The first thing your eyes come to rest on, as you enter the house from the attached garage, is the kitchen table. On the table was an open bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a single glass and a card. The card read "I'm trusting you so please don't let me down. Pour yourself a glass of wine and come up to the bedroom. I love you." And it was signed Bert (my wife's name is Bertha, but God help you if you ever call her that). My curiosity aroused, I poured myself a glass, grabbed the bottle, and headed for the upstairs bedroom. The first thing I noticed was the quiet. Usually Bert had the radio going upstairs, the CD player blaring in the family room and the living room TV cranking out something - quiet was not Bert's forte. When I reached the top of the stairs I heard a smacking sound - something like the sound you make when you smack a fist into the palm of your hand. Closer to the bedroom I could hear some low grunts and then a low, drawn out "Oh God yes" that almost sounded like a hiss and then I was in the doorway. In an instant a plethora of feelings swept over me - shock, surprise, disbelief, happiness, and yes, even a small bit of anger.

Bert and I have been together the better part of ten years now, married for five after living together for five before that. When we first got together the odds were totally against us; Bert had survived two failed marriages and I had managed to retain my sanity after three. Everyone we knew said it would never work, but we had managed to surprise everyone, including ourselves, and we were still together. The key to our longevity has been complete absolute honesty with each other, about everything. And so, one night during our early years together she asked me if I had any fantasies and I told her about mine; the favorite being the one about watching my wife in bed with another man. I told her that the fantasy had been realized with my first and third wives and that I'd found it to be extremely exciting and satisfying. "Interesting" Bert had commented, "Is that what you have planned for me?" I hurriedly explained that it was my fantasy and that fantasies are things you dream about, but never really expect to happen - like winning the lottery, or being the quarterback on a winning team and going to the Super Bowl. "But two of your wives did it for you" she said. "I just got lucky, that's all." Bert gave me a thoughtful look and then said, "I hate to tell you this, but your luck has run out. I love you dearly and would do almost anything for you, but that's not going to be one of them" and there the matter was dropped.

It was dropped, but only by Bert. I still had the fantasy and even though I knew it was never going to happen, I fed it by reading magazines like Penthouse Letters. When the Net came on the scene and became the porn outlet for millions I quickly found a multitude of sites where I could get my fix. The years passed by and Bert and I settled into a comfortable existence. Our sex life never did get stale, as it had seemed to in our previous marriages; we were still getting it on three or four times a week, and occasionally two or three time a night. Believe me, I had no complaints. Bert still shook her head when she saw me reading one of my magazines or when she would come into the den and I'd be on the computer reading erotic stories on one of my bookmarked sites. "A little obsessive are we?" she would comment, and I would laugh and tell her that she shouldn't complain, "It gets me all hot and bothered and you get to reap the benefits." She would shake her head again, mutter "Men!" and sit down on the couch behind me and read a book. When I'd finish on the computer we would go upstairs and fuck like rabbits.