Seven Year Itch

Joanie fucks up with her old boyfriend Philip & hubby John

**

It was one of those days. A melancholy day. I went for a walk around the streets of Manhattan, just reflecting about my life and the twists and turns it took. I wondered if, as I got older, I'd have to take longer and longer walks, as I acquired more life experiences upon which to reflect. As it was just then, for a woman of 24 years of age, I felt that I had plenty of material to mull over in my mind. I walked, and I mulled.

It was late autumn and there was a bit of a chill in the air. Since I was busy mulling over the turns my life had taken, I stopped at a café for some hot, mulled, apple cider. Were I still to be in Paris, France, I could have stopped in for some warm, mulled red wine. What a honeymoon we had just enjoyed! John had been so busy enjoying my body, over and over and over again, that it was hard to convince him we should go out and enjoy Paris, too; but I can be very determined when I want to be!

The exception for John is, of course, French food, and in particular our honeymoon meals. John was obsessed with good food, and you know the way some people brake for animals? (They even announce it with bumper stickers on their cars.) Well, John brakes for restaurants, if only to read their menus posted in the window. My hubby seems to have three loves in his life: Me, of course; sex (all kinds); and good food. I'm not really sure about the ordering, either. Oh yeah: I forgot. Sports, especially college sports, and in particular basketball and football, he likes to play in person or to watch on a flat screen.

People say you learn a lot about a man only after you get married to him. People also say the Earth is Flat and that the World is Ending. People say all sorts of things. One thing I was learning, however, which I hadn't even suspected, is that John is kinky. More precisely, he wants me to be kinky. Even more precisely he wants to show me off. To be blunt: He wants to show off parts of my body to complete strangers, and the parts he wants to show off are traditionally kept private. Who knew this aspect of John? Not me!

I should clarify. John didn't want me to walk around the streets of Paris topless or bottomless, or anything crass. He just wants to carefully, very carefully, arrange some wardrobe mishaps from time to time, and to enjoy watching other men enjoy the view my body provides in those moments. I have small breasts, so it's easy for me to go without a bra for an afternoon. You can imagine the rest, I'm sure.

You know, it was kind of, sort of, somewhat, okay in Paris, because we knew nobody, and it's a different country, and one with a long, permissive tradition of all sorts of kinky stuff. That's why we didn't honeymoon in Iran, Afghanistan, or Saudi Arabia, for example! I was so deeply in love with John I felt that if, well, he wanted it, then yes, I would do it. Now, however, the honeymoon is over and we're back home in New York.

Here in New York, I'm not so sure. Okay, there's Time Square, sure, and there are weird people all over the streets, especially down in Greenwich Village, which is kink central. Well, these days I guess it is both the West Village and the East Village, but not "The Village" per se. They call it the Central Village.

The NYU students give the Central Village quite the preppy look, actually, while they prance around in their short skirts, their skin tight leggings, and their braless tight tops, all while carrying their three thousand-dollar purses. They also have the occasional "wardrobe mishaps," I've noticed. I can't compete with NYU preppy sluts. I'm a freshly married woman, after all, and t he NYU coeds are still on the make.

Remembering our honeymoon in Paris, during my mull, I needed a rest, so I went into a café. It was one that I liked, and due to the pandemic, it even had outside seating. I got my mulled cider and sat down at a table outdoors, even though it was chilly, just as I had done that memorable time at a grand café in Paris, France. I remembered how I had scheduled a rendezvous with John at the café. I had gone to the Musée d'Orsay on the left bank, to see the Impressionist paintings I had drooled over all my life, via the art books my mother had bought at remaindered tables. It was a moving moment.

John was late. He had gone to look at French pornographic comics, which in France was something of an art form, and some of the bookstores had large sections devoted to nothing but that. Yes, France has resisted the destructive forces of Amazon, and still had bookstores! Lots of them, in fact. I had to admit that the illustrations were really quite good, even if the material of the 'stories' and the non-subtle graphic displays of sex were not to my taste. I was surprised, however, that the love of my life preferred pornographic comic books to French impressionist art. Well, everyone is different, you know?

That's one of the things I meant about getting to know the man only once you were married to him. I never would have suspected this aspect of John, I mean his love of pornographic comic books, before we married, but there it was, without question, and surfacing on our honeymoon, to boot!

