Ujunwa closes the space between them, keeping his gaze at eye level.

She tilts her head, not recognition but the suspicion of it.

“Hi,” she says, voice stretched a little high.

“Handyman? For the faucet?”

“I didn’t realize—” she says, and steps back to allow him in. The toolbox bumps the door frame on entry.

I time my own arrival to the hallway, mug in hand, stride casual, face arranged into surprised delight. “Oh, you’re early! Great.”

Teagan’s eyes dart from me to Ujunwa. “I thought you said he was coming at one-thirty.”

“Better early than late,” I say.

 

CHAPTER 1: THE SECRET

Denver, Colorado, Thursday, June 13, 2024

All day, even during surgery, I thought about a Black construction worker I’d spotted the day before. Concentrating on the bulge in the crotch of his form-fitting work jeans, the exposed, sweat-slick muscles, and how they moved as he worked. Fantasizing about him splitting my wife’s tight pussy and fucking the living shit out of her.

On the way home, my mind returned to him and what he did with her, to her, that I never could or would. This is my obsession when I see a young, well-built, obviously hung, ebony-skinned fellow. The more massive the muscle and apparent the bulge, the deeper I sink into my imagination. Often, I’m happier in my head than in the world.

Fuck, I know, disgusting.

My first marriage dissolved the same way— ten years of failure to conceive, and the garage door at 4:47 AM. Oddly, I don’t remember her face so much as the expression: disappointment in my acceptance of things neither of us could change.

The fact of my first marriage, dissolving into nothingness, as I tried and failed to please her for ten years. The failure to produce a child for her, which drove her away, all seems to be repeating itself. This is more revolting than anything else.

By 3:39 the glass doors slide shut behind me, the office air receding to memory and hush. Home smells of cut grass and pine, but the entry seals it out.

A turn of the brushed-chrome handle, the careful pressure of my hip, and the door yields to me. First, it resists with a tad of force, and it settles a small distance from flush. Measuring the gap with my thumb and forefinger, I adjust it a smidge and leave it. Anything tighter will be a signal.

Sunlight streaks across the desktop, illuminating dust. Crossing to the desk, I glance at the surface and read the order in short breaths. Case files with patient labels on the wee side.

Legal pad, parallel to the top rail of the flat-top secretary, right of the keyboard. Black pen, uncapped, on top.

Exhaling, I settle into the chair, reaching under the left side to the locked bottom drawer. The key is in my pocket. Inserting the key, I turn and listen for the click. Drawer out, velvet pouch at the rear left. The amber vial sits in my hand before I register the touch.

Adderall XR, 50mg, Beryl A. Bardyllis, two per day. The cap unscrews with a single rotation; I tip the bottle, dry rattle of capsules, take one, and place it on my tongue.

No water fit to drink. I check my watch, 4:00 PM.

No margin for error. Wife’ll be home too early if I don’t start. I return the vial to its cradle, relock the drawer, and press the key until the pocket accepts it.

Open the laptop, Lenovo, hard plastic, and tap the power. Boot, Chick-fil-A quick. Resting my wrists on the palm rest, I finger in default surgical array, and flex.

All at once, Teagan appears in the doorway. “Did I interrupt?” she asks, a sort-of-smile on her lips, no accusation. I zip up, arrange myself, and face her.

“Case reviews,” I say. “Complications from Tuesday. Nothing exciting.”

Shrugging, she says, “You’re the only person I know who finds ‘complications’ relaxing.”

“It’s a different kind of complication.”

“I’m heading to change. Don’t work too long? We’re going to dinner, remember?”

“Won’t, and I do.”

Closing the door behind her, not fully, but enough to leave the room in hush, she leaves me there. I listen to her footsteps on the hardwood, the squeal of the bathroom tap, the click of a toothbrush against the rim of the sink. The after-smell of her shampoo, cucumber-mint, seeps under the crack of the door.

Opening my laptop, I clean the browser history. Realigning my chair, restore the slant-front secretary. I check my phone. Two messages from hospital admin, one from Marcus (the night maintenance supervisor, a wild card), and one from Teagan: “Did you see the new Cumberbatch, Eric, series is out on Netflix?”

I don’t reply.

Once again, I fish out my penis and assess myself.

