Two Sides of Terri (17 page)

She shook her head. “No, I stayed. And we fucked more. It was rougher, darker. He’d always been very physical, but those last few hours...”

“Days,” I interjected.

She nodded.

“That last day was violent. He’d already come so many times. It wasn’t even about sex anymore. He slapped me. He gagged me. He choked me. And then he’d get hard enough to fuck me, and he would. Rough. Hard. I was so sore. But I never gave up. I was going to earn you no matter what.”

I shook my head. There was more here than I could really address. She needed a qualified therapist. I could only imagine what had brought her to that point. Her friend zone/whore zone dilemma was rooted in something deeper. I was impressed at how functional she was given all of her emotional turmoil, and I took some credit for myself in giving her the kind of stability she needed. But we still needed closure on Chucky.

“You misled me.”

“No—”

“Listen. Terri, listen. I’m not saying you lied. But you misled me about Chucky. You made him seem just like some guy, a random old boyfriend. Someone for whom you had no real feelings.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.” I put my hand up to stop her protest. “And that’s okay.”

She gave me quizzical look.

“I don’t quite get it,” I said. “He’s a cad and sees you just as a piece of meat. But whatever. I get that he represents something for you. Lost freedom. Raw sexuality. Something. He’s always been your safety valve, hasn’t he? When I bored you, or the kids made you crazy, you’d think of him, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied sadly.

I put my hand on her forearm. “It’s okay. I don’t have a Chucky. But I have Chuckies.”

She gave me another quizzical look.

“Oh jeez, Terri, I love you with all my being, but there is a not a day that I don’t think of escaping this. For me it is banging that hot intern. Or going to Vegas and having a threesome with a couple of expensive whores. Or, shit, just leaving town, starting anew, by myself, no responsibilities, no obligations. The difference is that my fantasies are just that: fantasies, while yours, well, came to life.”

“I didn’t mean...”

“No, I know you didn’t. That was me, wasn’t it? I admit it. The thought of you with him...fuck, it just set me off. You did your job too well, didn’t you? You convinced me so thoroughly that you weren’t a whore that the idea that you might be was overwhelming to me.”

“Sounds like you’re blaming me again.”

I laughed. “I think we need therapy,” I said. She frowned, and I quickly added, “But in a good way, baby. Not to solve problems, but to reach our potential.”

She laughed uneasily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I love you Terri. I always will. I want you to be happy...and fulfilled,” I added suggestively.

“I don’t need anyone but you.”

I smiled. “It’s okay. Maybe you do. But it can’t be Chucky. There is too much history there.”

“Okay,” she replied unconvincingly.

“Terri, don’t just say
okay
if you don’t mean it.”

“I....”

“Terri, be honest. How does it make you feel to think of never seeing Chucky again.”

She started to reply immediately, but I held up my hand to slow her down. She paused and took a deep breath. “We know him. If it has to be anyone, he’s the right choice. He’s safe.”

I shook my head. “No, he’s the most dangerous person imaginable. Look, I get it. There are things he does to you. Things he makes you feel that I can’t provide. I’ve heard it in your tone when you describe what he does to you. I’ve seen it. It’s fucking hot,” I admitted. “But if what he gives you is something only he can provide, then we have a problem.”

“Why overthink this?” she said. “I love you. We both enjoy what he does with me, to me, isn’t that good enough?”

“No. I can’t share you that way. I’m willing to explore your needs, to ensure that you receive those experiences, those feelings I can’t provide. And I’m not just being altruistic, though I am an amazingly generous man.” I grinned. She smiled back at me. “I love seeing you as you’ve been over the past few months. God, you have no idea how much it turns me on to know that my perfect, innocent, little wife is also a dirty slut.”

She gave me a meaningful look.

“And what if I can only do that with Chucky?”

“I can’t live with that. If you need Chucky, then you need him, and you should go to him.”

“I don’t want that.”

“I don’t either.”

EPILOGUE

The next few months weren’t easy. We’d unleashed too many emotions to easily go back to normal, even if either of us were really committed to that goal, which we weren’t. I don’t want to overstate the issue. I mean, there was never a moment where I thought we’d split up, and I don’t think Terri ever considered it either.

