Morgan wasn’t able to tell anyone about his change of circumstance. Eight years Morgan and his wife Nancy had not been intimate, avoiding even the most incidental physical contact. Then, on the 27th of March at 9 PM, Morgan found himself in hand restraints, his back pinned against the bars of his four-poster, gasping for air with Nancy’s right breast sealing both his nostrils.
This had been promised early on in their marriage and was the hope that had sustained him through the years of drought. After the initial two-month marathon of sexual activity, the frequency decreased and Morgan had felt himself hard done by, Nancy’s excuses appeared increasingly capricious. At the moment of his greatest agitation, screaming invectives at Nancy’s serene countenance, she had held his hand and spoken to him evenly, with calm and wisdom. “Don’t be so angry. It doesn’t matter if we don’t have sex this time or the next. We have a whole lifetime to be together.” It had seemed so natural and logical a statement, even a deepening of their relationship: Nancy was in it for the long haul. Morgan had been waiting what felt like a whole lifetime for that “next time” and yet despite that self-deception, the expected had unexpectedly arrived.
It wasn’t a one off either. They were back at it that night. More surprising still was the resumption less than seven hours later when he woke, then again that evening and most of that next night. Even his younger self would have had difficulty keeping up. Yet for Morgan, it felt as if his body was making up for lost time. He found the frequency of activity difficult but, surprisingly, not impossible. His heart was a greater issue: Morgan was out of shape. He told himself that if he survived this ordeal, he’d work at getting himself in better fitness, now that there was reason to suffer a regimen of self-imposed brutality.
It was like being together for the first time all over again and yet the sex was different. Nancy had always placed curbs on excess in their lovemaking: not too much kissing, saliva, time. And there had been a requirement to keep the encounter as clean as possible: showers before and after, shaving, perspiration kept to a minimum. Now Nancy, drenched in sweat, had her tongue up his anus before moving on to the next round.
Had Nancy suffered some sort of brain damage? Maybe a blow to the head? He’d read about that causing personality shifts of this magnitude. Yet when they weren’t exploring new possibilities in their lovemaking, Nancy was treating him with the same contempt she’d been showing him for years.
What about Nancy having an affair? Well, Morgan thought to himself, he wasn’t going to put a halt to this glorious moment by allowing his jealous nature to get the better of him. Not that he didn’t care. An affair would render the whole miracle tawdry and meaningless. It mattered if that was really the cause. But he wasn’t going to assume or obsess about it. In the absence of any evidence, he was going to stop himself speculating.
Morgan could tell no one because Nancy would be mortified if it ever got back to her. And besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be discussing his sex life, his and Nancy’s now quite extraordinary and intimate sex life, with others. Word of his boasting would threaten this new phase in their lives, would cut short a process that currently appeared without limit. Yet Morgan was desperate to tell someone, if only to convince himself it was all actually happening, see somebody else’s shock reflected back to him. Though lawyers were sworn to confidentiality, he didn’t know one and couldn’t imagine booking a meeting just to, essentially, gossip. A doctor would do but would give him grief over his weight, perhaps get him to consider stopping. Psychiatrist was, at base, a doctor so a psychologist then. Morgan set up an appointment at the end of the week. The next day, Nancy surprised Morgan on his lunch hour. She’d brought dessert: whipped cream and strawberries served on her body stretched out on his desk. Why risk spoiling perfection? He cancelled the appointment.
Then, just as suddenly, everything stopped. He came home and was served dinner, literally. Morgan was careful not to express surprise or disappointment. It was Nancy who was in control here. In fact, since this new phase had begun, they hadn’t actually spoken to each other about it, the sex happening as if it wasn’t actually happening. Talking might make it all go away, permanently.
That night, still nothing. Morgan couldn’t get to sleep. He had a presentation at work the following morning, made a point to be well rested before a public speaking engagement. This could be a problem. Maybe Nancy was showing him the courtesy of a night’s rest. Yet how short-sighted of her to set up the expectation of fornication only to withdraw it when he needed it most. Nancy snored lightly beside him. Morgan considered assailing her while she slept, then got up and poured himself a drink. He wasn’t a rapist, nor, for that matter, a drinker. He knew the alcohol would affect his thinking the next day but it was better than no sleep at all. He couldn’t manage an all-nighter at his age.
