My Wife Openly Expresses Her Desire to Explore Relationships with Other Men. She Wanted to Go on a Date Against My Wish. I Informed Her That "She Would Come Home and Assure Me of Her Deep Love for Me, Allowing Me to Reclaim Her Body"...

My Wife Openly Expresses Her Desire to Explore Relationships with Other Men. She Wanted to Go on a Date Against My Wish. I Informed Her That "She Would Come Home and Assure Me of Her Deep Love for Me, Allowing Me to Reclaim Her Body"...

My wife politely told me that she was going out after work tonight and probably wouldn't be back until the next day. On a Friday morning, her planned speech was delivered with such speed and grace that I was immediately convinced there was nothing I could do. According to her, she still loved me, but her gaze developed a wandering look. This was my first encounter with marital infidelity.

It seemed to be a fairly common theme in movies, books, plays, and even gossip I'd heard from both victims and villains in their real-life interpretations of infidelity. I listened to her carefully rehearsed eloquence about how I was strong enough to take it, about how it's unfair that she didn’t have time to "fatten up" before she got married, that human beings are not meant to be monogamous, that society is too rigid about love, that it's just love, and about how she would be much more attentive to my needs in the future if I let her do it.

With the slightest sigh separating this nonsense from my response, she moved forward with renewed vigor into the well-worn waters of clichés, including that I have no choice, that she can do whatever she wants with her body, that life is short and she deserves all the pleasure she can get, and that she has the right to satisfy even the need to try many different "colors, shapes, tastes." Yes, her selective menu didn’t include brain size or the size of her capital—she was simply aiming for physical taste tests.

Please note that I'm not saying I was poorly endowed, nor would I say I was physically weak or soft in character. Is there any way to modestly say that I have at least average intelligence and a large wallet? No? Well, then know that I am a rocket scientist, and my work has made me obscenely wealthy. My wife had no complaints when the former love of my life finished her statement.

I could have reacted with the brute force of a huge beast. I felt the rage within me. I could have taken on the role of Ahab, a revenge-hungry king with a superiority complex, obsessed with defeating the great beast. But we know how that story ended in destruction. No—Melville had a better model for me to follow. Even though the message of *Bartleby, the Scrivener* was unclear, it had been a subject of contemplation throughout my life. The meaning of its strange central character suddenly became clear to me when my wife asked me to kiss her goodbye. I mentally thanked Herman Melville for the Bartleby lesson: ideally, I would not.

Everyone has witnessed something astounding at least once in their life. There will always be times when things are so strange you can’t help but laugh. You are in such a state of shock that you feel compelled to speak, eager to respond, but your brain is digesting everything so quickly it’s at a loss for words. My wife’s jaw dropped, her mouth grotesquely opened.

My desire to go on a tirade about morals, oaths, and expressions of devoted love—or threats of violent retribution—all bubbled up inside. But somehow, a simple, "I’d rather not do that," was enough. Often, people have a power that’s underestimated and rarely considered a strength. It’s the gift of self-control. There is strength in control. "I’d rather not do that," was my control over the situation.

Of course, after exercising that control, I was treated to a new tirade about not respecting her needs, about my immature resentment, about this and that, ending with, "You’re going to have to accept my decision or do without me." 

"I’d rather not."

I noticed a crack in her armor. She began to falter slightly, trying her best to look determined. I didn’t threaten her, didn’t beg, didn’t cry, didn’t explode with indignation. Then she began to negotiate. She promised she wouldn’t stay out all night on her first date; instead, she would come home and assure me of her deep love for me, allowing me to "reclaim her body."

"Um, I’d rather not do that."

That stunning phrase was the encore. My wife switched from a soft mistress to the lawyer she might never be. She had as much trouble passing the bar exam as I, her husband. I’m pretty sure she didn’t remember one of her law school classes from the year before we got married. Back then, the entire class drafted prenuptial agreements for personal use. She took it very seriously at the time, and the contract was duly signed, notarized, and fully enforceable.

When she went on her next tirade about how, if I wanted a divorce, she would take my house, my bank account, and even my trust fund, and end up in my house, in my bed, sleeping with whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and I would pay for it—I had a simple answer: "I’d rather not."

And she didn’t come back that night, so I could "reclaim her body." She didn’t come home Saturday afternoon or Saturday night. The sun was just setting on Sunday night when she dragged herself into the house looking like a wild animal had just driven her onto the rocks. She dumped her bag on the patio next to the grill, where I had a nice sizzling ribeye cooking. I didn’t even bother to look in her direction.

