Take my wife … please!
(A little true-life adventure story)
Yeah … just kidding … just like Rodney Dangerfield. But what happened a little while back was almost putting that old joke into action.
Mrs. Pix and I went on a road trip that made a stop next to a nightclub reputed to be a “cougar den” … a place known to be frequented by mature women on the prowl for younger men. (Can you spell MILF?) She and I had long talked about playing the “pick-up game”, that mythical exercise in which a wife goes into a bar (sounds like Rodney again) and flirts with men, ostensibly to lure them into some form of sex.
We’d never played that game, of course. First, we are both far too straight and responsible to engage in “risky” behavior. Second, we could never – and I mean never – be at ease enough do anything like that anywhere close to home. Third, Mrs. Pix – a fantastic and exciting woman – is actually rather shy and has eyes only for her lucky husband, me.
So … when we realized our road trip would pause near this “cougar den”, the playful banter about the “pick-up game” resumed as many times before. This time, however, we both started to realize that all the circumstances were coming together in ways that could move the banter from mythical fantasy into plausible, if maybe awkward, reality.
You’ve been in that kind of conversation – you throw out an idea that you know is a bit too far “out there”. Your partner responds in a way that is 50-50 enough to make you instinctively backtrack and then realize that maybe she is a little bit cool with it. You respond with something equally 50-50, and you end up dancing back and forth, feeling each other out until you both start to realize that maybe its ok to actually talk about what you’re both trying talk about without actually talking about it.
So, we did that awkward dance and came to realize that we were both seriously thinking about finally trying “the pick-up game”. But how? We’d never seriously considered that. It was easy enough for us agree that we were not talking about her picking up some random guy, taking him back to our hotel room and fucking him. Too far. Neither of us wanted that.
The key, it turns out, was our realization that since the club was a public place, after all, anything that she was ok with letting happen or making happen within the club had natural limits already, so whatever she would be cool with in that setting would also be cool with me, too. The more the merrier, in fact … a “what happens in the club stays in the club” sort of thing.
So the anticipation that we were finally going to do this thing led to planning how to make the most of it … after all, we might never do it again. Part of the plan was to come up with an outfit for her to wear that was street legal (don’t want any trouble), club casual (don’t want to stand out too much in the club), yet enticing to the average guy, inviting him not just to look, but touch if he should get the chance.
We settled on three pieces – skirt, top, and tall heels. So what?
The skirt we settled on was a denim micro mini. What’s a micro mini to us? To us it’s a skirt so short that it exposes or threatens to expose her ass with just casual movement. This one was not her shortest – set just right, it covered the essentials – but with movement, either the top or bottom of her ass would tend to peek out. Either it would creep up (walking, dancing) showing the bottom of her bottom, or she might over-tug to put it back in place, leading to the tops of her cheeks to peeking out up top and giving at least a hint of butt cleavage.
The top was the real magical piece. It was a “flutter top” … a brief, loose curtain of fabric hanging from spaghetti straps, just long enough to screen her bare breasts, but letting them swing freely … not so freely as to make them pop out, but making them very accessible for touching. (Actually, this was a top she modified herself to optimize the desired effect.)
Between those two items, there was a *lot* of skin … a nice open span of bare midriff. Smooth, undulating slopes of skin surrounding a very attractive navel, inviting wandering fingers to play a bit of sensual miniature golf, driving and putting around, playing with all her curves while trying to sink one …
The heels were not particularly special except that they were tall. I’m a tall guy, and next to me, my fingertips landed just below the edge of her skirt, right in that wonderful spot between her ass and her thighs … so … we knew most other guys would find that her bare thighs and hint of butt cheek would be “right there” for any guy to touch who got bold enough to get close enough.
So, the basic plan was for her to make her way among the many single men, presenting an inviting target for roaming hands, and see just what would happen …
When we got to the club, we entered separately, intending that she do her flirting without the shadow of a husband looming over the atmosphere. She went in first and headed into the crowd. I entered a few minutes later and took a seat at one of the bars from which I could observe a fair part of the scene. I got myself a beer, and whaddayaknow …
I hadn‘t managed more than a couple of sips of beer before I see her strolling in my general direction.
