This is my story. Not yours. Don’t pretend it is. I’m Gavin. I live in Mipple City.

Sixty-six years old. Not even close to cashing it in. Last year I decided it was time to break all the fuckin’ rules. My rules first. Afterward maybe yours. I don’t know. I don’t have to know. Maybe afterward, its rules I don’t even know exist.

I don’t give a fuck if you don’t like it. That’s the best thing about being sixty-six.

My bucket list started with “Fuck my best friend’s wife”. I did, too. Took me six months to fuck her. I had to break the relationship with that fake goody-two-shoes husband of hers. Took six months before she’d let me put my dick in her pussy. It was good.

She didn’t respect him anyway. She told me. I always knew. I was at their wedding two years ago. Both of them were divorced when they “found” each other. Load a crap, if you ask me.

He had secrets. Financial secrets. Like $450,000 dollars. The IRS said he owed them money because he had not filed taxes for the past ten years. Imagine that. Six figure salary and he didn’t have the fuckin’ brains to pay his fuckin’ taxes.

You could say she was pissed. I’d say she was ready to kill him. Just married and she was on the hook with him. She forgave him when his family ponied up the money and saved his sorry ass. “Fresh start,” she told my wife and me over dinner. My best fuckin’ friend became my un-best friend that fuckin’ night. He was not… what’s the fuckin’ word?... penitent. That’s it. Penitent. Not fuckin’ penitent.

A month later he’s spending money on pedicures and orange deck shoes. He painted his toenails lime green. What the fuck kind of man gets his ass bailed out by his family and then spends money on that crap? A fifty-eight-year-old man married to a forty-four-year-old woman does not do this.

So now you know. That’s why fuckin’ her was the first thing on my bucket list. I liked her… they needed a fuckin’ reason to separate. I gave it to them. After she sucked my cock and had her pussy filled with my hot cum, she didn’t want him anymore. He, however, wanted to stay married.

Stupid motherfucker.

“Two fucking losers,” she said to me. “I’m done with nice guys who fuck me instead of my pussy. I want your kind now.” Last time I saw her, she had biker tattoos. Told me she was riding her hog to Sturgis. Good for her.

The second item on my list was to get Kim to fuck another man. With me, without me, I didn’t care. I just wanted her to do it. This is that story.

Kim’s my wife.

The first time I mentioned it, I waited until she had her orgasm and her fuckin’ endorphins kicked in. She had that lovin’ feelin’. That post-coital bliss. Know what I mean?

I looked her in the eye and said, “I want you to fuck another man for me.” Then I waited till she spoke.

She looked at me like I was nuts. She said, “I’m not doing that. What’s wrong with you?”

I repeated. “I want you to fuck another man… for me.”

I waited again.

She made a face. The one she always did when she didn’t like what I said.

For the third time, I said, “I want you to fuck another man for me.”

“You’re sick. I’m not doing that. Get away from me, you pervert.”

I said, “I want you to find a man we both like and I want you to fuck him.”

“I’m not a slut.”

I said, “I don’t want you to be a slut. Sluts fuck a lot of other men. I only want you to fuck one other man. Someone we know… or don’t know. Don’t care. Just fuck one other man you’re attracted to. Taste his cock, let him stick it in your cunt. Fuck him till he cums in your pussy. I want you to fuck another man.”

“I’m not going to,” she said. “You don’t pass me around. I’m not an effin’ whore.”

“You’re not a whore. I know that. Not even close. And I don’t pass you around. We’ve been married forty-five years and I’ve never wanted anything from you except you being faithful. You’ve done that. Now I want you to fuck another man for me.”

“Not going to happen,” she said. She had a determined look in her eye. “You can get that effin’ thought out of your head right now, mister.” That’s when she rolled out of bed, pulled her robe over her head, and zipped it closed. “I’m sixty-four. What’s wrong with you?” It was her way of closing herself off to me.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” I said. “This is what I want.”

