My wife was mildly propositioned by the neighbor (and his wife). It was her fantasy about this neighbor that inspired me to give her a first erotic dare over a year ago and opened the door to The Sex Experiment, which has given us both a new sense of sexual possibilities. I have also flirted with the specific erotic possibilities presented by the neighbors. We had them over for dinner one night, and we all flirted at least half as much as we drank. All of which has been a hell of a lot of fun – almost as much fun as I imagine fondling the neighbor’s wife’s fabulous tits would be. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife? Isn’t that the way the old commandment goes? Well I do, and you would too.

All of this has gotten me thinking again about fantasies and reality. There are fuck fantasies and seduction  fantasies – fantasies of tits and ass moving kaleidoscopically across a bed, and then fantasies of that woman you’ve spotted around town walking into a bar, sitting down, crossing her legs, and slaying you with a stare. I could potentially have fuck fantasies about, say, seventy-five percent of the women I see. In my mind I leap straight to our nudity, our mutual rut, our lips moving over each other’s bodies, our legs spreading for shocking penetrations, black holes sucking us into infinite black holes. There is nothing before or after the fuck. I can spend an hour on a fuck fantasy, moving our slick and needy bodies through dozens of configurations, but a seduction fantasy can consume years – there are details to evolve, lines she might say even more fetchingly, thousands of nuances made even more exciting by the knowledge that if the fantasy were made real, she would surely transcend anything I might have imagined. In my experience, however, pure fuck fantasies about a person are rarely equaled by actually fucking the person. To really surprise you, she’ll need to be an unexpected demon with urgent proclivities. This is rare.

My point here is that I have a fuck fantasy about my neighbor – I would love to have her firm tits in my mouth, and I have seen her ass work on a Stairmaster at the gym, so I know exactly how much I would love to peel her pants from those taut thighs and use every part of myself to explore that bodacious body. But I do not have a seduction fantasy about her. Maybe I require noticeable unconventionality in a woman to be really excited by her, and this woman is notably conventional – pleasant, happy-go-lucky, and hot. I’m still a little idealistic about sex, you see: I always want it to irrevocably change my world. I want to emerge from mind-bending fucks reconsidering who I really am. I want mushroom clouds as we walk away from the bed. I want to be the last remaining survivors.

My wife doesn’t think of sex in quite this way – she loves the shared adventure, the pleasure, and occasionally the kick – but I know now that her fantasy for our neighbor is also a pure fuck fantasy: her makes her think of sex, but only sex and nothing more. And there’s no such thing as only sex and nothing more. At the very least there’s transportation to consider: you’ve got to get to the bed and back out again.

She had been “caught” by him in an outrageously skimpy robe (it’s ridiculous) after “forgetting” her phone in their apartment. He made it clear that he and his wife are “swingers”. I know this because she told me that night in bed after we arrived home from a dinner with friends. We were fucking, silently, each in our own blank pleasure. She was moaning, writhing beneath me with her bottom lip between her teeth, her winter-pale skin glowing in the darkened room (despite the recent tanning). I set out to find the darkest place upon her, and kissed down her firm, flat belly to her scentless, shaven cunt (hardly darker than the rest of her when shaved). I licked her till she came, pounding her fists on the bed, her head snapping from side to side with her eyes uncharacteristically closed. Was she dreaming on just concentrating on the pleasure? It didn’t matter to me either way. Sliding back up across her body, I entered her again. She was even wetter than before, providing little resistance to my diving cock, and so as if by instinct we stopping straining towards quick explosions and rocked back and forth for what seemed like lifetimes, both sunk in a trance of slow pleasure until orgasms came by surprise.

After fucking, either of us could propose murder, bank robbery, or a public gangbang, and we would both agree that this was a brilliant idea. Some of our major sexual leaps forward have come after fucking, as well as some of our legendary bad ideas. We lay next to each other, and she told me about the scene with the neighbor. She finds him sexy, she said, and she would do it if the occasion arose. Did I think the wife was sexy? Sexy? Not sure, but she definitely had a fantastic body, and I would gladly have sex with her, preferably repeatedly.

“We should do it,” she said without emotion.

“We should,” I agreed flatly. Then with more passion: “I would love to see you fucking him, fucking her, being fucked by them both.”

“Oh man,” she said hotly, rolling into my side. “I’d love to see you too. I’d like to watch you fucking her as I licked her tits.”

“You can have the right one,” I said. “I’ll take the left.” And then we fell silent again, each swimming in our own thoughts.

“So what do we do?” she said after a while. “Tell them we’re swingers too. It seems so ridiculous, doesn’t it.”

“It does,” I said, nodding up into the darkness. “If we were all at a dinner party and somebody kissed somebody else, then that could be fun. But scheduling a wife swap for Tuesday at 8?”

“It sort of takes the sexiness out of it.”

I nodded again.

We have fuck fantasies about our neighbors. It’s difficult to imagine anything but the fucking. Seduction – the charm of back and forth – is not on our minds when we think of them. We’d like to be magically transported into their bed, but we don’t particularly want to have to sit around and talk about the “swinging life”. So this is where we stand: something may happen if it happens in a way that neither of us could have expected.

“Swingers”? No. We could fuck the world, but never that. I started to write here because I am at war with labels. Sex itself destroys labels. I fuck to escape into a better future. I do not wish to have myself grouped into any category. I certainly will not label myself. Adult life, it seems to me, should be devoted to escaping those silly labels. We are not “swingers”. My wife may fuck a million gods, but she will never be “swapped”. I am not “sex positive”. I am not a “deviant”. I do not have an “open marriage”. I am not a “cuckold”. My hot wife is not a “hot wife”. Although kinky, I do not concern myself with “kink”. I am not “reclaiming” any of those filthy words I love to say (I had them already). I am not a “sex blogger”. I am not “Mr. X”. I was never here.

And now it occurs to me that thinking about fucking the neighbors, even if you’re not fucking the neighbors, can remind you of why you have such a passion for fucking.

And then I come to this: Viva the fucking revolution.

Array

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