Was it all over, he wondered? He had to resist pressing Nancy or it definitely would be. Well, he reflected, it had been worth it. If this was all, it had been worth an eight-year wait. He’d wait eight more. Morgan closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Two hours later, he woke to find Nancy riding his morning erection. He wasn’t aware that he got those any more. He remembered that sexual activity in his youth had increased sexual performance and desire rather than wearing it down. Could the same still hold true now?
At work, Morgan nodded off before his presentation. The CEO called him in to ask for an explanation. He’d been feeling ill, he said, and was ordered to take the rest of the afternoon off. Morgan was afraid to go home lest he find another man in his bed. Not knowing where to go and utterly exhausted, he checked himself into a hotel and slept the rest of the afternoon.
At home that night, Nancy quietly placed a pornographic DVD in the player. They ate dinner while watching, as if they were viewing any feature film Nancy had brought home. They then moved to the bedroom to re-enact some of the acrobatics they’d witnessed.
Six months of steady sexual activity later, Morgan was twenty pounds lighter and in better shape than he’d been in decades. He felt, for the first time in his life, to be in full command of his business and personal affairs: a man of the moment. For several weeks, Nancy had been considering introducing a third person into their lovemaking, a woman at first. Morgan thought of their friend Jill who had recently divorced. Nancy informed him that they were hiring a professional. She would leave it to him.
Morgan still hadn’t told anyone. With each passing day, the stakes of a revelation seemed higher. Every lull in activity set Morgan on a course of unmitigated anxiety. In some ways, he missed his old life. Not really, but kind of. If he could only talk to someone about it, anyone.
“Hey asshole,” he heard on the other end of the line.
“Hey jerk,” he responded laconically. Derrick Danson was Morgan’s oldest friend. They’d been inseparable in high school, even dated girls who were best friends. They now spoke every couple of years.
“I’m going to be in your neck of the woods next week,” Derrick said.
“Dinner?” Morgan inquired uneasily, wondering when he’d find the time.
“Book tour,” Derrick said. “Come see me.”
Between the two of them, it was always Morgan who was going to be the writer. Derrick never wrote anything more original than a couplet on the bathroom wall, “Hate Cum, Love Cunt,” being one of his more creative efforts.
“What day?” Morgan asked.
“Monday.”
“27th?” Morgan inquired
“Think so.”
“Shit,” Morgan said.
Derrick laughed. “Got something better to do?”
“Well, sort of… yes,” Morgan pronounced. It was the half-year anniversary. “Nancy and I have arrangements from way back.”
“Jesus, that’s too bad,” Derrick said. “How is old Nance?
“She’s not old, I can tell you that,” Morgan said.
“Good for her,” Derrick said.
“Good for me.” Morgan was getting close to spilling the beans. “How about Tuesday?”
“Nah, fly out 6 AM.”
Morgan didn’t want to tell Nancy about Derrick’s call—his dropping by or ringing up might be the nail in the coffin to his state of bountiful bliss—but he knew he had to risk saying something. Derrick had a book reading and would love to see her, he said. Nancy had always disliked Derrick and was glad of an excuse to avoid seeing him. “If you want to go,” she said.
Fuck, Morgan thought.
“My publisher asked me,” Derrick began, leaning over the microphone, “what was my purpose in writing this book. And I said… ‘to get it done.’” Derrick paused for the titters to subside.
“That’s more than a smart-ass answer. It’s the first principle that guides what I do: you have to see things through. The other thing is: get it right.”
So they’ll be talking about the aesthetics of book publishing, Morgan thought.
“See things through, get it right,” Derrick repeated.
Morgan just had to get back to Nancy.
“I was one hundred seventy pages into my book,” Derrick continued, “when I found my opening line. Had to start from there. You know what it’s like giving up a hundred and seventy hard-earned pages of work?”
There were a number of examples Derrick had of what starting over would look like, each one relating to a different job. Morgan felt himself to be in this situation already though he was near page five hundred of a marathon seven or eight-hundred-page endeavor.
Once Derrick had finished, he was keen on listening to the two other readers but Morgan was firm—he was leaving now or they could squeeze in a quick dinner.
Morgan ordered the soup—he was looking to leave.
“Why the hurry?” Derrick wanted to know.
This was Morgan’s moment to finally confide everything about Nancy but it didn’t feel right with Derrick being so high on his writing.
“I have to be somewhere,” Morgan said.
“It was shit,” Derrick observed.
“Looking to avoid my criticism,” Morgan said.
“There’s criticism?” Derrick inquired, half smiling.
