Kayfabe

"Dee gets super charged up afterwards. That's fun. She really seems to enjoy herself, too, which I like. I know... I know she likes fucking you better, but--" He laughed again, and I wanted to pound his brick wall of a face in again.

"No, man. She loves fucking me, that's true. I'm great at what I do, I know that." Very humble. "But better? Nah. Nah, man. Deeper, thicker, harder, sure. Technically more skilled? Yeah. But not better."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't fucking patronize me, Rod. I know you feel bad about all this, but come the fuck on. I hear her wail like a banshee when she's with you."

"What don't you hear?"

"What? Is this some kind of fucking Zen thing?"

"It's real simple, man. And it's... I know it's hard to get it when you're in the moment, but I'll tell you: there's no tenderness there. With me, it's all big screams and loud moans and 'oh, fuck me, Rod!'" I frowned. "Sorry. But you know what you don't hear? Vulnerability. Little soft sighs. Moans that say 'this is good, you're heading in the right direction, even better, oh! this is perfect!'

"I take her, which is fun. But you? She gives herself to you, which is... man, that's everything. Not just her body, but her whole self. I'm not saying she's faking her enthusiasm with me, although I think she's... let's say amplifying it since you're there. But she knows she doesn't have to do that with you, because what she's giving you is 100% real. She might pretend to give herself to me, but that's all it is, pretend. Even when she says shit like, 'Oh, Rod, you own this pussy,' that's for my benefit and yours. It's not the truth."

Rod took a swig of his beer and pointed at me with the bottle. "Let me guess. You think that, if she had to pick between you and me fucking her for the rest of her life, it would be no contest, right?" I nodded. "Yeah, you're fucking right. I'd lose in a landslide, Martin. I know it, and she knows it. You're the only one that doesn't get that."

"Then why is she fucking you at all?"

"Because it's fun! It is fun, man. I get to fuck her in ways that you can't, just because of what I have between my legs and because I'm built like a brick shithouse, because I can swing her around like a ragdoll. She gets to be a complete and utter slut and not feel guilty about it, because I'm 'making' her do it. And she gets to humiliate you, which she knows you're into; that's what she, and me for that matter, thought you were getting out of this. What you were until..." He shrugged. "Until it felt too real."

He burped. "Excuse me." Another little surreal politeness to show that this was a different Rod. "You know the other thing she gets out of it?"

"What?"

"She gets to see how much you love her. Before I come over, you humiliate yourself to get the house ready for her, so she has a good time. Show that you're willing to do what it takes for her to be happy, even wearing a frilly, flowery apron and letting her buy outfits to show herself off for another man.

"During, you watch her. You don't storm out, you don't get pissed. You squirm, and she knows it hurts. Knows that, on some level, you like it because it hurts, sure. But also that you'll do it because you want her to be happy. That you'll let it happen, and even stay and watch if she asks, because you love her enough to take that ego hit.

"And most importantly, afterwards, she gets to see that her man, the one she chose to marry, to pledge her whole life to, still accepts her. She's doing things that society says make her a bad spouse, a bad person even. Things she wants so badly, but is expected to deny herself. But you don't make her do that, and you don't make her feel bad about who she is. And when she goes and does what she's not 'supposed' to, and then you're there for her? That's golden, man. That's love, a real and pure and unbelievably generous love, and she knows it. She'd give every bit of this up in a second for you, and she'd do it because you'd never ask her to unless you really couldn't handle it."

The big bull looked away. "I couldn't do what you do. I'm not strong enough. I know you think I'm this big macho dude, and I am. But... nah. If it was someone I loved, someone it would kill me to lose? I couldn't do it." He looked back at me. "Do you get it now? The whole reason any of this works is because of you. I'm convenient, a big dick with a big dick, but those are a dime a dozen."

His finger pointed again. "You're the special one in her life, and she knows it. Watch her next time. Don't watch how she looks at me. Watch how she looks at you. I've seen it. And I guarantee you, once she's alone, after I'm gone and you're in another room, she cries about how lucky she is to have you. About how it would destroy her if she lost you. Destroy her if you rejected her."

I took a long draw off my beer and thought. I did love her. And... yeah, he wanted to fuck Dee, so it was in his best interests to get me to buy what he was selling. But at the same time, a lot of it made sense. It explained a lot about how I felt. About how Dee had treated me; she was cruel because I got off on the humiliation, and she pushed it too far thinking it was giving me what I wanted. That could be remedied.