It's not that I'm some kind of Midwestern prude. I'm not. I'm anything but a prude, and John says that's a special part of my charm. It's simply just a question of taste. The French do have good taste across the board, however, and the paintings of nudes, almost of all them female nudes, were exactly to my taste. They were wonderful. Maybe their comic books were similarly artistic? Maybe even I should stop refusing to go with John, and rather take a look at French pornographic comics, with him?

Those were my thoughts as I sipped my mulled wine at that elegant café on the left bank, in Paris, France.

I recall now how I had arrived at the café, called Les Deux Magots, around 15 minutes before the time of our rendezvous. John texted me he would be ten minutes late, which I interpreted as 15 to 20 minutes late, so really, I had a good half hour to sit outside and absorb Paris, as the people walked by, as the smells in the air wafted about, and as the elegant and attentive waiters, dressed in their official waiter garb, went from table to table.

It wasn't just the people walking by, either. There was a good-looking man a couple of tables over who was checking out my legs. I realized belatedly that he was sketching me, with pencil and paper, and that I was his unwitting model, an anonymous woman sitting at a table in a café, showing a lot of leg.

As I wondered what positions my artist might like in bed (missionary, doggie, me on top, my feet on his shoulders, or up by my ears, or all five?), I had to quickly remind myself those days are over! I'm a married woman now, on her honeymoon even, and I'm committed to John. I plan to have his children when we judge the time is right. The age of flings and being picked up are over!

I guess I was still adjusting to the idea of being only with one man, however wonderful, for the rest of my life. Of course, that didn't mean I could no longer flirt, nor did I have to end my fantasies!

It did occur to me that I was sitting there in my provocative honeymoon clothes, which I wore to please John, including a very short skirt, hold-up stockings, high heels (only three inches; as the French would say, il ne faut pas exagérer [ie, no need to exaggerate!]), and a quite low-cut blouse, with the world's flimsiest bra. I was showing a hell of a lot of leg, and an equally hell of a lot of boob. It occurred to me, further, that I was unintentionally giving out the message: come pick me up, I'm available. This was all John's doing!

I was left alone however, to my relief, for the first five minutes. Shortly after my glass of sherry arrived, however, a man came up before me, speaking to me in English. "Excuse me, miss; are you by chance Joanie Rosen, of the Great State of Indiana?" he asked.

"I used to be, Philip. Now I'm Joanie Sayles," I said, smiling broadly, and holding up, and waving around, my left hand, with its wedding ring and gigantic rock of an engagement ring. Philip was one of my on-again -- off-again lovers from the years before I met my true love and life partner, and now my husband, John Sayles, he of the pornographic comic book fetish.

"May I join you, Mrs. Sayles?" Philip asked, not even trying to hide his grin.

"I would be offended if you didn't!" I said. I can give as good as I get. "I prefer Ms. Sayles, to Mrs. Sayles." Mrs. Sayles was John's mother, after all. Luckily, I bore absolutely no resemblance to John's mother. Sure, we were both female, but it ended there!

"Where's hubby? Is he meeting you here?" Philip asked.

"Yes, he is. You'll like him," I said, as I scanned the sidewalks in the area to see if he might be coming.

The next thing I said, unfortunately, was, "Philip, please take your hand off my thigh. I'm married now. Those days are over," I said. To be honest, I had mixed emotions. It was a bit thrilling to have the hand of a handsome man up my skirt as I sat outside one of the most famous cafés in all Paris.

Philip wasn't just handsome, but he had prior carnal knowledge of me. Lots and lots of it! I actually loved the feeling of his way up on me thigh, but it was not appropriate for anyone, let alone a married woman! I had to get used to my new status as a married woman.

"How about a kiss, for old times sake, then?" Philip asked as he complied, removing his hand, which had gone all the way up to, and under, my panties. "I miss your kisses. They always lit a fire in my belly that was hard to put out." Philip and I had enjoyed a 'friends with benefits' relationship, after we had broken up. At one point, I had thought we had been destined to marry.

"Yes, I used to love the way you put it out," I replied, as I remembered the very large amounts of cum he used to donate to my vaginal canal, while at the same time kissing me as we fucked. He was such a good fuck; he always made me cum. I got a little wet, remembering. Memory is such a tricky business.

