Not George or Bradley

Not George or Bradley, But Black Andreas

When I asked my wife what she wanted for her birthday and without flinching she said, "George Clooney or Bradley Cooper," I knew she was kidding. Or did I? That playfulness was uncharacteristic, but it inspired me. Yes, we had been married twenty years, and I did know the bloom was somewhat off the rose. Our sex had dwindled from once a day, to a couple of times a week, to once a month whether we wanted it or not.

Sometimes her mind did wander during sex and her orgasms were coming less frequently than days over 100 degrees or winners in the lottery. Yes, we had hit that married people malaise, and the everyday-life stuff had begun to get in the way of hot Sunday morning sex. It was, I admit, regretfully all true.

So was there some truth to her joke about George or Brad? Okay, I didn't know either Mr. Clooney or Cooper, but I did have a credit card, and I was sure Escorts Are Us took Visa or Mastercard. Her roguishness was welcome. What if I dangled a night at the Ritz or Marriott in front of her with a handsome dude and a free pass? Would she quickly turn it down, annoyed at the joke, or would she hesitate and blush and then smile and go off with Mr. Hot Pants?

So the only way to find out was to find out: to offer her a promise she could not refuse, to do anything her little disparate-housewife-heart desired. So if I gave her a Free Pass, and pledged she could do anything she wanted without repercussions, would she take it? I had to admit, if I was offered the same deal, I would have a hard time turning it down. What it really boiled down to was whether she believed me that I could grant such a pass, that I would not come back and hold it against her. I figured most women given the same chance would take it if it would not be held against them, ever. It was like 'would you take the money if no one would ever find out?' If you were invisible, would you go into the men's locker room if no one could see you? Of course you would. At least most people would, I thought.

So I decided to go ahead with it. I prepared a "certificate" giving her my okay for a night of fun for her birthday, and my guarantee that it would not be held against her if she were to "exercise her womanly desires with a member of the opposite sex." Then I looked into escort services. Finally, I picked a luxury hotel and decided on a date and reserved the honeymoon suite for one night.

The morning of her birthday I put the envelope with a card, the certificate, the hotel reservations, a picture of Mr. Anything You Want, and a short note. The note said: "I couldn't get George or Brad, they were busy, but I was able to get a handsome replacement. Have fun. Happy Birthday. Love, David."

I left it on the counter with a vase of flowers and a box of chocolates. When she got up at six to fix her coffee, she found it. I waited in bed until after she got up, then I listened to her in the kitchen. I didn't hear the coffee maker, so I knew she was reading. After a few minutes she walked back in the bedroom with a big I-can't-believe-this smile on her face.

"A free pass?" she said.

"For one night, unless you want more," I said raising up in bed. "George and Brad both were busy," I said.

"Oh, come on, I bet you didn't even try," she said with an impish grin.

"Their agents wouldn't put me through," I said with a shrug. "But Mr. I'll Do Anything You Want was available. For a small fee." I smiled. "It's real, babe. At the Marriott. All night. Happy Birthday."

"You're serious?"

"As a heart attack," I said. "He'll pick you up in a limousine, take you to his castle, and be at your command until morning or the carriage turns back into a pumpkin, whichever comes first. You said you wanted George or Brad, and I knew you had not been exactly swept off your feet by your husband lately, so I am offering this. Honestly, I hope you will accept it. I love you, sweetheart. Have a ball. Really. Free Pass. Honestly."

She stood in her bathrobe, holding the certificate, looking completely bewildered. "Please. Take it," I said. "Have a good lusty, no-hold-barred time. It's just sex."

I kissed her. "No one needs to know except the escort service and us, and we won't tell. Really, baby. You deserve some real fun. Do it. Please."

I was beginning to think it was all for nothing when she began to smile, a real I am-going-to-do-this smile. "One night. No rules, no conditions, no stipulations?"

"Just one," I said. "You have to come home. You can't ride off in the sunset with Mr. One Night." She put her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss that proved to me she believed me and accepted the terms.

Sure, I went to a lot of work with no guarantee that she'd actually do it. I didn't know if she just be insulted by the thought and pissed that I would think she'd do such a thing. True, I didn't know for sure. But something inside me said most people want to step out of themselves once in awhile and do something outrageous. I guess I had been convincing that I would be all right with her having sex with a hired gun and giving her that freedom to at least try it without apology or a guilty conscience for a night.

She blushingly agreed. We made the final arrangements and set the date. It was clear that she was as excited as a kid with the promise of a horse for Christmas. It wasn't a horse, but maybe he had at least one of the attributes of a prized stallion. We can hope. We'd see.

The date was April 15, one day after her birthday. She got to pick from the "escort" lineup and she picked Andreas. He was tall, dark, and very Jamaican. Andreas came for just a little bit more than the limousine. The website said he spoke four languages, had a degree in biological science, and was a gifted masseur. I didn't know how helpful the science degree would be, but I was sure the ability to give a fine massage would come in real handy at the Marriott.

