The Words - An Autobiography

Birthday - Not a Happy Day

My wife's thirtieth birthday was not a happy day, despite spending it in bed, drinking Champagne, and making love the entire day, as was our agreement. She'd recently removed the furniture from the other two suites along our second-floor wing of the house. She'd had walls removed and what had been the center of the three bathrooms trimmed down to merely a powder room, reclaiming much of that space for other unknown purposes. Then, in keeping with the scale of the house, she'd had a sizeable double-doored entry installed at the beginning of the hallway off the balcony that overlooked the Grand Foyer. I wasn't sure of her reasoning at first. So far as I was aware, no one was looking to break in, abduct or murder either of us, which was now nearly impossible. We didn't need near that much space. We'd rarely spent time in the single sitting room of our suite before her expansion. We didn't entertain visitors. We worked, slept, had sex, and tried, at least once a week, to free up an entire afternoon to spend making leisurely, passionate love at least once a week – and, of course, to celebrate our Pagan Rites. Preferably Sundays.

But it turned out she primarily wanted more space for her growing collection of lingerie, shoes, wigs, merkins, sex toys, and accessories, which had overrun the sitting room, dressing area, walk-in closet, and much of the bedroom of our original suite. And, in addition, if we could no longer play naked-hide-and-seek throughout the entire house, she at least wanted to chase one another through our now private hallway, two additional reconfigured suites, now interconnected with doorways, and up and down library ladders - trying to remember to check that the library was unoccupied and the doors locked on the first floor. We often forgot, which I could never decide whether that was intentional on her part – the possibility of being caught adding some spice to the game.

My wife swapped wigs or merkins on her thirtieth birthday more times than I could count, then stood naked before one of the remaining two mirrored bathroom walls, both now ours, looking for evidence she was aging. She rarely fretted about her appearance, other than her kinky clothes, wigs, merkins, makeup, and body paint, reserved for our Pagan Rites. She'd shower, put on a wig that appeared the same as her old hair - that one reserved for me - jeans, a sweater, comfortable shoes, and was out the door in under fifteen minutes. She explained that she never had to wash her hair when I'd commented that she'd barely had time to get wet. And that I knew damn well that she got wet considerably quicker than that.

She told me no one at her lab had even noticed that she wore a wig since she never wore different wigs to work. Those were for my viewing pleasure only. She also didn't wear the wig she'd made from her own hair to work, fearing it would be damaged. The copy, virtually identical, was also human hair, just not her own.

I told her she looked better than ever, which was true. I believed that women were most beautiful between their mid-thirties and early forties. Consider the actresses that were cute and pretty in their twenties but were suddenly in a whole new league as they progressed through their thirties. Rather than the compliment intended, she took it as confirmation of her rapidly approaching expiration date, after which I'd be seeking younger women. She hated the thought of us living forever, with me attracted to younger women. She did not have a happy thirtieth birthday at all. We had angry sex as many times as I could manage, and I did everything else to make her happy while I recovered. She even masturbated several times, impatient, while I was in the bathroom. I could hear her. Then she changed wigs and merkins, drank Champagne, and stood in front of one of the remaining bathroom mirrors.

As much Champagne as my wife consumed that day, she should have been drunk on her ass, passed out, but she was too charged with adrenaline for the alcohol to have its way. And nothing I said helped. So, I shut up and did what she asked as best I could. The following day she went to work, pissed off and more determined than ever. She flew out the door the first time, still bald-headed, then ran back for her wig, then turned before she reached the door again to return the wig made from her hair and leave with the copy made from someone else's.

The following week, my wife requested samples of blood, bone marrow, and tissue from several other areas of my body, including my testicles - and sperm. I must have fueled this by something inadvertent I'd said on her birthday, I'd thought. But when I asked if she was angry with me, she appeared surprised.

"Why should I be?"

"You've seemed angry since your birthday," I told her. "I wanted to make sure it wasn't something I did or said."

"No, I'm angry about all the years passing so quickly while I'm still so far from where I need to be. The samples are for my research."

"Aren't there other potential victims to provide you samples?"

"Plenty," she informed me, then confessed, "They aren't for any of my current research. I'm freezing them for the future. My own, too, so I'm not only picking on you."

"If you don't need them now," I asked, "why not wait until you're ready?"

"Just a hunch. My gut tells me to take samples now while we're still young."

The blood was no big deal. I wasn't afraid of needles, at least not the ones they stuck in my arm. The needle they stuck into my right testicle, to be honest, was scarier than it was painful. Not that it didn't hurt, it did, and I was sore for a few days, but I'd suffered worse from accidents during angry sex or running down the hall with them swinging free, playing naked-hide-and-seek.

The marrow was the worst. A woman apologetically extracted it from both my left hip and femur. She said it would hurt, even with the local anesthesia. And she hadn't lied. Then, when that wore off, I felt as if someone had drilled holes in my bones, which they had. I limped for a few days and was careful not to roll over onto that side in my sleep. Between my left hip and my right testicle, there wasn't a comfortable position I could find for nearly a week.

My wife was kind enough to assist me in providing the sperm sample in the privacy of our home. So I wouldn't suffer the humiliation of the little room, where everyone would be aware I was watching porn while attempting to masturbate into a little sample cup. She'd jokingly offered to spit it into the cup, then rescinded, apologetically explaining that would corrupt the sample. She'd also harvested and frozen her eggs if we changed our minds about children someday. Forever was a very long time. One never knew.

One night, not long after that horrid birthday, I thought I saw a flash of something shiny when she took off her panties and asked, "What is that?"

"Clit ring," she informed me nonchalantly. "Technically, clit hood. I read about them that summer that we were married when I had all that time to fill. I've been curious since and decided, what the fuck, you only live once." She laughed at her joke. "Even if it is forever."

"Okay, so what's the...." I began.

She finished my thought as she had so often. "Benefit."

I nodded. Yeah, that.

"If what I read is true, I might be able to come with you inside me without either of us having to...." She made a rubbing motion, which was unnecessary. I understood what she meant. Although, I didn't see the problem. I enjoyed providing her a little assistance over the edge.

"So, what...?" I began, while she answered again before I could finish my question.

"Want you to do? First, I want to know how it feels when you flick it with your tongue."

"Okay, I can do that. Right now?"

She gave me her village idiot look. She hadn't taken off her panties for nothing.