But that said, anyone who says this sort of thing is easy is lying. There were days when I resented Terri for her desires, and worse, for the way she’d brought Chucky into our lives. She’d misled me about their relationship, and that hurt.

She too resented me sometimes for ending it with Chucky. She felt set up and would get angry at my resentment. But I knew it was more than that. She missed Chucky, missed what he did to her, for her, and she blamed me both for feeding her desires and then, as she saw it, snatching away something she valued. She felt like I’d teased her, manipulated her.

It’s not like we fought constantly, or even often. We continued to be intimate with each other and attentive parents to the kids. Ninety-five percent of the time we were perfectly normal, but things were a little raw. We both knew we’d be fine, but we also knew it would take some work.

I was still desperately attracted to the wanton woman I’d seen for the first time over the past several months. I didn’t want her to disappear. But I knew that I couldn’t say anything about it, couldn’t encourage it, not without Terri getting defensive. That was the strangest thing in a way. Even though she’d had the affair, at some level I think I’d wounded her more deeply than she me. Ending it with Chucky was a rebuke and a not-so-subtle statement of distrust.

But I hated the thought that these resentments might force this other Terri back into the closet, encourage her to suppress that side of her so deeply that it became nothing more than a memory, increasingly distant, increasingly disconnected from the reality of our lives. I didn’t want to kill that creature, that passionate, vital, terrifying woman who shared a body with my wife.

--------

Even as we slowly worked through our emotions, my professional life took a dramatic turn. My company was bought out, and I was identified as a “key personnel asset.” They offered me a generous retention package, one that both boosted my salary dramatically and gave me the opportunity to broaden my horizons. In addition to running my teams in Chicago, I was now a designate global troubleshooter.

It sounds more glamorous than it is. After my first trip to India—Bangalore during the monsoon season—to troubleshoot a development project there, I vowed to do all my follow-ups there by Skype. I still ended up spending a lot of time on airplanes. Hong Kong. Tallin. Jakarta. Exciting, interesting cities, and challenging work, but not really garden spots. More than once I recalled the old adage
be careful what you wish for, you might just get it
.

But when we signed a deal with a French defense firm for a major project, I insisted to my bosses that I needed to do a site visit to ensure success. Paris in Spring time. I cashed in some frequent flyer miles and got a second business class seat for Terri. We left the kids with her folks and jetted off the Europe.

I’d been to Paris once before. Terri hadn’t. Say what you will about the French, but they know how to eat and drink, and their capital is a beautiful treasure. Even the Nazis couldn’t bring themselves to destroy it despite Hitler’s orders.

I don’t claim to understand the French approach to business. My opposite number was an active duty French Army colonel, Jean-Pierre Thibault, temporarily seconded to a private firm to oversee software development. He met us at the airport. I had expected a software geek in uniform, and instead was welcomed by a tall, slender man in an impeccably tailored suit.

He greeted us and appreciatively ran his eyes up and down Terri. Political correctness is far less advanced in France. Indeed, I think most French women would be more than a little offended if a man did not cast an admiring glance. Terri blushed slightly, though I couldn’t help but notice that Jean-Pierre was exactly her type: tall, dark, and very handsome. He spoke excellent, albeit heavily accented, English.

He drove us to our hotel and insisted on taking us out for dinner that evening. Was he just being a gracious host? Would I have received the same treatment had I been on my own? Who knows? But it was a nice offer, and we eagerly accepted.

We’d arranged an early check-in, and put on our tourist gear and walked around. Our hotel was close to Notre Dame, right in the center of the city, and we walked along the Seine, holding hands, playing tourist until mid-afternoon when we returned to the hotel and took a nice long nap before dinner.

We dressed. Chic. This was Paris after all. I wore my black suit. Terri had purchased a new dress, vintage style, black and white polka dot with a halter-neck that exposed a generous amount of cleavage.

