension between my thighs, and the smutty novels I read before bed would catch up with me, and I’d find myself pulling my burner phone out of the shoebox in my closet and plugging it into the wall charger to swipe right all night.

I left Kenneth’s building and slid into my pink Porsche. Yes, pink. And purred onto the highway. Cedric surprised me with her, Pinkie, as I so lovingly named her, for my twenty-fifth birthday this year. It was gaudy, expensive, lavish, and demanded attention. Much like myself. At least, that’s how I imagined my husband saw me.

The car’s stereo paused and began playing the song of the wicked witch of the east from The Wizard of Oz. A deep inhale racked through me as I tapped the green button.

“Hi Mom-”

“Dorthea Ruth Queen-Winslow, it’s your father’s birthday and you haven’t even bothered to call. My oldest daughter marries rich, moves across the country and forgets about her family. It breaks a mother’s heart,” she said with a sniffle. There was a shuffling on the phone and before I could respond, another voice cut in.

“Dolly, don’t listen to Mom. Dad didn’t even remember his own birthday this year. I doubt he cares you haven’t called yet.”

“Odette Naomi!” my mother screeched, and the sound of my sister’s cackling inched up the curve of my lips. My mother always called us by our full names. She also always had a knack for phoning me after I’d done something dirty. Her religious sensibilities stretched from Georgia to Seattle, apparently. Even though I was married and grown, I still felt a lightning bolt of shame, like I was hiding something naughty from my family. I was, but still.

“I texted him this morning and planned to call soon. I’ve been busy, um volunteering.”

My mother hummed to herself. “I’m sure the hospital appreciates that, Dorthea. And what a sweet way to be close to your husband during the day too.”

My sister’s snicker buzzed through the car speakers, and I wished I could virtually elbow her. As if I’d ever volunteer to be a candy striper, but Mom didn’t need to know that. “Yeah, Mom, can I talk to Odette?”

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