And even him. Seeing this version, the theoretically 'real' one, and knowing he wasn't actually trying to steal her, and, according to him, he couldn't if he tried. That made it all feel more bearable. I was relieved; not entirely, because I was still worried this was some kind of long con, or that he didn't understand as much as he thought. And also because I'd been a ball of stress for two weeks, and even a useful set of revelations can only do so much in a short time. But enough that he could see me relax.

"Okay, good. Are you understanding now? I'm not... look, trust but verify, dude. I get that. But I promise you this: I believe that every single thing I'm telling you is true. After we're done today, ask Dee to ease off. Make it clear that you're not playing, you're not begging for more humiliation, that you've actually been hurting in non-fun ways for a while. See what happens."

I nodded. "It... that helps some, what you said. I'll admit that. If you're right, I mean. But... look, it still kind of sucks. And I don't know what to do now. I... some humiliation is fine, but we've never dialed it in. I don't know how. I don't think Dee does either; the last couple of weeks shows that."

"Well, I had some ideas about that."

Rod laughed when I narrowed my eyes. "Relax, Martin. This is going to be... look, I think it'll be fun. Both because we'll get more of what you like in and because..." His face got a big, goofy grin on it as he said, "Do you watch professional wrestling?"

"Uh, not since I was a kid, no. It's, um..."

"Kinda silly? Dumb? Kid stuff? Yeah, it is. But I still love it. I used to sit with my dad and watch the greats back in the 80s like Hulk Hogan, Andre the Giant, Iron Sheik, all those guys. And then NWO, the Attitude Era, all of that stuff, too. It's a big, fun, dumb soap opera for guys, with long running plotlines, weird story cul de sacs where someone gets fired or hurt, incredibly athletic guys doing crazy stunts, just a ton of fun and spectacle." His eyes lit up when he talked about it. "I wanted to be a pro wrestler, but I fucked up both my knees in college, and... eh. I'm happy now."

"What do you do for a living, anyways?"

"Oh, I'm a nurse in the NICU. Anyways, what I do, the 'Heel' version of me is patterned on some of those WWE heels: a dash of Stone Cold, some Roman Reigns, a bit of Chris Jericho, even some Undertaker when I'm trying to be the big silent implacable guy."

I laughed. "Okay, I don't know all of those names, but I think I get it. You're being a villain. Playing a character."

He snapped his finger and pointed. "Yes! That's it, exactly. And you are, too."

"How do you figure?"

"Look, five, six days out of seven, what do you do in your life? You're a businessman. You make deals, and you have to be a hardass sometimes, right? And then for like six hours out of one day, you put on a pink floral apron and clean the house so a villain can come over and fuck your wife while you sit to one side, watching in sort-of-kind-of horror. Horror you know now that you could put a stop to in an instant. You're playing a character, just as much as I am, even if you don't think of it that way. You're doing it partly for her and partly for you, but you are."

He could tell I wasn't entirely convinced, but continued. "Have you heard the term 'kayfabe?'"

"That's a new one on me."

"Wrestling is fake." I chuckled. "Shocking, I know. But it's important that, for the sort of theater they're doing, that everyone treat it as though it's not. That's 'kayfabe,' the way that everyone knows it's fake, but treats it as if it's real, that rivalries and alliances last outside of the show, that the victories and losses are real, that it's not all choreographed. It wouldn't be nearly as fun without that willing and active suspension of disbelief.

"The term didn't show up until the eighties, but it was a thing without a name before that. Kayfabe's gotten a bit more flexible since the internet, but back in the seventies? Breaking kayfabe, or whatever it was called back then, would get you blacklisted. In fact..."

He drained his beer. "In fact, back in the seventies, there was this thing that happened. Some wrestlers were on one of those little Cessna puddlejumpers. It crashed, and they all got hurt: broken backs, ribs, concussions, all sorts of stuff. That would be bad, but what made it worse was that two of the wrestlers were heels, Ric Flair and Johnny Valentine. One of the others was Tim Woods, 'Mr. Wrestling.' A babyface, a sort of nice guy looking hero character, and also a hated rival to the two heels.

