How I told my wife I was sleeping with her friend

Last April, while celebrating our anniversary at a fancy restaurant, I told my wife of three years that I was fucking one of her best friends.


Why blog about this? Well, back in the day, you’d go to a priest or perhaps a good friend to discuss personal issues you’re dealing with. The thing is: 1) I fucking detest religion and 2) I share most of my friends with my wife and that makes it really awkward to discuss my philandering, drug-use, occasional violence and other shittier aspects of my personality. Thank god for the internet!

So, back to the restaurant and my wife.

I’m quite sure we went to The Utrechtse Dwarstafel in Amsterdam, but for some reason I don’t remember for sure.

It was one of those nights that we just didn’t jibe. It is hard to pin down why. I mean, we were both going through the motions. She was wearing the dress I love. I was clean-shaven and wearing the cologne that turns her on. In the restaurant we splurged on champagne, the fancy five course menu and plenty expensive wine. We talked about the trip she was planning with her girl-friends and I bitched about my work. We laughed at jokes we had told and heard plenty of times before. On paper it was a date like any other. Yet, at no point did either of us really enjoy the evening.

This might make us sound like a out-of-love-couple, but that is bullshit. We were — and are — still truly in love, even after fifteen years of being together. Usually we have a great time together. Tonight just wasn’t one of those nights. This only happens a few times a year: frustrating, but nothing to worry about. We had actually been on a good run with not an awkward night in nearly a year. So it totally sucked that we had one of our shit-nights during our three year anniversary dinner.

When my wife is a fun-drunk she is hilarious and insane in the bedroom. However, when the vibe isn’t so good, she gets emotional and bitchy. My mood when drunk adjusts seamlessly to hers — or perhaps it is the other way around.

As I mentioned, we ordered plenty of wine. On good nights that is awesome, because when my wife is a fun-drunk she is hilarious and insane in the bedroom. However, when the vibe isn’t so good, she gets emotional and bitchy. My drunk-mood adjusts seamlessly to hers — or perhaps it is the other way around. Either way, by the time entrees were served we had been making unnecessary snide comments for a while. She was pissed off I had gained weight again and forgot her mom’s birthday. I pointed out that our two year old son did not need to wear clothes that cost more than mine and that I don’t like her mother and won’t call her unless absolutely necessary. Great fun!

Luckily, after fifteen years together, we have developed some relationship tools. One of them is a kill switch for situations of escalating nastiness. It is simple: the meanness escalates until my wife can’t control her tears. That is when we a) go quiet, pay and head home for a quick cuddle and sleep, or b) start over and have a first-date-like conversation and then the saddest make-up sex. I don’t know which one I prefer, but when the tears finally did come, I had to make a choice. And considering it was our anniversary, I chose to make an effort to resuscitate the evening.

I took my wife’s hands and told her I was sorry for all the mean crap I had said. I gently wiped away one of the tears in the corner of her eye and whispered that I loved her. You sometimes hear about women who are beautiful when they cry. Not my wife. She wiped her eyes dry and forced a smile and said “Sorry for going all Claire Danes on you. Let’s start over.”

Since we started watching Homeland, Claire Danes’ crying face has become something of an inside joke whenever my wife starts crying.

We had had way too much wine to discuss our kids or mundane topics, so we went to one of our favorite drunk-topics: sex.
“Perhaps tonight we’ll put on some porn and wake up the entire neighborhood with our screams,” I suggested.
“You don’t think I can turn you on by myself?” she asked with a sly smile. She was only playing offended. We both like porn in the bedroom once in a while.
“I don’t know. Do we still have lube? And which one of your friends are you inviting over?”
“Why only my friends? I am sure some of yours wouldn’t mind joining us.”

Tower Bridge

I smiled at the thought. “Sure, we can high-five while we’re at it. It’ll be like ten years ago.”

Under the table, her foot slid up against my leg and my hand worked its way up under her dress. Maybe the sex tonight wouldn’t be sad and disappointing after all.

Our little intermission of fun during a night of crap, was interrupted by the waitress carrying our desert. She was a beautiful slim tall black girl in a fitting dress. Quite a sight in Amsterdam, where the usual look for waitresses is jeans, sneakers, tangled hair and chipped nail polish. So, as she walked away, I took a second (and perhaps a third) glance. My wife noticed. Normally, she doesn’t care if I stare at another woman, but perhaps she had a point that our already disappointing anniversary dinner wasn’t the best time or place.

After berating me for my indiscretion and timing, she asked, “Do you think she is hot?”
“Of course. Want to invite her along?” I tried to make a joke out of it, but again my timing sucked.
She ignored my comment. “What about me, do you think I am hot?”

F me. We were hitting all the marks: first awkward, then mean, back to uncomfortable, past the brief moment when things were looking up, to finally end at the staple topic for drunk couples: existential relationship talk. She really had had too much wine.

“Fuck off, babe,” I told her. “You know I think you’re hot. Don’t start with this now. Let’s try to have a fun evening.”
“Do you think I’m as good looking as before the kids?”
“Sure.” I was starting to feel tired and bored. And angry: this kind of cliched soap opera dialogue is infuriating.
“So you wouldn’t rather have sex with Anna?”
“No.”
“How about Naomi?”
“Nope. Can we please change the subject?”

