“Mommy, can I have a cock?” My three-year-old daughter is staring at me with the intensity of a drama major, all big, crayon green eyes and molten gold locks like her father. I spray my coffee evenly between the morning newspaper, the iPad Sage got me last Christmas, and my usual uniform of yoga pants and flirty tank top.
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes at my little baby. My. Little. Baby. Let those words sink, Jolie. Who taught her that word? I think I’m going to throw up.
“Yusss.” Elle hops up on the chair beside me at the breakfast table, making a show of spreading her arms wide before hugging an invisible cock to her chest. Okay. Now I’m definitely going to throw up. Side note: my child is very optimistic as to the size of cocks.
“My friend Staci has one.” She clutches the invisible cock to her chest, nuzzling her nose against it.
“Your friend Staci has a cock?”
Elle nods. “And the cock has a wife. And soon they’ll have little, baby cocks.”
“Oh. Ohhh. You mean that kind of cock.” My heart rate slows back to beats that don’t threaten to smash through my ribcage. I’m kind of embarrassed my mind drifted automatically to that place. Then again, I’ve been hornier than a unicorn recently. I pat my cheeks with my palms to cool them down and stand up to grab a dishtowel to clean the mess I’ve made.
“What other kind of cock is there?”
One day you’ll know, my child. But hopefully not before thirty.
“I want all the cocks in the world. The mommy, the daddy, the kids…”
“That could be arranged, if you’d only be so kind as to use another name for the family,” I mutter absentmindedly as I wipe off the fresh stains of coffee on the table. I tell Elle to go pick a pair of shoes ahead of her school day. I know it’s a task that will take her ten to fifteen minutes at the very least. Girl is Oscar-ready every time she sets foot in that pre-school.
From that point on, I do everything on auto-pilot. Clean the breakfast table. Wash the dishes. Water the plants. Dump food inside Rebel’s bowl (he is our Yorkshire terrier, no need to call CPS). I bend down to pick up a stray Cheerio Elle must’ve tried to slam-dunk into Rebel’s bowl, when my world stops spinning on its axis and hangs over an abyss of darkness.
The first word going through my mind is no.
Followed by: Oh, hell no.
The panic dribbles into my bloodstream in drops at first. Drip, drip, drip. But the trickle soon becomes a stream, and the terror turns to anger as I snatch the small thing from under Sage’s usual chair and stand up, feeling dizzy.
A lipstick.
A lipstick that’s not mine.
The shade too red, too hot, too sexy for yours truly to actually consider buying. I wear neutral colored lip glosses in flirty shades with names like “Summer Rivers” and “Spring Break”. This is a full-blown Marilyn Monroe lipstick. What the hell is it doing here?
It’s tempting me to spear a steak knife into my husband’s chest. That’s what it’s doing.
I decide the best course of action is not, in fact, to call him during his training camp in Colorado and yell at him until every vocal cord in my throat tears apart. It is very early in the morning in California, but I know my mama in Louisiana is already up and going about her day. I dial her number, turning my back on Elle’s room so she won’t see her mommy crying. The tears are skating down my cheeks in fat, salty drops.
How could he do this to me?
Childhood friends. College sweethearts. Undeniable soulmates. Since we got together four years ago, we’ve been nothing but lovey-dovey. Call me a fool, but I never thought he’d cheat on me. It always seemed like he only had eyes for me.
I moved to California for him.
I said goodbye to my family for him.
I turned my back on my dream to become a teacher so he could focus on his career.
All.
For.
Him.
“Hello? Honey pie?” Mama chirps and, just like that, my chest crumbles as I heave out a sob.
“Sage is cheating on me,” the words tumble from my mouth, and I let all the anger and panic building inside me loose. It’s like a river now, no longer coming in trickling drips and drops. I’m mentally rummaging through the catalog of women we have coming into our house on a regular basis as I clutch the lipstick like a weapon. I have friends. Lots of them, actually. I invite them here frequently. But none of them wear a red lipstick. We usually chill in our Lululemons during playdates, drink wine, and try to keep all the children in one piece. Think less The Duchess of Cambridge and more Cameron Diaz leaving Equinox. Still cute, but in a non-threatening way.