“No, no, no,” I whisper to myself, but sure enough, she rounds the bar and pulls up right beside me.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she mutters through stiff lips in nervous, sing-song tones.
“You haven’t really given it a chance yet,” I counter.
“Yeah, I tried,” she says unconvincingly.
She proceeds to tell me of talking briefly to one guy who didn’t respond except to utter a couple of terse niceties. She felt a little awkward and immediately bailed.
I reminded her of things we had talked about … especially the fact that guys (decent guys, at least) need some pretty clear signals before moving beyond dance floor conversation. As a guy, the clearest signals don’t come through words, but through touch … a hand on an arm or jean-clad leg during a coquettish laugh … a hand on the shoulder or maybe an arm laid loosely on the shoulder or around the neck while leaning in to talk over loud music … maybe letting a breast brush his arm while leaning in … leaving her body open while leaning in, suggesting it’s ok for him to put an arm around her waist while hers is on his shoulder. NOT turning away … rather, turning into him or moving into a first tentative touch, letting him know it’s ok.
So with a little such pep talk she sipped my beer, steeled up some nerve, and headed back into the crowd.
I gave her plenty of room … I didn’t want to inadvertently trigger another round of nerves by connecting with her too closely. But this time as I caught sight of her, I saw her smiling and bantering with a couple of guys like she was having a good time, like she was hitting her stride. That seemed to hold up. I saw her move on to another fellow, put a hand on is shoulder, lean in a bit so say something. Soon he was chatting her up, both smiling … all was well.
I stayed pretty clear, giving her room but observing enough to be sure that she was ok and being just visible enough that she could see that I was there and be confident that I was “backing her up”. At one point I wanted to change vantage points to the other side of the dance floor and had to brush right past her to get over there. Much to her credit, she didn’t event glance at me as I slipped by, at that point being animatedly engaged with several guys in a cluster.
I took up a spot near one of the corners where I could be discreetly out of the way, yet have a good view of that open spot on the dance floor right in front of the band. She took the wordless cue and moved to that part of the dance floor, giving me more of a chance to see more of what was going on.
She had it figured out. She danced and danced with no guy in particular, but with any guy who came along. She danced at arm’s length, up close, front to front, front to back, you name it. Occasionally she would wander off, working around the edges of the room, spending some time going from guy to guy, then return to the dance floor with a new guy in tow.
Eventually she checked in with me again, again sipping my beer. This time her attitude was completely different, striding confidently, all smiles …
“You were right!” she exclaimed, “Touching them is like flipping a switch!”
“There were a couple of black guys over there I couldn’t get to respond, and a couple foreign looking guys that just looked terrified, but otherwise with a little touch just about any other guy I talked to was all in.”
“How goes the touching?” I asked. She rolled her eyes while taking another sip.
“GOD, I am getting felt up,” she exhaled.
“They are ALL over my middle and back,” she said while stroking her bare midriff. “The bolder ones reach up my thighs …” She didn’t clarify that last bit about the thighs.
“What about the top?” I asked.
“Umhmm,” she said taking a last sip, nodding. “Yeah, a few have reached up under the top to cop a feel.”
Remarkably, my normally shy wife was just rolling off a laundry list of public gropes like they were items on a shopping list.
“Well, you’d better get back out there before people start to realize we are together,” I said.
“Nah,” she said, waving me off dismissively, “They’ll just think you are another one of the guys.”
Then gave me a quick kiss and dove back into the crowd. And sure enough, she continued going from guy to guy, working the room … sometimes standing close to a guy next to the wall … other times taking a guy by the hand for a little time on the dance floor. Amazing.
Eventually, though, there was one guy who broke the spell and “creeped her out”. This guy, she said, had a throbbing erection that he kept pressing into her as they danced and a “weird look in his eyes”. He kept talking up things in the general direction of sneaking out of the club for sex. She told him a couple of times that he was making her uncomfortable, but he pressed on. So she broke off from him and checked back in with me for a little security and to “wash off” the damper that particular guy had cast on an otherwise great evening.
By that time, we were about done with this little fling so we took our turn together for a while … she leaned in and hung on me while I stole a few gropes of my own. Time to blow that joint and get back to our hotel where we could both blow off the evening’s built up pressure in one righteous, good-old fashioned bedtime fuck.