There is a man in my life who has never once asked me if I am in the mood. Not once in eight months. He does not have to ask, sweetheart. That was the deal I made with him, the deal I begged him for, if we are being honest. He can have me whenever he wants me. Any hour. Any room. Whatever I am in the middle of. I am his free use girl, and it is the happiest arrangement of my entire married life.
My husband asks for nothing and gets less. Mark asks for nothing either, but that is because everything is already his.
Let me tell you about Tuesday, because Tuesday explains everything. I was making dinner. Nothing glamorous, just me at the stove in my apron and the little dress I wear under it, stirring a pan, tasting sauce off the spoon like a proper housewife. I heard his key. Yes, he has a key. I gave it to him in month two, in an envelope, with my lipstick on the flap, because a woman who offers herself completely does not make her man knock.
He came into the kitchen, put his hands on my waist, and pressed himself against my back, and I just smiled and kept stirring. That is the part that melts me every single time. I do not stop what I am doing. I am not supposed to. He lifted my dress, moved my panties aside with the ease of a man rearranging his own furniture, and took me right there against the counter while the sauce bubbled and I gripped the spoon like it was a life raft.
"Keep cooking," he murmured, and God help me, I tried. I seasoned that sauce with shaking hands while he used me slow and deep, and every time I lost my train of thought he would slow down too, torturing me with patience, until I was begging into the steam like a woman half my age. A MILF who is wanted this constantly, this casually, does not feel invisible anymore. She feels like the center of a man's entire appetite.
That is what nobody understands about our arrangement. It is not that I am being taken for granted. Taking me for granted would mean he could forget about me, and Mark has never forgotten about me for one hour of one day since this started. Being his free use girl means I am wanted at full volume, permanently, in the kitchen, in the laundry room, on the stairs that one memorable afternoon. My husband looks through me. Mark looks at me and reaches. There is no contest, and there never was.
We ate dinner after, by the way. It was delicious. He fed me the first bite off his fork and watched me the whole meal like a man planning dessert, which he was.
Maybe you understand this hunger from the other side. Maybe you have always wanted a woman who is simply yours, no negotiating, no guessing, a wife in every way that matters who relaxes into you the second your hands land on her. That woman exists. She is standing in a kitchen in a little dress, waiting for a key in her lock. She is on PhoneBuckFuck, and a call with her is one dollar a minute. Come take what is yours, sweetheart. I will not even put down the spoon.