The Words - An Autobiography

Epiphany and Unexpected Request

One afternoon at work, I watched one of my older co-workers lean against his machine, wearing a vacuous expression, with his eyes focused on nothing. But he didn't appear to be daydreaming. No. He didn't seem to be present at all! And I had the terrifying epiphany that I could be looking at the image of myself in another forty years. Later that evening, I told my wife about this experience and the horror I'd felt, and she immediately suggested, "Go back to school. You said you might. You have plenty of time now in the evenings. Why not just do it?"

"I have no idea what I'd study," I argued.

She said, "There are a lot of students who start with no idea and figure it out as they go, or so I've heard."

"You didn't," I countered.

"No," she agreed, then observed, "but I don't think you will either. Not for long. I swear I can hear ideas rattling around in your brain in your sleep."

I gave her suggestion serious consideration for several days, trying to find excuses to dismiss it. But I failed to find any that held up to even my critique, let alone have them suffer the Lazer scrutiny of my wife. So, after years of procrastination, I sent off my application to the university just across the state line where a few of my friends attended or had. And within weeks, I found myself in line on campus, registering for classes. But I still hadn't heard these ideas my wife claimed were rattling around my brain as I slept. So, the university recorded my major as 'undetermined.' The advisor I was assigned suggested that I begin with a few of the classes required to graduate, no matter the major area of study I eventually chose.

I registered for English 101 and The Introduction to Philosophy, two hours each, Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and Table Tennis - since I would eventually be required to complete three physical education courses. Table Tennis was four hours on Saturday mornings.

"You'd rather play table tennis on Saturday morning than spend it in bed with your very horny wife?" she asked. "Are you getting bored with me already? Do I need to spice things up?"

She laughed as though she might be joking, but I sensed that she wasn't, not entirely. I wondered what she could do to spice things up more than she had recently, but I had come to expect the unexpected, unaware of just how much of the unexpected was about to greet me, unaccompanied by spice.

After some additional banter - including my observation that she'd be studying most Saturday mornings, with her countering that she'd been considering more regular recreational breaks - my wife suddenly turned serious. She apologized and told me, "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to talk you out of Saturday classes if you need to take them. That's unfair. But I will miss morning recreational breaks, even if they could be more frequent, and wake-up sex, which we never get to enjoy during the week since I need to leave so early and now that you'll be the one leaving early."

Then she grew quiet a moment before asking, "Do you mind, while you're away if I...," she hesitated, looking down, wiggling her fingers, while struggling to force out the words, "... try to give myself a little...?"

The word 'try' flew past, along with her not being able to complete several sentences, as I wondered why she felt the need to ask my permission. Even if I couldn't recall the last time I'd done it myself, I had often enough in the past, including those weekday evenings between our Sunday afternoon trysts before we were married, so it wasn't like I could claim to be adverse. And I couldn't imagine how her rubbing out a few on Saturday mornings while I attended table tennis class would negatively impact me. Unlike my legitimate concerns in similar situations, if I walked in the door hearing her cry out in full-throated ecstasy, no matter how many orgasms she'd rubbed out that morning, she'd be excitedly calling my name as I climbed our apartment stairs, anxious to go again. Did some primitive male insecurity feel threatened by the thought of her crying out in ecstasy, the source of which I wasn't there to provide her?

While I considered whether I should have any say in the matter, her rambling explanation continued. "It isn't just that I'll miss having sex on Saturday mornings....." As I sensed her struggle with something beyond confessing her intention to masturbate while I was away, I asked myself whether it was worth taking Saturday morning classes rather than remaining home with my beautiful, horny wife. Even if I only enjoyed watching her pleasure herself during study breaks. My problem was the physical education classes required to graduate were offered only during the day or Saturday mornings.

She finally blurted out, "I hadn't done it since before we met, but then, I began waking from dreams of what we'd done together that weekend before, wanting you. And my roommate did it constantly whenever she had the urge, whether I was there in the room or not, and she was never quiet about it. So shouldn't I be allowed to quietly relieve my pent-up urges in the relative privacy of our room, in the dark, under my blanket? But I couldn't. And I can't.

"And I know I can have orgasms since I have them with you with no problem. It feels wonderful when you touch me, but something shuts down when I touch myself. I want to be able to pleasure myself. It is my body. And I should be able to do that if I want. I don't want that taken away from me."

I was confused and uncertain of the scope of all she was attempting to explain but hurriedly agreed and assured her, "Of course, it is your body. You should be able to pleasure yourself anytime you want, and nobody has the right to take that away from you. I won't and don't have that right. And I've been encouraging you to try touching yourself while we have sex to see if that helps."

I wanted to delve deeper into whatever was distressing her, but I had no idea where to begin, what to say or ask, and I decided to leave it for her to tell me when she was ready. Trying to dispel some of the tension, I asked instead, "If you're still at it when I get home, can I play too?"

When she nervously agreed with some hesitancy that she supposed that would be okay, it felt nearly as weird as her asking my permission in the first place. But if my permission was all she required to feel free to pleasure herself and enjoy orgasms like those she experienced when we were together, then she had mine, whether it was mine to grant or not.