“Jolie…” Mama trails off, a mixture of shock and warning in her voice. “No, honey. There is just no way.”
“There is, apparently. I found a stranger’s lipstick in my house. So tacky.”
“Mommy?” Elle is standing at the door, holding onto her Hello Kitty rain jacket, with the ears on the hoodie and everything. “Why are you sad?”
I wipe my eyes hurriedly, mentally maiming myself for not holding myself together longer, until I dropped her off. “I’m not sad, baby. I’m happy. We’re going to get you a chicken family.” I haven’t discussed it with Sage yet, but screw Sage. “Now let’s get you into that jacket.”
“Jolie?” Mama barks from the other line. Great. “Jolie? I need to know what is happening right now!”
But it’s too late. I mumble a brief goodbye and tuck my phone into my back pocket. I help Elle into her jacket and drive her to school, where I don’t know how, but I manage to sit through a thorough examination of a Barbie doll’s anatomy, as conducted by Elle and her friend Staci. Let’s just say both girls’ futures as OB/GYNs is secured, in case their masterplan to become astronaut ballerinas doesn’t pan out.
Once I step out of my daughter’s class, my phone begins buzzing in my pocket. I pluck it out.
Sage.
I want to take the call and tell him that he is a bastard of the highest degree, but instead, I let the call die. I need to collect my scattered thoughts before I hear him out. I’m too angry and confused. One moment I think it is all done and dusted, and our marriage is over, and the other, I inwardly laugh at myself for jumping to such an idiotic conclusion.
And so, I plan to deal with this matter in the same fashion every grown-up woman does—I am going to get shitfaced at home and wait for the problem to solve itself.
On my way back home (screw yoga. Apparently, life happens when you Shavasana for eight straight minutes in a boiling hot room), I kill three more attempts by Sage to call me. Two more by Mama. It is obvious there is a correlation between the two. She told him. Good. I know it’s only a matter of time until the text messages start pouring in. Of course, there may be a plausible explanation for the lipstick. But the thing is, for some reason that is beyond me right now, I want to be mad. And angry. And unreasonable. Another thing I want: ice cream. No. I need ice cream. Like a flower needs the sun and Taylor Swift needs to stop dating douchebags. The urge is real.
Sage is quick to deliver on the text messages front.
Sage: I can explain.
Sage: But not right now. You’ll have to wait a few weeks.
Sage: You’ll need to trust me on this one.
Sage: You really think I’m cheating on you? Are you high or something? Have you been asleep the past DECADE?
Sage: I hope you weren’t upset in front of Elle.
Sage: Answer me.
Sage: I’m coming back home, and my coach and manager are not going to be happy about it.
Sage: There’ll be a lot of ass-kissing afterwards. We’ll have to entertain them AND their wives to smooth things over. But you asked for it.
Sage: You better be naked when I get there. I’m taking the next flight home.
Sage: At the airport now. So. You think I’m cheating on you. Do you also think I’m brain-dead by any chance? Why the hell would I cheat on you in our house? I can afford a nice hotel room.
Sage: Although I’m guessing that’s not what you want to hear…
I’m holding my first glass of wine. It looks good in my hand. You know what else looks good? A cheeseburger. I decide to neglect the wine, pick up my phone and Uber-eat it. Life is too short to pick up your own food. Especially when your husband may be cheating on you. I call Elle’s babysitter, because there is no way I’m picking her up from pre-school piss drunk. “I need you to take Elle for a few hours after school.”
“Count on it.”
The hours tick by. The cheeseburger is consumed, digested, and reminds me why raw onion is the work of Satan. I’m currently watching Friends. If Jennifer Aniston bounced back after Brangelina, this, too, shall pass. Right?
Wrong. I feel like throwing myself off a cliff.
The only thing stopping me is Elle.