"This presented a big problem. The crash was in the news, but the WWE, WWF back then, tried to hide the details. Flair and Valentine were really badly injured. Woods got away with a concussion and broken ribs. Rumors started going around that the three of them had traveled together; this was back when the kayfabe illusion was much stronger, when a lot of people didn't just pretend it was real, but believed it was real. This getting out, getting confirmed, might have killed the WWF.

"So Woods, two weeks after the crash, still very much recovering, still walking around with broken bones, gets out there and starts wrestling again. Real wrestling. Or, okay, real fake wrestling, but still with body slams, pins, the whole thing. Just to 'prove' that he wasn't on the plane. He volunteered to do that shit, because he loved wrestling that much."

My blank face apparently wasn't getting the point across. "Okaaaay..."

Rod laughed. "Look, if I'm the heel, what does that make you? I'm the one that comes in and fucks Dee and makes her feel dirty and used and slutty and all that other shit. Uses and abuses her. You're the one that shows her she's still worthy of love, that she is loved, and that she'll be loved, even after she's humiliated you. So what does that make you?"

"A sucker?"

He snorted. "No, a face. The hero in the story. Maybe... look, it's an imperfect analogy, because all three of us are both participants and audience members, sort of. But. But." He leaned in conspiratorially. "What if you and I have our own little kayfabe? What if we work together to make this the best fucking time of Dee's life? And, at the same time... look, it's still going to be humiliating for you. That's part of the gig, and a part you like, even if you don't like that you like it. Hell, a part I like, too. But you already know that it's 'fake,' sort of. And that feels better, right?"

I reluctantly nodded. "Yeah. I mean... I still want it to be over when it's over, after you're gone. But... yeah, sitting here and talking with you like this, I feel better about it. Both what happens and how it makes me feel. Knowing... knowing it's meant in fun. It's like... like being in on the joke, sort of?"

"Right. So it's already kayfabe. You're doing it knowing it's... not fake, but not real, either. Like the wrestlers; they're athletic as hell, and they're doing backflips and shit, but they're also trying to make sure no one really gets hurt. Bruises, not broken bones. That's what I try to do, too, just mentally. Emotionally. That's what we can do together, and put on a better show for Dee while we're at it. So what do you say? 'Heel Rod' and 'Cucky Martin,' putting on the best show your guest bedroom's ever seen?"

My laughter could have probably been heard three doors down the block. It was so gloriously, delightfully dumb that I couldn't help it. He was right; Dee did love it, did love the spectacle. And what I'd been doing before... I wasn't acting. It hurt, and it only hurt. But I already knew it was going to hurt less with Rod's revelations, if Dee did back off when asked. So what would happen if I worked with Rod? This Rod, this reasonable, personable guy that put so much thought into his 'hobby,' and me, the resilient and loving husband, could really rock her world if we worked together.

I stood and put my hand out. "Let's do it."

He jumped up and hugged me, actually hugged me. "This is gonna be so great. We need to-- " A car door slammed. "Apron! Get your apron!" I hustled to get it on and tied, and in the time I did that, he had already transformed into 'Heel Rod.'

As Dee opened the door, he was jabbing me in the chest with two fingers and bellowing, "Listen here, you fucking cuck, I'm gonna-- " He looked over at her. "Ah, there she is now. Get over here, slut. I'm gonna take you to bed while your little pussy cuck husband sits here on the couch with a beer and the remote; it's so much worse when you can only imagine, isn't it, Cucky Martin?"

He winked-- fucking winked!-- at me, as he poked me in the chest again, pushing me onto the couch. I did my best to l keep an angry, unhappy face on, which was made easier as he dragged my wife into his embrace and shoved his tongue down her throat. It was easier, but still not easy. Easy enough, though. This was going to work. The bastard was right.

He was giving me time, this session, to sit and think. Turn the TV on, drink a beer, and... well, I could still hear Dee wailing like a banshee in the guest bedroom. That wasn't fun. Or it was, but I felt like it shouldn't have been.

But I also listened, and he was right. What she was with him... I had always thought of it as a bigger version of what she was with me, but it wasn't. There were similarities, of course; she was still the same woman. But there was none of the joy involved. It was sex, pure raw sex, and spectacle. I heard, for the first time, how much it was for show. He was still absolutely fucking wrecking her, I was sure, and I was sure she was cumming like crazy. But that's all it was: just fucking.