Jean-Pierre took us to a lovely restaurant on the banks of the Seine with a view of the Eiffel Tower. We were on expense accounts, so Champagne cocktails flowed into a Sancerre with our shellfish appetizers and then a rich Bordeaux with the main course.

In addition to being a computer scientist and program manager, Jean-Pierre was an infantry officer and had seen combat in Afghanistan, Mali, and the Central African Republic. He had great stories of the kind only soldiers possess, but married to an amusingly French disposition that caused him to spare us the worst details.

“Ze fings I haf seen, I cannot bear to repeat in zese circumstances,” he intoned with the sort of earnest soberness that signaled existential angst. He could not have been more French had been wearing a beret and smoking a Gitane.

Terri noticed his wedding band. “Why didn’t your wife join us this evening?”

“Ah, my wife, she is in Nice. Wif our daughter. We just had our first grandson.”

“Surely not,” she replied gaily. “I don’t believe you are a grandfather.”

He laughed. “Zese fings, zay happen sooner zan we realize.”

We toasted to his daughter and his new grandson.

Terri pressed on. “Well, if your wife can’t be with you, surely your mistress would be available.”

He laughed again. “Yes, of course. All Frenchmen must ‘ave a mistress. Just as all our police inspectors are clumsy oafs who nonetheless stumble onto the solution to every crime. Tell me Terri, now zat Bill will need to visit France regularly for biziness, would you approve if he took a mistress?”

She looked at me with a naughty grin. “Well, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, no? What do you think?”

“Ze gander?” Jean-Pierre asked, puzzled.

I laughed. “That’s very generous, sweety,” I replied, putting my hand on her forearm. Then turning toward him I continued, “She’s all I can handle. More than I can handle, actually.”

He cocked his head to the side and smiled as he looked from me to Terri and back again. Then he raised his glass. “To our spirited wives, zen, more zan ve can ‘andle.” We clinked and drank.

The main course was followed by cheese and dessert, the first accompanied by a delicious aged Port, the latter by an Alsatian sweet wine.

Between jetlag and the alcohol, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. As we paid the tab, all I could think about was passing out in our nice, soft bed. So when Jean-Pierre offered to take us around to see some of the famous Parisian monuments lit up at night, I answered without looking up.

“I’m going to sleep,” I replied at exactly the same moment as Terri responded, “Sure, I’d love to.”

Jean-Pierre laughed. “Ah, vell, ve can do it another evening.”

There was a moment’s pause. Just an instant in reality, though it dragged out as if in slow motion to me. Finally, I talked myself into it.

“No, go if you want,” I said to Terri, who was watching me with shining eyes.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

I smiled. “Of course. Why not? I surely have nothing to fear if you’re being protected by a dashing infantry officer.”

By Jean-Pierre’s expression, I could tell he was both intrigued and concerned. I rose quickly and shook his hand. “I put her in your hands.”

I leaned down and kissed Terri on the cheek. “Have fun,” I said loudly enough for him to hear.

“Don’t wait up,” she whispered saucily in my ear as I felt her hand snake into my suit pocket.

I stood and briskly walked out of the restaurant. I couldn’t bear to look back at them. The night air was chilly, which was a blessing because it revived me enough to make it back to the hotel. As I cleared the restaurant, I reached into my pocket. I already knew what she’d placed there, but the confirmation nonetheless sent a jolt through me as my fingers discovered her little black panties.

It was a short walk back to the hotel. Less than ten minutes. But I knew that Terri worked fast. Were they already making love? Were the French more understanding of bathroom hookups? Was I the last one at the table to learn that she’d slipped off her panties? All those thoughts thundered through my head, and more.

I stripped off my suit and fell into bed, drunk and tired. No, Terri was going to drag this one out. He’d show her around, probably trying to remain a gentleman, and she would tease him, tempt him, and then finally seduce him. She was going to give him a night to remember, and then she’d come back to me and relive it all. I fell asleep with a huge smile on my face and a raging hardon.

-------

After an amazing and eventful week, we flew home. Hugged the kids, did household chores, embraced normality.

Except not really. Not completely. Sometimes we’d catch each other’s eyes, and the memory of our latest adventure would make us share a connected little giggle.