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From: cwcobblest@aol.com (Cwcobblest)
Subject: Hubby Humiliation Bonanza: "Second Fiddle"
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"Second Fiddle," (MmF, wimp husband)
by c.w. cobblestone

I was staring a hole through the bottom of my cup and I didn't notice the
waitress
approaching my booth. 

"Would you like some more coffee, honey?" Her voice startled me.

"Uh...sure, thanks," I muttered. "Two sugars, please." I barely noticed the
woman as she
refilled my cup and set the two packets of sugar onto the table near my elbow. 

"Mister, you look like you just lost your best friend," I heard the waitress
say. "What's
wrong, honey? Oh, no, don't tell me - it's a woman, ain't it?" 

I shook away my thoughts and looked up at this annoying woman who insisted on
making
conversation with me. She was an older lady, in her 50s. She looked like she'd
been
waitressing for at least 40 of those 50 some-odd years! 

She repeated her question: "It's a woman, ain't it?" I nodded dumbly. She
smiled to herself,
impressed with her own clairvoyance.

"I knew it," she said triumphantly. "I've seen that look a million times. But,
don'tchoo
worry, honey," she added in a matronly tone. "Everything gonna be alllllll
right. There's
other fish in the sea." The woman flashed me a gold-toothed, sympathetic smile,
then she
was gone, off to wait on the other customers.

I glanced at my watch. Ten till ten. Still another hour before I could go home.

"Home." I mouthed the word silently, and it left a bitter taste on my lips. The
concept of
home was almost amusing, given my circumstances. Home is supposed to be a place
where a man can feel wanted, even when everyone else is rejecting him. Home is
supposed to be a place where a man can go to escape the cruel world.

For me, home IS the cruel world.

As you can see, I wasn't exactly feeling like the king of my castle as I sat
alone in the coffee shop, wondering what my wife was up to. Rachel has been
spending her Friday evenings with
James for more than a year, and she says I ought to be used to it by now. But I
don't
think I'll ever get used to these lonely nights away from home.
 
Who is James, you ask? Well, he's Rachel's lover. Every Friday evening, while
I'm out
cooling my heels in the coffee shop, James is back home fucking my wife's
brains out.

It's a long story. 

You see, I'm impotent. In layman's terms, that means I can't get it up. I can't
get a hard-on.
I'm a limp-dick. The bonerless wonder, as my wife calls me.

I don't know what the problem is. I'm okay when I'm by myself - but when I get
near a
woman, I freeze up. I went to see a doctor about it, and he told me it wasn't a
physical
malfunction. He said it must be a psychological problem, and that I should get
counseling.
But I just couldn't see myself lying on some shrink's couch, and I ignored the
advice of my physician.

So my problem persists. But I have another, more pressing problem: my wife. 

She told me long ago that she wasn't about to deny herself the pleasure of a
good, hard cock. So we've come up with a somewhat unique arrangement: every
Friday night, I vamoose while Rachel and her lover James spend the evening
together in our home. I have a standing order from my wife not to come back
home until 11:00. By then, they've usually done their thing, and Rachel is
happy again.

Sometimes Rachel will page me and tell me not to come home at all. Those nights
are the
worst. I've spent many a night driving aimlessly around town, waiting for her
to page me again, so I can come home.

It's a great situation - that is, it's a great situation for Rachel. She gets
all the sex she can handle, and on top of that, she doesn't have to worry about
me cheating, because she knows I can't get it up.

I'm not too happy about the arrangement, but what can I do? It's killing me
inside, but I know if Rachel doesn't get her way, she'll want a divorce.

*   *   *

Before I met my wife I tried to make it with three different girls, but the
outcome was the
same each time: a limp disaster. So, when I started dating Rachel, I avoided
the issue of
sex as much as possible, for as long as possible. I was terrified that she
would find out
about my impotence and leave me, just like all the others.