Some folks don't get the distinction; I get that. Love and sex, for some folks, are inextricably linked. Especially in a marriage. But I realized, with none of the guys she'd ever been with besides me, had she shown them actual love. I'd made her wail and howl like Rod before, albeit not as much. But he'd never made her coo and purr, never made her sigh with utter contentment as opposed to scream with pure physical pleasure.

It didn't take the sting away; not entirely. There was still the part of me that wanted to be everything to her, both the best fuck and the best lover she'd ever had. But I could never be everything to her, just like she could never be everything to me. No one could be everything to another person; it's just not possible. Even sexually. I'd had lovers that were tiny little things, that I could toss around like Rod could toss around Dee. I'd had lovers that were plump and cushiony, pleasant to hold and cuddle with as we fucked. Dee was athletic and firm, which had its own attractions, but wasn't as comfortable when just snuggled up.

I finished my beer and had another before I heard the telltale signs that Rod was about finished with Dee. They were in there for a little longer before Rod came out, banging around loudly as he did like, well, like a bull in a china shop. "Cuck!" He shouted, "Get in there and clean your fucking slut of a wife up." Then he leaned in close and said, "Remember what we talked about. Dee and I didn't talk about, well, anything, but I guarantee you that if you ask her to ease up, she will. And text me later, okay?" I nodded. His voice turned back to 'Heel Rod' again. "Well fucking go, you useless little pussy! That creampie ain't gonna suck itself out!" I sighed and he laughed, somewhere between the heel and the regular Rod, then left.

I stripped down and did clean her up. My cock was like steel as I did so, the humiliation, the noises I'd heard from her with Rod, and her beautiful, used naked body making me ready to explode. She moaned and sighed as I licked her clean, the little joyful noises that she only made with me, then orgasmed with the low, needful groan only I ever got to hear.

Dee, my beautiful, blonde, athletic wife, one of my two cruel tormentors, finally said "Did my little cuck get a nice meal? It was sooooo much, wasn't it?" She grinned and crooked her finger at me. "Come on, cucky, I want to watch you cum. Stand here next to me." I did as she asked, and she wrapped her long, dexterous fingers around my shaft. "You're going to blow before I even start, aren't you?" I could only nod, then she brought her lips close to my glans and kissed it. That was all it took; the anticipation, her touch, the cruel, loving look in her eyes. I came, painting her lips with my spend.

She laughed, licking them and my head, then started to stroke my cock vigorously. "More, cucky. I want more."

"Stop."

I moved her hand off of me. "He's gone. We're done. I don't want to hear that word anymore."

She arched an eyebrow. "What word?" She enunciated the next word carefully, smirking as she did so. "'Cuc--"

"Stop. I'm fucking serious, Dee."

Her eyes went wide. "Baby?"

My tone was grim and serious. "I meant it a couple of weeks ago when I left. When I got mad that you wouldn't stop. That... that wasn't me playing. It hurt, Dee. Really hurt, not... not the fun kind."

She sat up quickly, looking up at me. "Baby? Oh, baby, no!" Her eyes started to water. "I'm sorry, I didn't know! I love you, Martin!" Her arms went around my waist, and her face pressed against my stomach. She held onto me for all she was worth as the tears really started to come.

I patted her hair and whispered soothing words. "I know, Dee. I know. It's... this is weird. There's no... there's no rule book for what we're doing." I sighed. "I wasn't sure before. Wasn't sure if you... if you were hurting me just to hurt me. To... to show me I didn't really matter to you anymore." She sobbed loudly when I said that, and I stroked her hair again. "But you weren't. You just didn't understand."

Her head nodded vigorously against my belly, and her voice was so fearful as she spoke. "I didn't. I didn't, baby. We can... we can stop this. All of this. I never want to hurt you, not really hurt you. We can be done, I'll be... be fine without any of this. I--"

"No you won't."

She cried louder. "I will! I promise, I-- it's not worth it! I can't lose you, I--"

"I know. But... but there's something... since this started, since before, you've been looking for something. Needing to find it. And... I believe you'll stop now, for me. But I also believe you'll never really be happy until you figure it out."

"Please, Marty, please, I will, I'll--"

I crouched down next to my wife so I could look her in the eyes. "We'll find it together, okay? I love you. I'll... I'll stay with you. As long as you listen when I tell you something is too much, okay? Really too much."

Dee nodded, then let out a strangled, "Why?"