Hands: left, size 7, right, 7.25. Surgeons’ hands, too small for my height, but they work grand for operations. I run the diagnostic: nails clipped, no sign of capillary refill deficit. Palm lines deepening, but clean.

With three strokes I log in, using the incognito tab. The site autofill’s by reflex after the first “x.” I delete, start over, type two letters, and the site erupts onto the screen.

The content at the top is different.

New curation, but the site delivers my preferred options in sequence. I ignore the ad, jump to the first full-length video, and watch the preview loop until it stops.

A white husband in a button-down and sockless oxfords, face cut off by the camera angle, sits in a tobacco-brown leather club chair at the left border of the frame.

A queen bed, pillow shams in navy and taupe. On the bed, a cuckoldress, blonde, all-over tan. Wearing nothing but a string of pearls and French tips.

A Black bull, head shaven, upper body mass overbalanced toward arms and chest. His dick is out, half-mast, girthy, veined, growing.

The wife’s gaze fixes on it, mouth open, first finger pressed to her lower lip. The audio is dialed down, but I see her talk without hearing.

The husband’s hand grips the chair’s arm, knuckles white; he doesn’t move. Every sense in the video orients to the center of the bed, the void between the man’s thighs.

Operating as a voyeur puts me in the show; I’m seeing what the husband does, experiencing his emotions. In my mind, the blonde is my wife with bleached hair.

Breathing shallow, I stay still. Thirty or forty seconds pass, and I realize I haven’t blinked. Forcing myself to blink, I scroll the wheel on the mouse and nudge the cursor to full screen.

My finger traces the laptop’s trackpad, the heat of the Adderall blooming on the back of my neck. A faint vibration in my right ring finger. I flex, but it persists.

In the video, the husband’s lips move. The Black man ignores him. Adjusting, he slides a pillow under the wife’s hips, spreads her legs, and positions himself. The camera reframes to catch the penetration. The woman arches. The husband watches, hands on knees. I study the cuck hubby. His posture, his breathing, his hands.

The pill sits in my gut, burning as it dissolves. Ignoring that, I focus on the screen. The scene progresses, predictable stages. The wife’s head thrown back, hair against the comforter. The Black man’s pawing her breast, cupping, squeezing. The husband’s moves from his thigh to his crotch, over denim.

At time code 2:03, the camera lurches, and the angle changes to catch all three faces. The husband is sweating.

Me too.

I open the drawer again, retrieve the microfiber cloth, and wipe my brow without glancing away. In the video, the action accelerates. The wife is vocal, but the audio is soft. I leave it that way. I watch her hands, her nails. I remember Teagan’s hands, the nervous tic with her nails, how she picks at her cuticles until the skin peels, and she hides her hands in public.

When my phone buzzes on the desk, I glance down. Teagan’s icon, a bubble: ‘Don’t forget 5:30 dinner w/ G&D. You promised!’ The ‘promised’ is a quote from last night’s argument. Returning my attention to the laptop, I disregard the request.

In the video, the Black man is close to finishing. “I’m gonna cum,” he says... The wife gasps. The husband’s mouth hangs open, an O of disbelief or anticipation. I pause the video at the apex. My heart rate jumps; I count beats in seconds, concentrate, push anticipation from my thoughts, and slow it down.

Closing the laptop, I breathe through my nose and wait for the afterimage to fade. The tremor in my finger is gone. But my chest aches, an inch left of midline. I massage the spot with two fingertips, in a circular motion, not hard enough to bruise.

I think about the video. Focusing on the chair and the man in it.

Unlocking the drawer again, I drop the microfiber inside, relock it, and reset my position. The legal pad is still blank. Picking up the pen, I write my name and today’s date at the top of the page, and set it back down.

The letters are too large; the loops on the “y” and “g” are out of proportion. I consider tearing off the page and starting over.

I leave it.

Checking the time, 4:14, I have sixteen minutes before I’m due to change and head to the restaurant. Opening the laptop, I delete the browser history, run the diagnostic tool to clean cached files, and close the lid. The surface shows a faint smudge from my palm. I clean it.

I run the video without sound.

No need for it now. The image moves in increments; the actors pantomime their roles, the scenario unfolding exactly as before. I let it play. I don’t touch myself, don’t move, only watch. I make it to the end, the frozen tableau of wife, husband, and the Black man at center.

I rewind, play it again.