But somewhere deep down, even though my husband is offering me zero explanation for the lipstick, I’m still not convinced Sage has cheated. I just feel…angry. And sad. And happy. And horny.
Jesus Lord, what is happening to me?
I stand up to get myself another bottle of wine when the door opens.
I’m not expecting anyone.
I look up at the overhead clock. Jesus, it’s already the afternoon.
I swivel my head back toward the door.
My husband is standing there, looking just about ready to murder someone.
Someone unreasonable.
Someone hormonal.
Someone like me.
Sometimes dicking your wife is not a matter of want. You need to do it as a national service.
Like, when she starts to have random, weird, unhealthy thoughts that are completely unwarranted. I can’t tell her who the lipstick belongs to, because it’s part of a surprise. A surprise I’m hoping will result in a lot of anal. Not—in fact—a divorce.
“What the fuck, JoJo?” I drop my duffel on the floor and advance on her. We are twenty-five now. Older and wiser than we were when our one-time roomie hookup took place. She should know better than to think I’d bang some random, and in our house, of all places. Jesus Christ, who does she think I am?
Sage Poirier. The guy who banged his way through every girl in college. What else should she think?
JoJo does what she always does when she knows I am going to catch her—she runs. This time, she darts to the bathroom, slapping the wall as she rounds the corner. Big mistake. I was thinking about bathroom sex all throughout my speedy flight from Colorado. She gallops to the en-suite in our room, and I’m on her heels, faster and stronger and with the instincts of a pro athlete. I wasn’t drafted to one of the most popular teams in the NFL for nothing.
“Not so fast, little rascal.” I hook my arm around her waist and jerk her into my raging erection. I’ve been thinking about that sad, sulky face of hers the entire flight back home. I’m going to get so much shit from my coach and manager for bailing on my team, and this is so out of character from my sensible, reasonable, not to mention sane wife. The least I deserve is a sex worthy of my trouble.
“What are you doing?” she hisses, baring her teeth.
“What the fuck does it look like?” I grind my cock into her ass and the friction alone could start a fire. Goddamn JoJo and her love for yoga. Her body is lithe and tight everywhere, yet her skin is the softest thing I’ve ever touched. It’s like I was born to be weak for her, and only her. No one else but her. “I’m baking a cake. Nope. Wait. I’m claiming what’s mine. And it just so happens to be a very mouthy, very impulsive wife who thinks very little of me.” I flatten my palm on her lower back and bend her over our Jack and Jill sink in one swift movement. Our eyes meet in the mirror. Jolie is panting hard, her body quivering under my big palm, shaking, anticipating. I’m not sure if she is more angry or turned on. Doesn’t matter. Either will get her to come so hard she’ll turn into Jell-O.
“You think I’m cheating on you?” I ask, my voice low, never breaking our gaze.
“I think I never wear red lipstick. Nor do any of my friends.” Her eyes narrow at the mirror defiantly, but she is pushing her ass into me, and I dig my fingers into her delicate flesh under her clothes, probably marring it red.
I push her yoga pants down, then get rid of her tiny white thong. I would tear it off of her and leave marks on her ass if it wasn’t for the fact I’m truly fond of these panties. “Listen to me carefully, Wifey,” I spit up the title with enough venom to show her that she wasn’t the only person to get butthurt today. “No matter what you think you’ve seen or caught me doing, even if it looks so bad you want to pluck my eyeballs, rest assured, there’s a good explanation for it. I will never cheat on you. I will never look at another woman. I barely even register other women exist, save for my mama and Elle.”
My dick springs free from my briefs the minute I shove my jeans down, pressing it into her pussy, that’s already swollen and dripping with her want for me. I poke at her slit, so pink and wet and ready for me, torturing her like she tortured me when she chose not to answer any of my messages and calls.
“You like that?” I breathe into her ear and her entire body blossoms into goosebumps, melting under my touch like butter under the blistering sun.
“Fuck me,” she growls quietly, throwing her head back against my shoulder and squeezing her eyes shut. Yeah. Like hell I will. She will have to beg for it now.
