He was a philanderer. And because of this, his other characteristics paled in the light of such a vibrant definition. It no longer mattered whether he liked coffee, or if he watched bad movies; it only mattered that he slept with multiple women.
He lived in a small town, and would casually engage in meetings multiple times a day, throughout the year. But once a month he would take his favorite lady, his someday wife, to a special place.
It was never the same place. Early in his sexual career, he would seek waterfalls, shaded woods, and country inns to use as his special places, in an immature attempt to create romantic perfection. But as he became more and more practiced, he grew to resent these places. Only amateurs and cliché enthusiasts fucked in waterfalls.
The philanderer only wished to offer his someday wife the most primitive, desirable joy of sex.
His someday wife was basic lady, and had no interest in the classic definition of sexual ecstasy. She did not care for manly aromas, long phalli, or toned muscles. She didn’t want a soft bed, silk sheets, or fluffy pillows. They were useless.
She loved the philanderer.
The philanderer’s new special place was a couch. An old, black couch. There was no sexy appeal to the couch; no erotic smell, no sensual fabric, and it was shit to look at. But it was comfortable to sit on, to lie on, to sleep on, to fuck on.
When in the town, they would occasionally get together; they really did enjoy each other. But in public, they generally acted as if they hardly knew each other, as if they were mere acquaintances. In fact, people who knew the philanderer often speculated that she was one of the few women with whom he refused to sleep with.
The someday wife knew about the philanderer’s habits, but ignored them as much as possible, and would not admit to him that it bothered her.
In actuality, she resented every woman he fucked, but she understood that ignoring his extramarital affairs would drive the philanderer crazy. She wanted tit for tat.
One day, while lying on the couch, the philanderer grabbed his someday wife’s hand, and quickly hurried through his marriage proposal. She responded yes, she would like that very much, but he would have to honor the promises of a traditional American wedding. While staring at the ground, the philanderer promised that he would.
She was scared.
The next week, they announced their wedding to be in the local paper, and that Sunday, once it was read, the town collectively rolled their eyes.
Six months later, they were married, in a small church, while sitting on the couch. They stayed seated there until everybody, all their friends, had left. They sat there quiet, and held hands and stared into the future. After they made love, the now current wife, looked him in the eyes, and said I hope to god you can do this. He said he could.
After sixty years of marriage, the philander lay on his deathbed. And his still current wife still held his hand. She said my friend, my husband, until we were married you fucked whoever you wanted. But this town is too small and so I know, after our wedding day, you did not fuck not one. I’m ashamed to tell you I’m surprised.
He said to her, friend, I knew I wouldn’t. Before I met you, I liked waterfalls, and sunny valleys, and trickling creeks and bed and breakfasts.
After I met you, all I needed was that couch.
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