The second viewing, sliding my hand under the waistband, I’m hard. I grip, not too tight, not too loose, fingers cool from the laptop’s fan. Watching the screen, I time my movements to the video’s rhythm. The flow of my blood, the chemical echo of the afternoon’s stimulant.

Minute-man-quick, my orgasm comes in an involuntary shudder. Clamping my mouth shut, I keep the sound in. Eight seconds or less. The electricity drains. My breath rasps, tapers off. The residue accuses me, thin, watery, mostly a whitish, non-viscous film.

While I suspect a terrible truth, I won’t warn her. Besides, I have a plan one way or the other.

Staring at the screen, I freeze-frame the man in the chair; he’s lost his load at the same time. The trembling of my legs refuses to end; I don’t move.

Closing the laptop, with both hands now steady. I set it on the slant stop, gently, as if it were breakable. Resting on the chair, I hunch, elbows on knees. The semen seeps cold against my thigh, an old shame I don’t bother to clean right away. I count the beats in my wrist. The house holds its breath.

After a few minutes, I stand, walk to the bathroom, wipe the residue with a tissue, and flush the evidence. I wash my hands twice. The water stings. Drying my hands on the towel, I fold it back to its original crease.

Stripping off my undershirt and briefs, I fold them inside out and check the laundry hamper; nothing in it.

Dropping the proof of masturbatory infidelity inside, I leave. The bin is empty no longer. Going into the room, still naked, I get dressed.

“I was worried we weren’t going out.”

“I promised,” I say.

 

CHAPTER 2: FAILURE

Thursday, June 13, 2024

As I stand at the nightstand, with my thumb hovering above the screen of Teagan’s cellphone, the calendar app flashes across the glass. Two red dots mark today and tomorrow.

The rest of the month is pale. Irrelevant.

Below, the bottles of fertility drugs line up: CoQ10 soft gels, prenatal with methylated folate, the compounded progesterone cream in its white pump-action cylinder.

Turning the CoQ10 so the label faces me, I push it to the left. The phone vibrates. The app pings: fertile window, 7:24 PM.

I don’t know who’s fooled whom. But the sad truth is, I’m the problem, not her.

Her steps on the stairs, she’s home. Closing the calendar, set the phone face-down on the glass and turns. Her keys jingle against the marble dish in the entry.

“Ah, Beryl, ya there?” she says, through the hall, a location check.

“Yes,” I say; my voice carries down the corridor.

The bedroom door swings open, catches on its hinge, and holds. Standing in the threshold is Teagan, in black leggings and a charcoal tank that’s gone dark with sweat down the spine. Her hair is tied up with a fabric band, the color matching the skin at her temples.

There’s a flush on her cheeks.

And her eyes glint with something she wants me to make believe is joy. Lingering a beat, her hand resting on the doorframe. I catch the pounding in her neck. The way her collarbones angle under the shirt’s collar. All this and the seductive way she’s acting says she’s ready.

Entering, she closes the gap and stops within reach.

“Yeah, you beat me home.” Touching my shirt where it buttons over the sternum, she presses into the fabric, waiting for me to reciprocate.

The touch of her palm soothes me. And her hand is warm, cuticles picked raw in places.

Wrapping my hands around her waist, my fingers meet at the small of her back. The heat of her skin urges me through two layers, her top and mine, not enough to register as pleasure.

My right hand vibrates, a thump running from the second knuckle through the pad of the thumb. The tremor is visible. She either doesn’t notice or she does and files it for later.

Leaning into me, she’s several inches shorter, but the alignment is familiar, practiced. Finding the spot on my chin with her fingers, pinches lightly while she tilts her head up, angling my face down for a kiss.

Mouths meet, lips close, and break apart. A perfunctory greeting between people who’ve been married longer than a year.

The aftertaste lingers, a hint of mint; otherwise, her breath’s clean. The whole time, she keeps her eyes open. The moment stretches, fails to resolve.

Turning away from me. “Hey, we’ve got a good window,” she says. The words are soft at the ends. Glancing to the phone, at the supplement bottles, and her eyes go to the bed. I track her gaze, tick through the sequence with her.

Pulling her closer, my left hand at her waist, right hand at the hem of the tank. Working the fabric up with my fingers, neither fast nor slow, but deliberate. The tremor is sharper now. The fabric bunches under my fingers.