Philip kissed me, and it was a French kiss (after all, we were in France, he later explained), and it thoroughly turned me on. As we kissed, his hand again zipped up the outside of my thigh, under my skirt, all the way to my hip. My legs were held tightly together, so there was no way he was going to zip up the inside of my thigh, more's the pity, I thought as his kiss melted me, flooding me with memories galore.

"Pretty skimpy panties you're wearing," Philip said, when I finally broke the kiss.

"Yes, and now they're wet, you dirty masher," I replied. "They're honeymoon panties, designed to seduce my husband, although he truly does not need my efforts at seduction! He's on a sexual hair trigger." John had chosen them for me, at one of the amazing lingerie shops of Paris. I looked like a hooker -- and a rich hooker at that -- if you got my clothes off me. Only John, of course, was allowed to get them off me.

It seemed appropriate at the Café Les Deux Magots. The two life-sized wooden sculptures of Magots (Chinese wise men) hung from the ceiling, and they were originally part of an elegant lingerie store, specializing in silk lingerie, nearby at 23, Rue de Buci.

"Philip, please take your hand off my thigh," I said, for the second time. This time I was slower to ask him to remove his hand. I had loved Philip once, and it felt lovely to have his hand up under my skirt once again. Those days, however, were over! Philip complied, removing his offending hand, for the second time.

"I'm so jealous," Philip replied.

"You had your chance, Philip. You chose not to take it," I said, smiling to hide my fleeting moment of bitterness.

"Everybody makes mistakes, Joanie. Losing you was a doozy. Biggest mistake of my life," Philip said, again showing off his talent at flattery, accompanied with his expertise at dishonest bullshit. Then he added, rather nastily, given everything that had happened, "My Dad has never forgiven me for not bringing you into the family."

"You're still young," I replied. "Keep making mistakes. They say practice makes perfect." I ignored the dig about his Dad. There was some unfortunate history between his Dad and me.

"I'd love to whisk you off somewhere private, while we're both in Paris. Any chance you can get away from your new hubby for a little quickie?" Philip crudely asked.

So, I thought, it's true. Philip does in fact still desire me; even the married me. I no longer disgust him, I guess. Well, he's just too fucking late. I'm John's woman now, and I'm hopelessly in love with John. The sooner Philip realizes that, the better.

"Now that would be one hell of a doozy of a mistake for me! Maybe it's a foreign concept to you, but I love and am committed to John. I don't want you anymore, Philip," I lied. "Check back with me in seven years. Who knows? Maybe I'll have an itch," I joked.

"Now, tell me what brings you to Paris," I said, while once again removing his hand from my leg. How many times had I already done that in my life? I lost track at around 100. Just then, just at that café, we were up to three times within only around 15 minutes!

The problem was that I totally desired Philip, still. He still made my heart flutter, and my panties wet. Damn him that he had such power over me! I'm on my honeymoon with John, a totally different man, for Pete's sake! I shouldn't be harboring my traditional lust for Philip. This isn't good.

As a consolation prize, I leaned forward to give him a free look down my blouse, as I reached to put some more cinnamon in my cider. I really did have some vestigial love for Philip. He smiled, gratefully, getting the message and enjoying the free look. We chatted amiably until my true love, John, finally showed up, burdened by two bags full of oversized sexy comic books. John does not know French; I hoped he wasn't planning to have me translate them for him? I would, you know; I'd do anything for him. I'd do anything at all.

Maybe John was planning to hire some pretty little French major sexpot from the local college as his translator? Better that I do it! Who knows? Maybe I'll enjoy them, too?

John and Philip hit it off. John shared his comic books with Philip, who loved them (Philip is fluent in French), and Philip decided to buy some of them for his own personal use. We all marveled at how bizarre it was to run into each other in Paris. I didn't mention that I had always told Philip my dream of going to the historic grand café Les Deux Magots, at St. Germain des Près. He also knew I was determined to honeymoon in Paris, France.

If Philip knew John and I had married only last week, and since he was himself in Paris on business, he might have checked out Les Deux Magots from time to time, and this time be got lucky, and found me, I guess. Too bad for him that he was not destined to get lucky the other way. What was he thinking? What kind of girl cheats on her husband during her honeymoon? Was he nuts? Well, looking back, maybe I'd given him reason to think I might cheat, even on my honeymoon, but if so, he was grievously mistaken.

