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

middle and, ultimately, an endpoint is reached. Susan’s underwear incident landed as the first brush stroke on the canvas. What would be the coup de grâce? In three months, would Susan be the featured attraction at the local strip club? I danced that thought around in my head and, surprisingly, found it not to be lacking in prurient interest—but only as a mental exercise of course.

To be honest, it wasn’t so dissimilar to what I felt imagining Greg ogling my naked wife. Scale was a negligible detail. The fact of the matter was I liked the idea of another man ogling my nude wife. Was this the sin of pride? It could be. The Seventh Commandment, the single one involving thought rather than actions, covered Greg’s end. He would be coveting my wife in that scenario. Religion had strong opinions on these matters.

“Honey! This is where you say something!” I had drifted from our conversation, and Susan had become impatient waiting for my response.

“Sorry. My mind slipped. Sure, I’ll see you there. Will we be having dinner?”

“Oh, at some point, I’m sure. See you!”

I arrived ten minutes later.

“Hey, you stud ball, you,” said Marci, when I joined them at their table. A half empty bottle of chianti sat between them, meaning they’d hardly touched it. I kissed the top of Susan’s head and sat. The waiter promptly saw this an opportunity to deliver another glass and filled it for me.

“Hello, Mr. Peterson!” he said, at a startling volume. “I’m so happy to see you!”

“Hello, Matteo. How’s the family?” I took a sip of my wine.

“Everyone is very happy! Thank you so much for asking! Will we be dining tonight?”

Susan looked at me and I nodded. “Yes, Matteo. You can bring us menus.”

“Excellent!” Matteo, having exercised his fulsome qualities quite sufficiently, went off and I turned to Marci.

“Stud ball? That’s new,” I said. “What have I done to warrant that moniker?”

“Susan told me about last night when you ravaged her in the parking lot, you bull.”

“Of course she did,” I said while looking at Susan. She shrugged and gave me a look to suggest she was not innocent. “So, what did she tell you exactly?”

“You banged her in the car.”

“I can’t deny it.”

“And then she gave you a blow job. You told her it was epic.”

“Jesus, Susan,” I said, not really bothered. “Is it a given that whatever happens between us, Marci will know all the details?”

“Pretty much,” said Susan, smiling.

“Maybe she should just move in with us. It’ll save her all the bother of you having to tell her later what we’ve been up to.”

“Hey, never say never, I say,” said Marci. “Will we all share your bed, or will I get my own room?”

Matteo arrived with our menus and we studied them.

“I’m going to have the Paglia E Pieno,” said Susan, closing hers.

“What’s that?” asked Marci. “I don’t speak the lingo.”

“The description is right on your menu, Marci,” I said. “It’s in English too.”

“Where?”

“How were you going to decide what to eat?” asked Susan, before I could respond.

“I just look at the names of the dishes in Italian. Like this one, Pappardelle Con Sugo Di Coniglio. With a name like that it’s got to be good, don’t you think?”

“It’s rabbit, Marci,” I said. “Do you like to eat bunny rabbits?”

“Gross! I guess I’ll have what you’re having, Ryan.”

“I’m going to have the Paglia E Pieno too.”

“Hey, you’re right! It’s right there in English on the other side of this thingie. Who would have thought to look there? Spinach tagliatelle. Cool.”

“Susan,” I said. “With Marci around, we can never have kids. She’s already too much of a handful.”

“Dick,” said Marci. “You’ll miss me when I find Mr. Right and move to his castle in Slovenia.”

“Oh, take me too!” said Susan. “I’d love to go there.”

“I doubt Marci knows where Slovenia is,” I said.

“Sure I do. It’s part of Europe somewhere, right?”

Matteo arrived to take our orders, assured us our selections were excellent and disappeared.

After some further discussion on the whereabouts of Slovenia, which was not, much to Susan’s surprise, in Eastern Europe but rather tucked between Italy, Austria and Croatia, I wanted to explore something Susan had said in the car the other night. As Marci apparently knew everything about my private life, I felt safe doing so.

“Marci,” I said, in a tone designed to get both of their attention. “Since you brought it up, Susan said something to me last night I found interesting.”

“Oh, God! What?” asked Susan.

“Go on,” said Marci, comically. She put her chin on her raised forearm and open palm.

“Susan said I come a lot.”

“Hey, thanks for sharing!” said Marci, laughing. “You do, you know.” She winked at Susan. “I mean, it’s quite a load you have there.”

I looked at Susan, who was smiling. She was clearly not bothered by my sexual history with Marci, and I was sure they often compared notes.

“Thanks, I guess,” I said. “Anyway, that’s not the point. Let me put it another way. What if a man went down on you and then said, oh, you taste different?”

Marci gave it a think, then frowned. “What are you telling me? Did I taste different? How could you even remember something like that? I mean, was it that bad?”

“I’m not talking about you!”

“Oh.” Marci reflected for a moment. “But I tasted okay, right? I mean, I wasn’t nasty was I?”

“Jesus, Marci. I said I’m not talking about you! Anyway, I don’t remember, I mean other than that you were fine.”

“Just fine?” She looked at Susan. “Do you douche? I heard that was bad for you but, you know. Should I be doing it, at least before sex?”

Marci’s mind had clearly moved onto a single track.

“No, I don’t douche,” said Susan. “I’m all natural. Do I taste funny, Ryan? Would you tell me if did?”

“I know it must be variable,” said Marci. “You know, when you’re in the spur-of-the-moment? You can’t always plan when someone is going to go down on you. Sometimes it