Morgan laughed. He wished he had all night to hang out. Sexual politics could be a pain in the neck. “You’re telling these young executives that writing your book is like being underbid—that’s kind of dire.”
“The whole thing was shit,” with Derrick. “You know me, Morgan. You’ve known me from high school. We both know I’m not that bright.”
“You got a publisher,” Morgan said. “That’s more than I can say.”
“That’s the thing, Morg.” Derrick sighed in exasperation, “People think I know what the hell I’m doing. They always have. I say I’m going to write a book. I got publishers knocking at my door.”
“Based on your work experience,” Morgan remarked.
“Based on shit,” Derrick said. “If you believe your story is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened—you got yourself a fucking book.”
“You think,” Morgan chuckled, “your life is the most amazing thing that’s ever happened?”
“Don’t you?” Derrick said.
“Doesn’t everyone?” he said. “You ask people, have them concentrate on their lives, they’ll tell you the most amazing things. Take Nance. Have you ever thought to ask her what’s the most remarkable thing she’s done?”
“Fucking my brains out,” Morgan said. The opportunity was too perfect.
“No shit,” Derrick said.
“She’s like a friggin force of nature,” Morgan said. “I’m helpless to stop it.”
“Like what kind of stuff?”
“You name it,” Morgan said.
“Geez.”
“Yeah,” Morgan said.
“Our Nancy,” Derrick said.
“Yeah,” Morgan said.
Derrick exhaled slowly, shaking his head in disbelief. “So you letting anyone else in on the action?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
“Right now, she’s only considering women,” Morgan said.
“Jesus!” Derrick’s voice skipped an octave. “Nancy?”
“I know,” Morgan sighed, shaking his head. “Eight years, nothing. Then one day.”
“You should write a story,” Derrick said.
“Nah,” Morgan said, “this isn’t a story, Rick, this is my life. Real. I’m living it. I have no idea what’s coming next.”
Arriving home that evening, Morgan discovered Nancy with a woman he’d never seen before. They were deeply into each other. Nancy mumbled over the buzz of their sex toys, something about nothing ever getting done if she relied on Morgan to do it. Had he enjoyed himself seeing Derrick?
The phone rang and Morgan was only too grateful for an excuse to back away from the scene.
“Hey asshole,” he heard.
“Get off the line,” Morgan whispered urgently.
“Geez, you’re in the middle of it now, aren’t you?” Derrick chuckled.
“Can’t talk,” Morgan said.
“I’m calling for the play by play.”
“I’m hanging up now,” Morgan said.
“Whoa, I’m just joshin with you,” Derrick said hastily. “I’m calling because… I feel it’s only fair to warn you, I am going to use your story.”
“What?”
“Your fucking your wife story,” Derrick said. “It’s like the perfect example of what I want to say.”
“I told you that in confidence,” Morgan said. “You write it, Rick, and our friendship is over.”
“I’ll let you get back to your fucking,” Derrick said.
“I’m not kidding, Rick. A friend of hers will tell her about it or you’ll do something like talk on the radio—she listens to the radio! Something you do will get back to her.”
“I won’t give her name. You’ll forgive me,” Derrick said.
“I’ll tell your dad,” Morgan warned.
Derrick paused a moment. “My dad’s pushing ninety,” he said. “He doesn’t recognize people anymore.”
“He’ll recognize me,” Morgan said evenly.
“That’s low Morg.”
“Jesus, Rick. I’m protecting my life.”
“It’s only sex, Morg,” Derrick said.
“It’s sex with my wife,” Morgan said. “I’ve been waiting a whole lifetime for this!”
Morgan suddenly realized he was screaming. Hanging up the phone, he turned towards the bedroom to see Nancy standing in the doorway.
“Uhm,” he said, “Frickin tele-marketer, just would not leave me alone.”
“I tell’m to fuck off before they get a chance to say Hello,” the prostitute announced, coming up behind Nancy and kissing her neck. “Don’t want to spoil the party but I got to leave in twenty minutes,” she added.
Nancy fell back into her arms and the two landed back on the bed.
Morgan watched them in trepidation for several minutes, then slowly began to undress. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. In porn films, the women were always hell bent on satisfying the man but these two didn’t seem to be that aware of him. This might be a good thing, he thought, increasing the possibility that Nancy hadn’t heard his phone conversation. He wondered if he’d gotten through to that jerk. Morgan was trying to hold it all together but his time of grace was slipping away from him.
He quietly walked to the edge of the bed.