I'll never forget the night when I finally broke the news to her. We'd been
dating for about
four months, and we still hadn't had sex yet. It wasn't for a lack of trying on
Rachel's part -
she often got frisky with me, but I always found some excuse to get out of it.
How was I
able to ward her off for so long? Let's just put it this way: I had a lot of
headaches in
those days.

Anyway, on this particular night, we had been out drinking, and Rachel had
polished off
her fair share of the hooch. By the time I drove her home, she was feeling
mighty spunky. 

We were parked in front of her apartment building, and she started nibbling on
my earlobe
and making animal noises. I could smell the alcohol on her breath as she darted
her tongue
back and forth between my ear and the nape of my neck.

Suddenly, she reached over and put her hand in my crotch. I must have jumped a
foot out
of the car seat. I quickly pushed her hand away and mumbled something about
being tired.

Rachel's mood changed immediately. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Jerry?"
she spat
at me. "Are you a fag or something? Every time I try to get something going
with you,
you give me some lame-ass excuse. What's wrong? Are you a fag - or can't you
get it up?"

The blood drained from my face when she said that. How could I answer her?
There was
no way.

I tried to stand up for myself. "Look, I've already told you - I just don't
want to have sex
right now, okay?" I was trying to make a stand, but my words fell flat.

"Well, then, if you're not interested in a physical relationship with me, I
don't see the point
in carrying on," she said. With that, she opened her car door and stepped out
onto the curb. 

"Wait, Rachel," I called after her desperately. "Please, please don't go."

She stopped and turned toward me. She leaned down so I could see her face
through the
car window.

"Four months is a long time, Jerry," she said. "You're a sweet guy and all -
but what the
hell do you expect me to do? I have needs, Jerry."

"I know...I know," I said, shaking my head. What could I say to her? Did I dare
tell
her...the truth?

"Rachel, please get in the car. I have...to tell you something." I couldn't
believe I was
going to go through with this. But I couldn't just let her walk away.

Thankfully, Rachel reached down and opened the car door. I was flooded with
relief that
she was going to hear me out. Now...what the hell was I going to say?

Rachel scooted back into the passenger seat and I started driving. I didn't
know where to
start. I wanted to weigh my words carefully. 

"Rachel, I have a problem," I began tentatively.

"A problem?" she asked. "What problem?"

"Well...Rachel, I'm impotent," I said. "I-I don't know what the problem is, but
I just
can't...well, I can't get it...you know...up."

Rachel surprised me when she started giggling. It really hurt my feelings, but
she didn't
seem to notice. She was holding her hand up to her mouth, trying not to laugh.
She was
trying to keep a straight face, but she kept bursting into laughter.

"I-I'm sorry, Jerry," she said between giggles. "But that cracks me up. You're
impotent! I
can't believe it - Jenny told me that was the problem, but I didn't believe
her. Wait'll I tell
her she was right!"

I was furious! I couldn't believe that she had told her friend about our
personal business.
"You-you TOLD JENNIFER?" I screamed. "What the hell are you doing telling
Jennifer
about our sex life?"

"LACK of a sex life, you mean," she corrected me spitefully. "Yeah, I told
Jenny about it,
and she was right. You are a limp-dick!"

"Listen, Rachel, this arguing isn't getting us anywhere," I said, quickly
trying to change the
tone of the discussion. "Rachel, I love you. I know if you'd just be patient
and give me a
little time, we'll be able to work through my problem."

"And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?" she asked. "Jerry, I don't want
you to
get the wrong idea. I mean...like I said, you're a sweet guy and all...but I'm
not interested
in a platonic relationship with someone. I can have all the friends I want. I
need something
else. You know what I'm talking about, Jerry. I need to be fucked. I'm a woman,
Jerry,
and a woman needs to be fucked, hard and long."

Her words were shattering me, whether she knew it or not. 