“You want a cheater to fuck you?”
“If you cheated, I want you to get the hell out of my house. But…fuck me first. Jesus.” Her head drops to the cold tiles and she closes her eyes, pushing her pussy into my cock. Jesus sounds about right. She hates what comes out of her mouth, but she isn’t going to take it back, because it’s true. She would give me permission to fuck her right now even if I’d killed Rebel, our dog. I can feel the moisture crawling down her inner thighs. JoJo’s always been hot for me.
“Spread your legs,” I growl into her ear. She does. I drive into her once, my thrust in sync with her—that’s what we do, we are legends inside our bedroom, gods who play a very sinful game—and pull out immediately.
“Ohhh…” She shivers all over, her knees wobbly.
“Oh-in-fucking-deed. Now tell me again. Do you really think I would cheat on the love of my life? Bring a stranger into the home I built with you, to the place where we raise our daughter?”
“I…I…” she stutters.
“Bring me that lipstick. I know you kept it. Now.”
It takes Jolie a few seconds to compose herself, straighten her posture and stalk out of the bathroom to get the red lipstick. She returns naked from the waist down, a pink camisole hanging loose around her chest. I snatch the lipstick from her hand, pop it open, and whaddayaknow, it is brand new. I’m happy the person it belongs to didn’t use it yet, or I would get a lot of shit for what I’m about to do.
“Come here,” I seethe. She does. When she is close enough to me, I apply the lipstick to her lips, grab her hair, and push her down to her knees.
“I love you, sweetheart, but you were very bad to reach such an incorrect conclusion too fast, too soon, and without giving me the chance to explain myself. You also brought me here all the way from Colorado, so you better suck my dick like a goddamn Hoover, otherwise you’re not coming for an entire month.”
I’ve never seen someone so hungry for a dick. She devours my long, thick shaft, the red lipstick smearing all over my skin and her face. A thick drop of cum dangles from my tip, and she hurries to swallow it into her mouth. She is sucking, lapping, slurping, pulling, and my balls are tightening in pleasure and awe. JoJo is really, truly, carnally in love with my dick. Which is a good thing, because I would legitimately marry her pussy if it was legal.
Don’t say that out loud. She is acting crazy this week. She might blame you for wanting to cheat on her again.
Most of my cock disappears inside her pretty mouth when I decide, “You don’t deserve my cum in your mouth.”
I hoist her up to her feet and throw her back against the counter. I bend her over again, push my hand between her thighs and borrow some of her juices. Her greedy pussy is so wet, it is literally dripping, and I rub it all over her skin, then suck my fingers to taste what I do to her. She bucks her hips, begging for my hand, for some friction, for anything, but I curl my fingers to borrow her juices and smear them into her tight back hole.
“You don’t deserve my cock,” I groan, pushing my cock—wet from the blow job—into her tight little ass. “But you’ll get something, JoJo. You’ve been good to me so far, so I’m going to let you come. As long as you know I won’t be so fucking nice the next time you accuse me of cheating.”
She nods enthusiastically as I push into her slowly from behind, one hand guiding my cock, the other plucking out the electrical toothbrush by her sink.
“Yes. Oh, God, yes, Sage. I promise. I promise.” She is falling apart at my first thrust into her ass. Jolie is a sexual animal, but right now she is borderline possessed. I wonder what she had for lunch and how do I get her to eat it three times a day so we can always do it like rabbits.
“Open your legs wider for me,” I bark out the order, watching her beautiful, innocent face smeared with red lipstick as I fuck her ass mercilessly. She does. I press my thumb to the button of the electric toothbrush and it vibrates alive as I shove it into her pussy, filling her ass and cunt at the very same time, and thrusting both holes in the same, punishing rhythm.
“Sage! My Lord, Sage!” she is screaming now. I’ve never done that before. Taken both her holes. Not entirely possible with only one cock, and that’s usually how it goes in the human anatomy. Anal is also a special treat in her marriage, so I’m going to go ahead and guess that my wife is going through something highly hormonal to be acting like this. The vibration from the toothbrush makes her ribcage rattle, and I take the hand that guided my cock into her and pinch her nipple hard.
