It was date night last night. We drank and talked in our bedroom before dressing and heading out for dinner. Half naked, I reclined on my vintage white velvet sofa with red wine in my hand, and he relaxed in the matching wing chair sipping coke and whiskey. It had been quite an eventful day.
I laughed and laughed as he told me stories about each of the characters he ran into at the DMV. One of our sons was getting his driver’s license, so they chose Friday afternoon to take the test. It took three hours for their number to be called which left them people watching to kill time.
My husband said the roughest slice of humanity joined them in the waiting room, making up what seemed like a legit Saturday Night Live performance right there in front of them.
There was the tall, rugged cowboy with a pickle on his shirt seated next to the skinny meth head looking chic. “She looked like something the cat drug in. I kept wondering how those two met.”
Then there was this mom and daughter team of beauty queens who were drop dead gorgeous. Everyone in the room tried to not stare at them. A 300 lb lady with a shower cap on her head walked in like she was a beauty queen. My husband said you couldn’t tell her she wasn’t!
There was the drooling baby, the nerdy kid, and the butch lady sucking on dip. (She even had a spit cup in her hand.) My husband was on a roll. “It’s like every single stereotype there is was in that room. It was quite entertaining.”
I laughed so hard I nearly spit out my wine. “So where are you taking me for dinner?”
“The DMV?” He chuckled.
“No really, babe. I’m starving!”
He took a sip of whiskey, “Ok, how about some sushi?”
“Sounds yummy.” I jumped up to located my clothes I took off in the bathroom. He jumped up behind me with a different idea in mind.
“You look so damn sexy, Stella. Fuck, your body is on fire!” He whispered in my ear as he slid his hands around my waist and tucked his chin on the side of my neck.
I glanced at his reflection in the mirror. We have mirrors both in front of me and on the side. His gaze met mine. We smiled and both went in for a kiss. His lip were soft and warm. When I checked out the side reflection, I spotted his dick outside of his pants.
He didn’t say another word, but instead bent me over the bathroom countertop. I watched as he sloppily licked the palm of his hand and greased my pussy with it before beginning his decent into my pleasure pot. It felt like heaven, the long drawn out journey between start and fullness. He slowly pushed himself deeper and deeper while dividing his attention between my reaction in the mirror and excitedly loosing sight of his dick as it disappeared inside of me.
Once he was in, the sensation was amazing. Like really, really amazing. I couldn’t control the look on my face as he rocked my body into nirvana. That’s when you know it’s good, when you can’t pretend to be anything other than what you are. And I was fulfilled in a deep way. He rocked just a few more moments before telling me what he expected next.
“I’m cumming in your mouth, you sexy thang.”
I looked up to spot his face in the mirror again. He was nearly crying with pleasure and my red lipstick was smudged across my face. How did that happen?
When he pulled out, I fell to the counter for just a moment before remembering my job was to turn around. I know this routine, I’ve done it for years, worshipping my husband’s dick with my lips.
He was waiting for me to open up. I did. Then his dick was down my throat. I closed my lips around him and let him fuck my mouth for one, two, three more strokes before I tasted the first squirt of success. I tightened my lips and sucked the cum right out of him finishing the moment with a few cleanup licks at the end. Looking up I caught him watching the entire scene in the mirror.
“That’s a good girl,” he said helping me up. “You’re such a perfect wife.”
I kissed him on his mouth. “You’re such a terrific husband, my king.” There was so much love, so much satisfaction in our hug. I could hold you forever.
Sushi was great, the wine was even better. On the way home I told my husband about the new book I’m reading. “Becoming, by Michelle Obama.” I told him that Michelle’s helping me reconcile my feelings about my own life as a wife.
“She had a plan for herself, a plan to be a hotshot attorney and enjoy the career-minded, adventure-filled life that went along with that. She ended up becoming so well know, so famous for being Mrs. Obama… Barack’s wife… our country’s first lady. A job that didn’t require any of her education.”
It’s how I feel about my life right now. I didn’t major in housewife. I didn’t study cooking, or kids, or laundry, and definitely didn’t want to spend my days worrying about the mundane things like taxes, and lawn care, and driver’s licenses. I was supposed to be a star!
The truth is, life isn’t what you think it’ll be, but if you work it good, it’ll be even better. The romanticized appearance of famous people’s lives only tease us with their grandeur, the highs. What we don’t see are the sacrifices, the lonely nights, the missed connections, the failures and oversights.
And the way I judged a housewife was exactly the opposite. I thought it was only dull and gray, like being captive in a boring ass cage.
But like Michelle, I’m learning about the adventure and luxury and freedom on the journey of being one with Mr. Right. Our education, ambition, resourcefulness, and experience isn’t wasted if we’re not using it the way we thought we would. Barack wouldn’t have been able to achieve what he did, had his brilliant, amazing wife not been so fuckin’ good.