** SEVEN YEARS LATER **

I had a nice job in Manhattan, New York, which allowed me to take, on occasion, an entire hour for lunch. Today was one of those days, and we went out to lunch in midtown, "just the girls." We were four, and performing the "four women at lunch" test, an old test championed long ago by Patricia Wells, a food critic for the New York Times, and also the International Herald Tribune, in Paris. (The IHT no longer exists; it's now known as the International New York Times.) We wanted to see if we would be treated as well as four men at lunch would be. So far, the signs were good.

It was a Friday, so we each allowed ourselves a glass of wine with lunch. I had a glass of a French Chablis, while had a glass of white, California, Zinfandel. We were all in a good mood, except of course for Sarah, who never was, since she had been having marital problems since the beginning of time. Sarah had a vodka tonic chased by two glasses of Riesling. The fourth woman, Xiaofei, who is an Asian beauty, had a virgin cocktail.

I had suggested to John that he drop by and enjoy flirting with four pretty women, especially one of them (me!), but alas I got a text that he couldn't make it. Poor guy; he would have enjoyed flirting with Xiaofei, a true sexpot who seems to have a new boyfriend every month or so, or with Sarah, who is probably (very) easy when she's tipsy.

As for me, I was imagining spiriting him off to the restaurant's unisex bathroom and having my wicked way with him. Besides, I'd always wanted to try some unisex sex, whatever that might be? Well, there was always tonight if he wasn't too tired. He seems to be too tired an awful lot these days. I think he works too hard.

I know it happens to men all the time, and it's nothing for them to be ashamed of, even if they always seem to be, but it had never before happened to John, or to Philip before him, or to Ray and Tom, before them. I knew he was tired, and recently it's seemed he's always tired, but if I get naked for him and dance a little, letting my boobs bounce around, and my finger tease my pussy, right there in front of his nose, it used to be enough. Recently, however, he's needed more. Now, he wants me to tell him about my sex life before we met, especially the raunchy parts, and to finger myself as I do it. That really gets him going, problem solved, and we make beautiful love.

The problem, for me, is that I'm a straightforward, vanilla sex type of girl, and most of my raunchy sexual adventures that I recount to him, I've actually never experienced. It's all fabrication. At the beginning, I'd make them up out of whole cloth, and when my imagination ran dry, I'd read smut on line to get ideas for new ones. That evening caught me flat footed. I had gone to the well once too often, and had no "stories" of my BJ (Before John, not blowjobs!) sex life to recount to him. We ended up just going to sleep together, cuddling, and kissing a bit.

I convinced John to see a doctor. He had a whole battery of tests (which he joked about, calling them collectively an assault and battery), and it turns out there is nothing medically wrong with him. We tried Viagra and similar meds, but they had side effects which were unpleasant, and essentially, even they didn't work for him! The conclusion was, more or less, that the problem was in John's head. It was probably some trauma from his childhood, no doubt involving his parents and seeing them in the act, that's so repressed, he cannot even remember what it might have been. So said the shrink John consulted, for only $350/hour, and the hour was only a 45 minute hour.

**

There was, however, the one time, the one incident, which I had never told John, nor had I told it to anyone else. It was so perverted, that I was deeply ashamed. It was not something I'd ever tell anyone. I lay there, looking at the ceiling in the dark of our bedroom, remembering it. It involved, of course, my primary lover before John, namely Philip. Yes, that Philip. The Philip who found me in Paris, during my honeymoon, and propositioned me, seven long years ago. Philip with the long arms. The Philip who still makes me wet.

It was ten years earlier. Philip and I were home from college at the time, and Philip had gone out drinking with the guys, since most of us had just turned 21. I don't like it when the guys all go out drinking, because several of them, when Philip is not looking, each tried to touch me up. Every single one of Philip's friends had groped me inappropriately, at one time or another. There's something about me, I never did figure out exactly what, that makes men think I'm open to groping.

It's really hard to stop it, too, without making a scene, especially when they grope me on the dancefloor. I was groped a lot: boobs, ass, thighs, and sometimes, even up my skirt to my pussy. The fact that I kind of liked the attention, and enjoyed the gropes, is besides the point: The guys were disrespectful, and their behavior was, at times, outrageous.