“You wanna know the worst part?”
She gulps loudly, but doesn’t answer me.
“The lipstick was a part of a very good surprise.”
“Huh?”
“Oh yeah.” I drill harder, deeper, faster into her, feeling her orgasm washing over both of us. The violent tremble of her ass against my body. My dick is pulsing with heat, and I know I’m about to burst, too. “That lipstick, baby, belonged to a real estate agent. I bought your mama and pop a house next to us, so they can help you with Elle and all our future babies. Now that they’re retired”—I pull the toothbrush from her pussy, yanking her by the hair and turning her around. I elevate her over the counter and drag my dick along her thighs, marking her with my cum—“more time to help you. And you’ll need all the help you can get, honey, because with the amount of fucking we do, we are going to populate the entire state.”
She comes so hard, her sweet cunt clutches the fingers I shove into her in a death grip. I almost stumble backwards from the impact of shooting my own load between her thighs, the scent of her juices, our sweat and our sex mingling together in the air like a perfect cocktail. I grab her jaw in my hand and guide her lips to mine, planting an all-consuming kiss to seal this fuck on the right note.
“I love you, Jolie. You’re my world, my universe, the air I fucking breathe. I will never cheat on you, and next time you pull a stunt like this, I will punish you with unfulfilled orgasms. You better believe it.”
With that, I turn around and stalk out of the bathroom, leaving her to collapse on the floor to regroup.
I can feel her gaze on my back.
It tells me I redeemed myself.
That she is in love.
I look down at my deflating cock, tucking it back into my briefs as I turn the shower on for us to share together. As I wait for the water to warm up, I think back to the last time we had such crazy sex. I vaguely remember she was acting weird, too.
I swivel my head back to watch her, and the penny drops.
It was right after we found out Elle was coming for us.
“Baby,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“After the shower I’m going to go buy you a pregnancy test.”
Two weeks after
Boy, do I regret drinking those few sips of wine the day Sage came back from Colorado for me.
“Show it to me again.” My husband snatches the ultrasound photos from my hand. Oh, God. If guilt was water, I’d be drowning. No matter that I drank two weeks ago, and my doctor told me that I was perfectly fine, and that it didn’t matter—I still feel incredibly guilty. Funny thing is, I am on the pill. I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant again anytime soon, but it just happened. I wasn’t on antibiotics or anything. But as my OB/GYN said, “There’s always that small percentage. And you fell right into it.”
We look at the ultrasound photos again. Our baby looks like a bean. Or a peanut. Whoops, now I’m hungry again. Pregnancy really is a magical thing.
“Do you think it’s going to be a boy or a girl?” Sage looks up at me, his eyes shimmering with joy.
I smile. “It’s fifty-fifty.”
“What fifty does your gut tell you? That’s where the baby is. It must know.”
“A boy,” I tell him. He smirks, dragging me to sit on his lap. Elle appears from her room, skating across the shiny floor of our house. She comes to a halt beside us, flips her bangs away, and grins.
“Guess what, Daddy?”
“What, baby?”
“Mommy said I can have a cock.”
Sage’s face turns from smiling to stunned. He twists his head to me, still talking to our baby girl. “Baby, you will not be getting a cock any time before I’m six feet under.”
“Sage.” I slap his chest lightly, giggling.
He grins. “She means a chicken, right?”
I nod. “I made the same mistake.”
Sage pinches my waist. “That’s because you’re horn—” I flick his ear, so he catches himself, “horribly imaginative.”
“I think so, too. By the way, you know what else you are going to get, baby?” I turn to my sweet, beautiful daughter who looks just like her father.
“What?”
“A brother or sister.”
Her mouth falls open, and I can’t help but laugh.
She frowns. “But…I’m still getting a cock, too, right?”
Sage and I both laugh, and I bury my nose into my husband’s delicious neck. There is only one word floating in my head right now, but it’s the only one that matters.
Mine.