"I figured you’d rather not kiss me now, right?"

I went about my business, smearing marinade on the sizzling meat and turning the corn a quarter turn.

"Would you mind cooking one of those for me?"

"I’d rather not."

"That’s right, I should have known. Are you ever going to say anything else besides, 'I’d rather not'? That gets tiresome very quickly."

I turned to her and was about to say something when she beat me to it. 

"No, don’t even talk about it. I’m tired. It’s better if you don’t do it—that’s the punishment. It’s going to be a long night tonight because we have to talk about it, and you’re going to have to say something. Nothing? Is that really the end of it? You’re going to file for divorce? Two years of dating in college, three years while I was in law school, and two years after that? Five years of marriage, seven years together, and you give that up in two weekends while I research something else? I needed it—it’s been eating away at me for years. I thought it was all settled when I married you. I love you and will love you forever, but I couldn’t be around another guy without wondering how good he was in bed, questioning how it felt to be *fixed* instead of cherished. I needed to feel and understand the differences, to be the girl on the cover of a love story where the rough cowboy does whatever he wants to her, or where the lord of the manor exercises his rights over me, a humble peasant girl. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help myself. You’re a wonderful husband and a wonderful lover, but I should have seen—I should have tried other men. Oh baby, I’m so sorry, please don’t just stand there in silence—say something."

I put the stick and cob of corn on a toasted bun, added another grilled peach on top, and turned to look at my wife for the first time since her return.

"I prefer not to do that."

"No, baby, don’t do that. Don’t be so cold to me. Yell at me, threaten me, hit me—just don’t ignore me. I know I was wrong, and I’m sorry. I’ll do anything for you, just take me back."

"I’d rather not."

Things got heated after that. No, I didn’t grill her a steak, although for a moment I considered completely charring something for her. In the days that followed, she tried to talk, but every request she made was met with a quietly polite response: "I’d rather not do that." She asked me what I would have preferred to do instead, to which I simply shrugged. I didn’t leave the room if she tried to talk to me. I didn’t ask her what had happened. You could tell she was desperate to gain my favor.

The following Friday, she came home a little late, talking a mile a minute about a happy hour with her co-workers where all she did was drink and laugh. *Damn it*. Then she noticed there was nothing on the table, and I got dressed to leave the house.

"What’s going on? Are we going somewhere? Oh wait, you’re not taking me with you, are you? Is this really my punishment? Are you going back to my place?"

I shook my head and gave her the standard answer: "I’d rather not," and left. I went out to dinner with my parents, who were in town for the weekend. I put them up at the Hilton by the river because I didn’t want to involve them in our drama at home. They, of course, already knew all about it and were happy to have a wonderful evening with dinner on a river cruise. I got home at 10:30 p.m., still looking like a million bucks. I was met by a crying wife. I went to bed.

I don’t know what was going on in her head, but the next morning I woke up to the smell of breakfast she had made. This time, my wife didn’t question me about anything before she spoke.

"Last night was awful. You left without me, and I was left home alone. I couldn’t get rid of the thought of you being in town with another woman. I felt so awful. Now I realize how you must have felt when I was gone all weekend. If I ask you a question, will you answer me honestly? Were you with another woman?"

Considering I’d had dinner with both of my parents, and my mom is definitely a woman, I answered honestly: "Yes."

Her face reflected mixed emotions. She now knew that I had "dated" another woman last night, and that filled her mind with anxiety. On the other hand, I had said something else—something new. It was a good conversation. I ate breakfast, and after picking up my golf clubs, I left. 

We played golf, my father and I. He was in his 40s, but he was hitting like he was in his prime. At one time, my dad won a community service award for coaching Special Olympics locally for many years and then serving as the state team director. During the game, we talked about everything but my marriage.

I got home just in time to shower and get dressed for dinner. My wife decided to approach me as I was coming down the stairs and heading toward the garage. She saw me wearing my tuxedo, and I took special pleasure in seeing her tonsils as her jaw dropped open.

"She must be really special to get a night worthy of a tuxedo."

I nodded.

"Honey, I have to tell you that no one compares to you when you dress like that. All of our anniversary dinners have been unforgettable. She’s a lucky girl, whoever she is. I don’t suppose you want to share with me?"

"I’d rather not."