"But...but I love you, Rachel," I said. "I - there's more to life than just
sex, isn't there? I can provide you with so much, Rachel, if you'd just take a
chance on me. I can get you out of
this apartment building and buy us a nice house on a lake somewhere. You name
it,
Rachel, you can have it. I love you, honey, and I don't want to lose you."

She was looking out of the car window, not saying a word. I put my hand on her
knee and
started to say something, but she quickly knocked my hand away.

"Don't you fucking touch me," she said. "You don't deserve to touch me, you
wimp. You
want to keep seeing me? Okay, Jerry, we can do that - but I want you to know
right now
that I'm not gonna go without sex."

"W-what does that mean exactly?" I asked, my heart sinking.

"You figure it out," she said, looking out the window again. "Now shut the fuck
up and
take me home."

>From then on, the roles in our relationship changed drastically.

*   *   * 

James entered the picture soon after we had our argument. He was a security
guard in the
office building where Rachel worked. She had told me about this "cute guard,"
who
worked at her building, but I hadn't paid much attention. Maybe I should have.

A few days after our argument in the car, I dropped by Rachel's apartment
unannounced. I
had a key, so I just let myself in.

I was surprised to see a big black man lounging on the couch, wearing just a
pair of
underwear. 

"What the hell's goin' on here?" I demanded. "Who are you? Where's Rachel?"

The huge black guy sat up and smiled at me. "You must be Jerry," he said. "I'm
James.
Rachel told me all about you."

"What...what did she tell you?" I asked. There was no way she would tell this
guy about
my sexual inadequacies...or would she?

James answered my question right away. "She tells me you need a crane to get
your little
peter hard, that's what she told me!" he said, shaking his head and laughing to
himself.
"She says you make a lot of money - but you ain't man enough to get the honey!"

I was humiliated beyond belief, and furious at the same time. How could she do
this to
me?

"Where is Rachel?" I asked again, this time in a more subdued tone of voice.
"Is..is she
here?"

"Naw, she went shopping," James said, leaning back onto the couch again. "But
you're
welcome to stay here and wait for her, if you'd like."

What nerve! This guy was inviting ME to stay at MY own girlfriend's' house! But
I wasn't
about to confront this guy. He was huge, and I knew I would come out on the
short end of
any confrontation. 

I mumbled something about having to get home, then high-tailed it out of there.


*   *   *

After Rachel found out about my encounter with James, she didn't even try to
hide her
relationship with him. She openly dated him, even after we got engaged. She
would call
me up at the last minute to break a date so she could go see him - or even
worse, she'd
stand me up completely, leaving me sitting in some restaurant alone and
broken-hearted.

Despite our unusual relationship, we got married that spring. Rachel insisted
that I ask
James to be my best man, so I had to suffer the indignity of having the man who
was
fucking my bride hand me the wedding ring! My family all wanted to know who he
was; I
told them he was a friend from work.

As promised, I bought Rachel a luxurious Cape Cod right on the lake. I was
working a lot
of hours in those years, and didn't spend too much time at home. It was a good
thing, too,
because Rachel was spending more and more time with James.

James doesn't like me to hang around when he's with Rachel. He says I'm always
in the
way, and he doesn't get off having me watch him and my wife make love. So we
quickly
figured out a workable solution: Friday nights are James's nights. He gets
together with
my wife on other nights as well, but they usually go out somewhere. But on
Fridays, he
comes to our home. 

My job is to make sure everything is perfect for them. As soon as I get home
from work
Friday afternoon, I start cleaning the house. Then I make sure there are plenty
of snacks
and a couple bottles of wine chilling in the refrigerator. 

Then I get the hell out of Dodge.

*   *   * 

Well, that's my story. Strange and unusual, I know, but it's my life now, and
I'm trying to
learn to live with it.

The clock says it's a quarter to 11. I suppose I can pay my bill and go home
now.

"Home." I mouthed the word silently, and it left a bitter taste on my lips.



THE END 


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