The day of the fifteenth we prep her all day long. I gave her a sensual shower, soaping and scrubbing her entire body, and I do mean entire. From her feet to her hair, I washed, caressed, and dried and powdered every inch of my beautiful wife. Then, to add just the perfect touch, I trimmed her bush to a lovely triangle just above her clit.

She was, as we dressed her for her big night, one very lovely and pampered queen for the day with Andreas the giant. I hoped he wasn't too large for her to enjoy, if you know what I mean.

We sat nervously waiting for the limousine and she sat with her hands in her lap, anxiously bouncing her foot. He was scheduled to pick her up at one pm. At about twelve fifty-nine a super long vehicle pulled up in front of our house and a very long man got out and came to the door. I was sure the neighbors were peeking out from their blinds to see who was arriving at our house and I was sure their imaginations were going in all directions. Actually, if they knew the truth it would scandalize them into fits of hysterics I was sure.

When she drove off with him, I was sure I could see the curtains move on a number of houses around the neighborhood. When the limousine had turned the corner, I decided I just needed to get away for awhile, so I backed the car out and went to The Flying Butler, a local club we sometimes go to. As I stepped inside I saw my friend Jerry over in a side booth.

He waved me over and I got a beer and went and sat with him. "Where's Claire?" he asked.

"It's her birthday," I said, "so she is out celebrating."

"What did you get her," he asked.

"Well, she asked for George Clooney or Bradley Cooper," I said, knowing he wouldn't believe me. "But I couldn't get either one of them."

"So what did you get her, some local gigolo?" he said with a chuckle.

"Yes," I said.

"Yes, what?" he said.

"Yes, I got her a local gigolo," I said, knowing again he wouldn't believe me anyway. "A big tall black one with a great big dick."

"Yeah, and what's she giving you? Charlize Theron?" he said.

"Hope so," I said.

"Good luck," he replied, chuckling.

Thankfully, the conversation went from there to the Lakers and how bad their losing streak was since LaBron's been hurt. When we finished with the Lakers we went to the Dodgers, the Rams, and the Raiders. I wondered what he would say if he really knew I had hired LaBron's counterpart for my wife for a night.

He left and I finished my beer, then chatted with some other guys about meaningless stuff and some local politics. "Hey, guys, I just hired a big black dude to fuck my wife for the night," I thought, and imagined their jaws dropping to the peanut-shell covered floor.

"I hope he fucks her real good," I imagined one of them saying. I bet he will, I said to myself. On the way home I drove by the Marriott. Somewhere up there is my sweet little wife, I thought. I truly hope she is having a good birthday party, and I hope she'll tell me how it went.

When I got home I went to the tv room and turned on the game. Not much could keep my mind off the Marriott, and I thought about what was happening in the honeymoon suite. Claire, as far as I knew, had never been with another man since we'd been married, and not many before. I genuinely hoped she was enjoying herself. She hadn't had much experience before we met, but she worked to learn all she could, and she became an acceptable sex partner.

The birthday idea was obviously a stretch, an inspiration, but when she asked for George or Bradley she showed a frisky side I wanted to explore, and when I came up with the idea of offering a sexual adventure it just seemed ideal. When she finally agreed, I was surprised but pleased she was willing to try something shameless, even sexy.

Now she was with a stranger I was paying for, and she promised to call me at midnight. Since I was paying the agency, I felt that she was safe and I didn't have to worry. The fact that she was willing and eager, also made me feel better. I may not have been able to get George or Brad, but I was sure she would remember this birthday for a long, long time.

At 12:01 the phone rang, the landline, yes we're still one of the only families with a landline. Claire was calling me as promised, and she was out breath. "You okay?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," she said, "quite," sounding like an islander. "Andreas has been very good to me. He is a proper gentleman. And he does know how to please a lady," she said with a smile in her voice. It was clear he was near, perhaps on his belly between her lovely thighs.

"So, it is good sex?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, very good," she said and giggled, like he was doing some of it at that very moment.

"Where is he right now?" I asked.

"About two feet from the phone, on his stomach, having a bite to eat," she chuckled.

"I hope he is not biting," I joked.

"Oh, no. He is very good with his lips and tongue. Oh, yes, very, very good," she said with a sigh.

"Well, happy birthday, my love," I said, meaning every lusty word.

"Oh, yes, thank you. This has been the best birthday, ever. I think I am going to have regular visits from Andreas," she said. "Could you fix up the guest room. I think he might be staying with us."

"So, you have gotten to like the Jamaican way," I said. "Is it technique or physical properties?"

"Oh, my," she said, obviously looking down at him. "It is very much both. Yes. A lot of both, but especially in the size department.

Andreas has been with us for six months now. He obviously likes white meat as much as Claire loves dark. It was a birthday that just kept on giving, and giving, and giving. George and Bradley, your loss.