(My apologies, this post was sitting in draft gathering dust when my lovely Liv was about to make a new post today and came across this unpublished entry by me….needless to say, I was appropriately admonished for this oversight, and my rear end is still rather sore as I type this.   God, how I love that woman!) 

Looking back over the years, I suppose it would be difficult to pin down the exact moment I knew my cuckolded destiny.  There were a multitude of what I like to refer to as “mini moments” with Liv when it became clear to me that I would unquestioningly worship the very ground this goddess of mine walks on.

Its interesting, because when I think back to times before Liv was in my life, I do note a bit of a pattern that had emerged early on in my life.  Let me try to explain.

I grew up as the only boy in a household dominated by women.  I was the youngest of four children born to my parents, all girls except for me.  Needless to say, the dynamics in my household were unusual compared to that of most of my peers.  My father, plagued by chronic back problems retired from his job as a foreman in a construction company while he was still in his thirties.  My mother who worked part time as a pharmacist prior to my father’s retirement, then became the breadwinner once it was evident that my father could no longer work in his previous capacity.  He occasionally did some freelance work, but for the most part, it was my mother who “brought home the bacon”, so to speak.  It wasn’t long before the tables turned in terms of what I had thought were prescribed gender roles in my home.

With mother working full time to support our family, it was my father’s responsibility to see to it that the household was maintained.  He managed the cooking, cleaning and the general care of myself and my four sisters.  This seemed to work in everyone’s favor and I never really got a sense that my father resented his new role.  In fact, I used to observe him singing along to country and western music on the stereo as he buzzed around the house, vaccuming, dusting, etc.   He seemed rather content.   Sometimes, my sisters would poke fun at my dad, and suggest that he wear an maid’s apron as he went about his daily chores, but my father, always the good-natured man, just chuckled and went about his routine.

My sisters, especially the two oldest, were very much advocates of the “new feminism” that saturated the media in the 1970’s and early 1980’s.   They would often quote from books by Simone de Beauvior and remind me how women have long been oppressed by men throughout history.  Needless to say, I learned a lot from my sisters.

At one point when I was in my late teens, something shifted in my parent’s marriage.  Although it was never overtly discussed in front of the family, my mother began an affair with a man from work.  I can remember overhearing my father confronting my mother about her infidelity.  It was a summer night in late June and I lie in my bed, with the windows open in my room feeling comforted by the warm breeze wafting over me.  My father’s prized roses were in full bloom now and if I lie still, inhale deeply and concentrate, my nostrils would be overcome with their heady scent. My parents were out on the back deck just a few feet from my bedroom window and must have assumed I was fast asleep. I could make out the low tones of their adult conversation and though I didn’t sense an argument brewing between them (frankly, I can’t recall ever hearing or witnessing my parent’s arguing throughout my childhood), there did seem to be a subdued tension embedded within the conversation.  At one point, I heard my father’s deep baritone voice tentatively ask, “Are you sleeping with him, Linda?”  To which my mother simply and softly replied, “Yes”.  And that was that.

After overhearing this admission of my mother’s infidelity and subsequently observing no overt changes in my parent’s relationship, I began to pay closer attention to my mother.  She certainly wasn’t like my friends’ mothers, for one thing, most of my friends mothers didn’t work outside of the home.  Mother was a stylish woman, with her raven colored hair that was styled in a blunt cut. She dressed fairly conservatively when she went to work but I started to notice how there was an increase in weekend “seminars” following her confession about her affair.  It became somewhat routine for mother to suddenly announce she was going away on a weekend trip for some pharmaceutical conference.   One Friday afternoon during my senior year in high school, while she was packing her travel bag, I entered her bedroom to ask her a question about borrowing her car for the homecoming dance to be held the following weekend.  While we were talking about the dance, I happened to glance over by her bed where her suitcase remain open.   I tried to keep from blushing when I noticed she had packed a sheer black neglige for this “seminar”.  My mother promptly shut the suitcase and asked me to wait for her downstairs where we would continue our conversation.

Throughout high school I had one serious girlfriend, Wendy.  She was a knock-out and she knew it.   Wendy was co-captain of the cheerleaders, a party girl and an incorrigible flirt.   In some ways, I think Liv’s looks remind me of Wendy’s.  She had similar naturally curly dark hair and a bright, endless smile.   Wendy wasn’t nearly as intelligent as Liv is, but that never seemed to matter, because all of the teachers–female and male alike–seemed enamorate of Wendy.  She could do no wrong.  “You need an extension on that history term paper?  No problem Wendy!”  I used to envy the fact that she always seemed to get preferential treatment; the girl hardly cracked a book in all four of our years of high school and yet managed a “B” average. 

Wendy was a cocktease with a captial “C”.  She would get me all hot and bothered many a time in the back seat of my mother’s car only to stop me moments before I would attempt to penetrate her.  She then would explain she really thought it would be best to wait until marriage before having sex.   Of course, I adored this girl and difficult as it was, I resigned myself to jacking off in my room alone after dropping Wendy off at the end of our dates.

A few weeks before the senior prom, Wendy changed her mind about her values and decided she would like to have sex with me.  After the prom, a bunch of my friends and their dates were heading back for a party at a buddy’s house, and most of us were planning on spending the night there.  The setting was perfect.   I planned on waiting until everyone fell asleep and bringing Wendy to my friend Mark’s bedroom where I would deflower her once and for all.  Mark was in on the scheme and offered his room to us.  I could hardly wait. 

Wendy looked like a movie star on Prom Night.  She wore a white satin dress with spaghetti straps and a sweetheart neckline that accentuated her perky tits perfectly.   Her curly hair was piled high on top of her head and she had afixed little bits of baby’s breath behind her ear.   I was so proud of my girlfriend and I couldn’t wait to get her back to Mark’s house after the dance.   She drove me crazy all night, as we danced she would rub her tight little body up against mine and giggle girlishly when she noticed my hard on pressing into her.   I couldn’t take it.  My cock had waited for nearly four years for this night.  

The after party was in full swing when Wendy and I arrived.  There were about 12 or 13 friends of ours there, all celebrating this milestone in our high school lives.   I got caught up with some of the guys in a drinking game for a little while and I figured Wendy was chatting it up with her girlfriends and  so I lost track of her.  Eventually I had a pretty good buzz going on and I after a half a dozen or so beers, I had to go to the toilet.   I noticed Wendy was no where in sight as I made my way from the basement upstairs to the bathroom.  After I relieved myself, I thought again how strange it seemed that Wendy disappeared.   I paused for a few moments in the hallway outside of the bathroom and could swear I heard laughter coming from Mark’s bedroom.   I could distinctly make out the sound of a male and female voice, and I was almost certain the female voice belonged to Wendy.  So I knocked once on Mark’s bedroom door and then turned the knob.

There she was, my Wendy, with the top of her virginal white dress pulled down, exposing her round, sweet breasts.   She was on her knees before my buddy Mark, with her curly little head bobbing up and down on his dick.   The two of them jumped and sprang apart when I stepped into the room.  Wendy was pretty blizted and her face was flushed.  Mark quickly pulled his pants up and pleaded with me, “Dude, I know this looks bad…”   I was stunned as the realization of what was happening sunk in.  

Wendy, my sweet cheerleader girlfriend, was a sneaky little slut.

And for some reason, unbeknowst to me at the time, I couldn’t think of anything sexier than this.