"Well, I understand. I realize I screwed up. I realize I tossed you aside and then spent the weekend humiliating you. I should never have done something like that. *A wife’s story about her weekend*—I will always regret it. Friday’s date got me a burger at Wendy’s on the way to the concert. He told me we had great seats, so I dressed well—you saw me. It was nice. Turns out our seats were so far away from the stage that I couldn’t see the singers even through binoculars. So he made me buy a beer, even though I was driving the whole way. It was my car, it was my gas, and then I bought dinner. Anyway, my first date in my big adventure happened with the cheapest douchebag in the state."

On the way home, he started groping me with his hands, so when we were in our neighborhood, I waited until he stopped at a red light at an intersection, jumped out of the car, and went to Maguire's Lounge, where a blues band was playing. The jerk tried to follow me, but you know Eric, the bouncer who works there when they have live bands playing. I told him the guy was a creep and was following me. Can you believe he’s been following me like I promised him anything?

When I went into the restaurant, I saw a guy I knew from work. He was there with some friends. We hung out, and I went to his house, but he was so drunk I had to drive him myself. When we got to his house, it turned out I was looking at the worst case of a hang-up ever. Then he just passed out, and I had to sleep on his couch. I woke up this morning to him crawling all over me, telling me he would make it up to me. I responded by telling him how he would ever be able to make it up to me with his little outgrowth.

That’s when I got really stupid. Instead of looking at things clearly and finally appreciating what I had at home and coming back to you, I decided I needed to reassert my femininity and sexuality. So, I went to the bar. I was about to hook up with some guy, but then his wife barged in. She was furious and red-faced. To throw her off the scent, I slapped him and yelled, "So you’re married?" Ironically, I didn’t take off my rings. Then I went to the Clam Shack Bar on the beach. A man approached me there, flirting like crazy. He was so sweet, made conversation, and could look me in the eye instead of just ogling my body. I was about to fall for his bait when two little kids came running up to the table screaming, "Grandpa, Grandpa, there you are!" I can’t tell you how quickly he vanished.

I ended up getting a room in an old motel behind the Clam Shack, bought a bottle of wine, and went out on the balcony for a drink and some quiet time to think. Turns out there was a table full of single and divorced women on the terrace directly below me, and their conversation turned to men. They started talking about their dating failures, naming names, and giving details. It came out that my experiences were pretty common—misogynists, older lechers, and cheap asses. That’s what they said men were. Well, I can’t blame them much for that. I mean, a girl can hardly expect a man to treat her as an equal and still expect him to pay for everything.

These women on the terrace went through a long list of experiences with married men and men who seemed to be devoted family men but, for whatever reason, went left. Then they turned to the physical diversity of the men they dated. They talked about dating guys from other cultures, races, religions, and even different political orientations. They talked about how size was not as important as how caring their lover was. They all agreed that if you can find both in the same man, you should latch onto him and keep him with you forever.

I almost left then to come home to you, but I had to listen to the rest of their conversation, and I’m glad I stayed. I heard nothing more. I spent the rest of the night thinking about you. I woke up there on the balcony, the sun already up and shining in my face, already starting to burn my skin. I felt lousy on so many levels. The guilt of what I made you experience consumed me. My body stiffened from sleep—I had, after all, slept curled up on a chaise lounge on the balcony. My stomach was upset from the disgusting food and the two bottles of wine I had consumed the night before, and my head ached from all of the above. I made arrangements for a late checkout and went back to bed.

When I woke up, I showered, got dressed, and came home. Honey, that night I walked out of our house into the street with the firm intention of cheating on you, but I didn’t. The universe was on your side, baby. It made it clear that I was meant to be with you, only you. Please forgive me. Please let me still be your wife. Please let’s forget my transgression and go back to our happy life, please."

Her eyes filled with tears. I felt sorry for her. I felt sorry for her. What I didn’t feel was love. I looked into those eyes, into the eyes of the woman I had loved for so long, and gave her my answer: "I would have preferred not to."

I didn’t tell her that the other "woman" I was dating was my mother. I didn’t tell her if I believed her sad story about how her dreams crumbled that weekend. I told her I loved her because I wasn’t sure I did. I didn’t say anything else. She didn’t give up on me. She tried to get back into my heart, while I managed to avoid her by traveling for work or staying in town after a long day. I only nodded, said yes, or shook my head in response to her inquiries. No—but nothing further. I had another room where I slept. I ate with her on various occasions. She eventually became weary of the struggle. We never got divorced; however, she moved to another place to live after that.

I would like not to add an endpoint right now, but I guess I will eventually.