The Vacation Wife by David Stone (best selling autobiographies TXT) 📕

at least numerically, the sum of Susan’s old flames. I could see how learning of one more could be a shock. I’d have to realign what I already knew about her, like the number of men who had enjoyed her carnally, particularly the oral aspects. Frankly, I had wondered if there were more men in her past than she had claimed.

In contrast, when I had challenged Marci’s plump ledger, feeling she was exaggerating, she instructed me to grow up while assuring me women liked sex just as much as men, if not more.

Our steaks arrived on molten, oversized platters bubbling with clarified butter. The waiter used mitts suitable for handling radioactive fuel to set them down, cautioning the plates shouldn’t be touched with bare fingers. I tested his theory with a naked forefinger and flinched.

“He said don’t touch it, Ryan.” Harold laughed while centering his plate with his napkin. I gripped my chilled water glass for relief before picking up my utensils.

“I can see that,” I said, resuming our earlier theme. “If Susan told me tonight about an old flame never mentioned before, it would take some getting used to.”

“Right. And there’s nothing you can do to stop your mind from imagining her with this new guy.”

When Harold said “new guy”, my mind, though having received no instruction to do so, conjured an image of Susan with Greg. This sent a message through my central nervous system that landed with a bit of fanfare in my trousers.

“That’s it,” I said. “You have to imagine it to process it.”

“To tell you the truth,” said Harold. “I mean, if we’re speaking honestly, I find it invigorating. Even after twelve years, Meg still drops a gem every now and then. She spent two years traveling in Europe after college. Out of the blue, she might remember a guy she’d met and mention it. They’re usually trifles, of course, a one-night stand in Prague or Amsterdam. In her mind, they hardly count. Of course, for a man, they all count.”

This put Meg in a new light. I could see how she must have been a real stunner in college. Marci also came to mind. She had enjoyed, in her own words, a rip-roaring, whoring year abroad, during which she padded the bulk of her ledger. I had no doubt what Harold meant by “invigorating”.

I wasn’t sure how to reply. Feigning shock would put Meg in a dim light. I couldn’t comment on his wife’s past behavior, which would involve a judgment. I couldn’t say, “Jesus, what a whore”. Nor did I feel she was, not if I was to believe Marci. Women liked sex just as much as men and looked for sexual opportunities.

My only option was to shift the conversation a few degrees.

“Speaking of wives,” I said. “Susan had a funny little incident the other day.”

Harold demonstrated he was all ears.

“She was gardening in her bathrobe and got a little warm, so she took off the robe. She’s was wearing underwear, of course, but the thing is, we have a new fence, and she was sure no one would see her.”

Harold leaned in, placing his elbows on the table.

“So, she continued gardening until she heard a knock on the gate. Without thinking, she went over and opened it. It was our neighbor, Greg. He was returning my edger. They chatted for a while and then after he left, Susan realized she’d been talking to him the whole time in her underwear.”

Harold smiled and nodded his head. “She must have been in shock. I can see Susan’s face now.”

“Oh, she was. She told me all about it when I got home.”

Harold took a bite of his steak and was either savoring its flavor or ruminating over Susan’s goof. He finally swallowed, took a sip of his water, and looked me in the eyes.

“How did you feel about your wife standing in her underwear talking to your neighbor?”

This put me in a tough spot. I thought he would just laugh and move on, but instead, he wanted to know my feelings about Susan’s incident. Of course, I’d been excited by it, but I didn’t feel it appropriate to put that fact on the table, especially knowing how Harold liked to dig deep into any subject’s core.

“I felt she handled it well,” I said, knowing this was evasive.

“I’ll tell you a story that’s sort of along those lines. You know Meg and I go skiing every winter in Europe?”

“Yes, it must be nice.”

“It is. I love the sport. But there’s more to it than skiing. About six years ago we found a hotel in Kitzbuhel that had a nice spa attached. The local folks used it too. One day after skiing, we decided we’d visit the sauna.”

“Sounds nice.”

“There’s nothing better after a day of skiing. Anyway, we put on our suits and robes, then went down the elevator and through a tunnel to the adjacent spa. We had to go through the changing area to get to the sauna. The first thing we noticed was the locker room was coed. There are boys and girls and men and women of all ages getting dressed or undressed. I looked at Meg. She couldn’t believe it.

“We found the sauna and put our robes on hooks and went in. It was huge. There were about twenty people in there, all nude of course. We were the only ones wearing suits. We felt pretty conspicuous.

“I thought about it all that night and all the next day. At dinner, I said, ‘Meg, how about we take another sauna and this time without our suits?’ I expected a protest, but instead she was all for it.

“This time, we stripped in our room and descended wearing only our robes. Right there it felt kind of funky, walking through a nice hotel in just your robe. When we got to the sauna area, there were loads more people milling around. Without a blink, Meg took off her robe and stood there stark naked, waiting