As expected, she lifts her arms overhead; I strip the tank off. Leaving it in a soft coil on the nightstand. Her sports bra is black, the logo faded, the lower band damp with sweat. Shivering, her body flexes, and soon, the muscles relax.

Moving with purpose, her hands find my shirt buttons, popping them one by one. She slides her palms over my chest, fingertips stopping on the ridge of my clavicle.

“Oh, baby, you’re tense,” she says, and kneads the muscle, thumb in the groove between bone and throat. I resist the urge to recoil. But, again, I’m always tense. The body adapts.

“Now, you know we can’t have that, not if we’re gonna conceive.”

Shirtless, I stand facing her, in the heavy blue light that leaks through the west window. Taking her in with a gaze, the muscle lines in her abdomen. Pale skin shadowed above her breast. An old scar on her right hip from the skiing accident.

Shamefully, I see her the way I see a patient before incision, the body as a system, the variations as notes on the chart.

This time with intent, she kisses me again. Her hand finds my waistband, pops the button, lowers the zipper with her thumb. I mirror her, hands on her hips, working the band of the leggings down.

The motion awkward, but choreographed by habit.

The leggings pool at her ankles. She steps out, moves to the bed, and sits. Pulling me along with her.

Arranging ourselves on the bedspread, my hands at her thighs, hers at my back, both of us moving through, habitual, with minimal improvisation. Her skin is cool from the air conditioning. Touching her knee, I slip to her hip, the ridge of her pelvis, never lingering. And she guides my hand to the inside of her thigh, holds it there.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Mm, honey, you don’t have to be careful.

Dipping my chin, I don’t answer. Tensing up more, I fight my eyelids so they don’t flutter. My right hand trembles against her skin, the motion out of sync. Digging her fingers into the muscle to steady the hand, she laughs, a sharp sound, not mocking but not tender.

She takes control.

Flipping us so she’s on top, she straddles, hands on my chest. Her hair falls out of its knot, red wisps sticking to her cheek and to my chin. She pushes my pants down, takes me in her hand, guides me to her.

The moment before entry, she pauses, breathes, waits for me to look at her. I do. I see the brightness in her eyes, the hope. I see her want it to work. I see her knowing it won’t.

Lowering herself onto me.

The first moments go well. Warmth and pressure register, not as pleasure. Mustn’t lose track of my angle. The depth of my plunge. Or the resistance. For a few miserable thrusts, my erection holds. The tremor moves to my groin, and I soften inside her.

She rocks anyway, slow and deliberate, trying to salvage the rhythm. Her hands stay on my chest, nails pressed into the skin, not hard enough to leave a mark.

She understands I’m faking it.

After a minute, she dismounts, lies next to me, head on my shoulder. We stare at the ceiling together. The silence lasts a long time.

Breaking first, she says, “Sorry. I thought—” but she doesn’t finish.

While my body slumps and eyes refuse to lock with hers, I touch her hair, stroke the baby hairs at her temple, thumbs over her ear.

My excuses flow. “It’s not you.” The old script. “Long day. Hydration’s off.” “Later, we’ll try again.”

Bobbing her head, she burrows into my side, pulls my arm over her shoulder. The position’s familiar. I hold her, the heat of her body against my ribs. Breathing together, we stay, the seconds ticking by. When the moment loses its urgency, the tremor fades.

In the stillness, her heartbeat is slow and even. While my own is irregular. Trying to sync us, I fail at this as well.

With nothing to say, we don’t talk. The window will close soon, the calendar will move forward, and we’ll reset for next month. The silence is the only honest part.

When Teagan goes slack and she drifts into sleep, I stay awake. Replaying the failure, I note my physical problems, review options based on my kink and her needs.

The tremor returns. Flexing my hand and fingers.

Waiting for the next attempt, we lie there together, in the dark.

“Might help if you finished undressing me,” Teagan says in a hushed tone. The second endeavor starts in quietness.

The bedroom cools. Propping herself on her left elbow, Teagan’s eyes dart to my hands; my fingers work on her bra clasp. The hooks resist with a damp tension at the band.

Angling my hand, I lever the hooks apart, and slide the straps down her arms. Her nipples contract in the chill. The areolae pucker, darkening toward the edge.

Shifting, she presents her left thigh across my lap. Cupping the thigh, I press my thumb into the adductor line an