Tight Jeans

The nasty talk starting a dozen years after we were married—when we were at a church picnic no less. I was wearing a pair of jeans right out of the dryer, so they happened to be tight and clingy. My husband Carl told me he overheard two of his friends talking about how much they admired my rear end--only he used a three-letter word for it, a word he knew I didn't like. When I asked him not to use that language, he told me he was just quoting Raymond and Larry—both of whom were at the picnic with their wives, by the way.

And did Carl warn those men not to dishonor his wife with their coarse—supposedly "harmless and flattering"--comments? Oh no. In fact, Carl laughed and started talking dirty to me himself. "It's time to overcome your bourgeois sensitivities about the allure of tits and ass" was exactly what he told me. That was the start of this campaign of his to make me "appreciate" myself "through a dude's eyes."

To his credit, Carl didn't use dirty language in front of our daughters. And he would stop if I really got upset when he used words like T and A, but he kept telling me that no matter how conservatively I dressed, I still was the sexiest-looking woman he knew. "I would like you to be thrilled when you see some stranger admiring you," he said. "It's about time for you to love the fact that men automatically salivate when they admire the hot curves of your body."

Eventually I got so tired of Carl's dirty talk that I told my friend and tennis partner Marge how uncomfortable I was with my husband's comments. If I hoped she would give me some hints on how to shut him up, I was disappointed. "Face it, sweetie: deep down inside, all men are pigs," she said. "I found that out driving a cab in college. If I had been willing to go along with the propositions from half of my male customers, I could have owned my own cab company by now. Carl is right, Melanie; you should relax and let yourself be flattered that he thinks of you as his own Penthouse centerfold. Has he told you he would like to watch you have sex with another man?"

"Oh my God, no. Is that next?"

"Wouldn't be surprised. A lot of men have those fantasies."

I didn't ask how she knew that. If she meant her own husband, I didn't want to hear. "How can you say that so casually, Marge?" I asked her. "We go to the same church, remember? Whatever happened to believing that your body is your temple?"

"Yeah, well," she answered, "just be grateful that you're not the one who needs to lose ten pounds to get back her hot-looking temple."

That was not what I wanted to hear. I felt so betrayed by Marge that I found myself skipping several of our tennis dates. And my relationship with Carl seemed wounded in a scary way that I couldn't pin down. We both knew something was missing. I tried filling that void by volunteering to chair the church picnic committee.

Our new pastor Phil was our former choir leader. Phil insisted on serving as an ordinary worker on the picnic committee because he said he had a conviction that pastoring meant more than "preaching at the congregation." Apparently he got that message across, because I found plenty of other women, but not Marge, showing up for that year's first meeting of the committee. When young athletic-looking Pastor Phil also volunteered to be the first target to get wet in the dunk tank we always rent for our picnics, I was the only one who didn't clap and cheer. He obviously made it his job to notice my glum demeanor, because he came up to me at the end of the meeting. "Is there something weighing on your spirit, Melanie?" he asked. "If so, I'm here to listen." And perhaps give me some useful counsel? I followed him into his office and sat down.

"Now tell me what's upsetting you," he said.

That was not exactly easy to do. I felt humiliated at the thought of telling our pastor, a man ten years younger than my own husband, the perverted things Carl had been saying to me. But I managed to stammer out that I wished my husband could simply appreciate that I keep my body in healthy shape.

"He doesn't give you that praise?"

"No, he does. In his way, I suppose. But..."

"Not often enough? Not convincingly?"

I blurted out what Carl had told me the two guys said at the last church picnic, and what Marge had said about all men being pigs. "Is she right about that?" I asked.

"Pigs? No," Phil replied with a quick laugh. "At least I hope I can say we're not."

But in the silence that followed, the notion hovered between us of all men being sex-crazed. Including Carl. Including Phil himself.

For some reason that thought made me notice that my skirt was hiked up several inches above my knees. when I quickly uncrossed my legs and pressed my knees together, Phil looked away awkwardly. My breath caught suddenly and a powerful sensation surged through my body.