She went silent. We didn’t speak the rest of the night. Or the next morning either. But we talked about normal things soon enough. Two weeks later we had sex again. We used toys.

After her orgasm, I said again, “I want you to fuck another man for me. One that you like, I’m not saying you’ll do this next weekend, I’m just sayin’ that I want you to fuck another man for me.”

She said she wasn’t going to do it. She followed up by saying if I don’t stop talking about it, she’d cut me off. I think she meant it.

I told her I heard her but this is what I wanted.

She said, “Why would you want that? I don’t get it. Some other guy sticking his thing in me? Why would you want that?”

So I told her she had to figure out why for herself. Then I said, “Maybe it’s just because I want it, and you want to make me happy and that’s all there is to it.”

She told me there’s no way it was ever gonna fuckin’ happen.

I shut up at that point. She knew I wanted it. Every time we had sex after that, I didn’t say a fuckin’ word about her fuckin’ another man. I’d been her only lover and, except for my ex-best friend’s wife, I’d never touched other women. Not true now, but it was then.

I shut up… but I didn’t give up. I studied her. Watched her talk with other men. I wanted to see which ones she talked freely with or she was friendly towards. She liked men who were shorter than her. Men who looked her in the eye when they talked. She also liked taller men with deep voices. She had to look up to see their face in order to talk to them.

Once I knew the kind of men she liked, I’d talk about that “man at Walmart” or the bank or wherever. I waited until after her orgasm. Endorphins, you know. I’d say how nice he was. She’d comment on him being nice or helpful. I’d say, “I liked him, too.” Then I’d repeat her compliment about him back to her. She always agreed.

Whenever I had a chance, I’d find a reason for us to talk to him again. I was looking for a man who would make her blush… or laugh… didn’t matter. If, or when, I found him, her blushing or laughing would be a sign she liked him. A sign she’d had an emotional moment. Every emotional moment was a thread. Her to him. The more moments, the more threads. Enough threads created a cord. A cord created an attachment.

I was patient. The second item on my bucket list would take time.

I moved on to the third and fourth on the list. The third was to fuck a celebrity. Local, national, didn’t matter. I met one two weeks later through a work friend. By accident. We bumped into her at the airport. She lived only a few miles away from me, I mean us. I took something “accidentally” from her and later called her to return it. We had sex within a week. She was single, fifty, and an actress in the local theater; enough of a celebrity to be recognized on the street and that was enough for me. Scratched that one off my list. Two down.

The fourth item on the list was to fuck in public. I did this with my wife. We went to a remote trail at a time when we would not likely be noticed. I was naked. She wasn’t. We fucked. That’s the kind of shit you can get away with at sixty-six.

Eight weeks went by since I told her I wanted her to fuck another man. That’s when I saw her blush, and laugh, with one. I got lucky. He was connected to our circle of friends. Gave us reasons to run into him again. I don’t have to tell you I took advantage of it. You knew I would.

Within four weeks, they‘d seen each other five times in the presence of our friends, or me. I found reasons to include him in our movements, or in our conversations. I also found reasons to compliment him during our post orgasm moments. She’d always agree with me. In one of those moments, I suggested we invite a few people over for a cookout. I listed him as one of the people we’d include. She agreed.

His name was Willis. He was the life of the cookout. I was absent as much as possible by fussing in the garage or the basement or going to the store to get something. I spent a lot of time talking to other people but I didn’t ignore Willis either. I gave her and him as much time as possible to develop a friendship.

Later she told me how much fun the dinner party was. I agreed and mumbled something about how I wished I’d spent more time with our guests.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Sometimes things have to be done to make a party work and you were doing those things. I thought it was all good.”

Payday. Big time. Normally she would’ve scolded me for neglecting our guests. The fact that she didn’t, well, told me she didn’t miss me when I wasn’t there. I call that a win for my side. We had sex later, she had a nice orgasm.

I said, “I don’t want you to get upset but I still want you to have sex with someone.”

She was quiet. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t pull away. This was a small victory. I hugged her. Kissed her goodnight. I was on first base.