"Perhaps it would be good if I met with you and Carl together," he said.

I nodded. We both stood up quickly. I turned and left.

Carl seemed a little shocked that I had confided anything about our marriage to Pastor Phil, and told me he was not at all interested in "confessing or whatever" about our sex life. I was not surprised, since he only went to church occasionally—and only because I insisted that exposing our girls Tilly and Beth to religion was good for them. "Why not invite Phil for dinner?" he said. "That way we can discuss things without anybody forcing judgments on anybody else."

I thanked Carl for being willing to talk with our pastor. Then I suddenly remembered Phil's embarrassment when I uncrossed my legs in his office. Once again that sensation surged through my body.

"Look at you, you're blushing," Carl said.

"Am I?" I replied. "I guess I'm a kind of embarrassed about all this."

"I'm curious," Carl pressed on. "When you tell the pastor your version of our little problem, what are you going to say?"

I shrugged. "Maybe I will l will leave you two to talk while I do the dishes."

"Oh no." Carl shook his head slowly. He obviously could tell that there was something new going on with me, something that confounded my prudish discomfort with crude sex talk. "No escaping to the kitchen," he insisted. "If I have to give an honest account of my feelings, you will too."

"Honest account." Would that mean admitting my recent adulterous impulses and perhaps threaten my marriage? Somehow I intuited that what it really would mean was surrendering my scruples about frank sex talk.

That night I dreamed of being naked and writhing , with Phil's hands and mouth all over me. I woke with three of my fingers deeply probing my sloppy wet vagina. I climaxed quickly—loudly too, because I opened my eyes to find Carl awake and peering down at me. "Wow, what's going on with you," he said and immediately shoved my nightgown up above my breasts and began kissing my body. Soon his head was between my legs. Instead of trying to ward him off, I spread my legs wider to let his mouth consume my clitoris. Then, as I was just about to climax, he stopped.

"You want me to make you cum now, don't you," he said.

"Oh yes," I pleaded.

"Say what you want me to do."

"Just do me."

"Say it. Say fuck me. Go on, say it."

"Fuck me."

"With what?"

"Fuck me with your hard cock."

"Call me what you did when you were asleep. Say Fuck me, Phil."

"Carl, no. Don't make me."

"Say it."

"Oh no."

Now Carl was on top of me, his cock lightly pressing against my clitoris.

"Whose cock did you dream about? It was Phil's, wasn't it? Say yes. I heard you, so go ahead, Melanie. Say it. Say yes."

"Yes."

"Ask for it. Say 'Fuck me, Phil'. Say it."

There was no escape. "Fuck me, Phil. Fuck me with your big hard cock."

"Yeah, baby." Carl's voice had an animal growl by then. He sounded more turned-on than I had ever heard him. Now he slowly pushed his rigid cock into me, one restrained inch at a time. "What woman has the nicest ass of all? Go ahead, tell me."

"I do."

"How many men say so?" Carl started shoving his cock into me a little faster. "Tell me how many want to fuck you."

"All the men."

Say names. Say Phil, Raymond, Larry."

He was pounding me hard now, and I started coming again and again as the words spilled out of me. "Phil does, Raymond, yes, Larry, they all, oh yes, all the men, all of them want to fuck me and fuck me and fuck me." Then Carl's rigid penis jerked powerfully inside me as his orgasm exploded. Still he kept hammering me, as though he had to fill me with all those cocks, one after another.

It's months later now, and we still haven't invited Phil for dinner. However, as committee chair I will be very busy when it's time for the next church picnic. For instance, it will be my job to make sure there will be enough potato salad for several hundred people. But now that Marge has lost her ten pounds, at least two of us will be wearing tight jeans right out of the dryer. And we will have to flip a coin to see which one of us gets to hand a big towel to hunky young pastor Phil when he emerges all wet from the dunk tank.

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