“Do you think I’m as good looking as before the kids?” “Sure.” I was starting to feel tired and bored. And angry: this kind of cliched soap opera dialogue is infuriating.

I knew this was in vain. We were going there. So let me catch you up real quick: Anna and Naomi are two of my wife’s girl-friends. (The ones she was planning the vacation with, in fact.) Both are part of the Amsterdam single-women-between-25-and-35 scene and they understand that to have even the most remote chance of finding a suitable guy in this city you need to look good. And they both excel at this: they are objectively hot. Anna just isn’t my type.

“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to talk about Anna again.”
“I wasn’t talking about Anna. Last year you said you thought Naomi was hot.”

Honestly, taking XTC, MDMA crystals or 4FA together is the best relationship advice I can give. You will open up to each other in a way that you would have thought impossible. And while some of our friends report trouble having sex after wards, we can go at it for hours at a time, even after ten hours of partying. Just make sure you get good (safe) pills and drink enough, but not too much water.

She had a point: about a year ago — in between the births of our son and daughter — we had used X at a festival and had a frank conversation about our relationship, sex and the struggles of staying monogamous-ish after fifteen years. I’ll leave that festival and the conversation for another post, but sufficed to say that at some point I told her I thought Naomi was hot and that if I wasn’t married, I would definitely make a move. Of course, I assured her, nothing would happen. Even if I were to make a move, surely one of her best friends would never let anything happen.
Until this dinner I had looked back at that conversation as one of the best moments in our relationship. I had never thought that my MDMA-high confessions would come back to bite me in the ass.

“That’s unfair. I told you that at DGTL when we were high.”
By now I was genuinely boiling inside. I had made an effort to right the ship after the first conversational struggles and now she seemed intent on torpedoing the entire night.
“I guess that’s when you speak the truth. Can’t you just answer the question.” Was she doing it on purpose?
I could have taken the high road and diffused the situation. Could have. “You know I think she is hot. She has a great body and knows how to use it. Those legs alone. Shit.”
“So you would fuck her if she would let you?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Certainly.” I guess I was drunk too. We were now both looking for a fight.
“Sucks for you.”
“Why?”
“There is no way she would ever fuck you.”
“Is that so?”
“Have you seen the guys she dates? You’re too fat and banker-ish.” She was getting more vitriolic than ever before. “Besides, she is my friend.”
“Are you so sure of all that? You know she has fucked other married guys before. Maybe I know her better than you do, after all.”
“Sure. Just keep on wanking off to her under the shower when I’m at yoga.”
“I don’t wank off when you’re at yoga.” Great come back.
“Sure. So you take a shower just for the hell of it at eight in the evening?”
“After my run, I do.” I was getting defensive. Drunk, angry, defensive and hurt in my male-pride. The perfect combination for restraint.
“You’re a shitty liar. Most of the time your track shoes are exactly where I put them and your running clothes are only wet, they don’t even smell like sweat.”
It would have been so easy to just “admit” to masturbating in the shower. Damn alcohol and testosterone. “I don’t jerk off when you’re at yoga.”
“Well, you aren’t running. Why take a shower? And why can I never turn you on Thursday evening or on Fridays?”
“You’re quite the detective, huh? You don’t know half of it.”

Suddenly, she seemed a little more sober. She sat up straight and looked at me like something had just clicked. “What don’t I know?”

Suddenly, she seemed a little more sober. She sat up straight and looked at me like something had just clicked. “What don’t I know?”
This was no longer fun. “Nothing.”
What don’t I know?
“Nothing, babe. You’re right, I jerk off when you’re gone.” I am never able to convincingly lie to my wife when I have had a few drinks.
“You’re lying. What the fuck, man?”
“So first you tell me I am lying about not polishing my rod and now you won’t believe me when I say I do?”
“What do you do on Thursday evenings? Tell me.
“I dunno. I play some guitar. Then watch porn and jerk off. Under the shower. Like you said.”

It seemed like we were both sober now. She was looking at me in a way I had never really seen her look at me. Pure suspicion with a little bit of disgust. Now that my anger and pride had caused me to talk myself into a corner, they were replaced by shame and fear. Was this how she would find out?

“You haven’t played that guitar in months. Where are you on Thursday evenings?
“Guitar. Or maybe I read a book. I don’t know. Can we please change the subject? The entire restaurant is looking at us.”
“Do you have a mistress?”
“Honey, I love you. I don’t have a mistress.” Very convincing. If I lied this poorly at work, I’d be out of a job tomorrow.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t have a mistress.”
“But you are fucking someone? Right? Tell me! Don’t let me be one of those lame wives whose husband fucks his colleague. Is it, Renee?” Good guess, but the last time I’d been with Renee was months ago.
“Babe. Please just let it rest.”

There was no way that she would let this rest now.

“So it’s Renee?”
“I am not sleeping with Renee.”
“Who then?”
“Come on, babe.”
“Tell me it’s not one of my friends.”
Goddammit, I was blushing and sweating. “Let’s ask for the check.”
Who? Rosalie? Laura? Brit?”
“It’s not one of your sorority sisters.”
All of sudden her eyes widened. “You said Naomi knows how to use it. Her hot body.”
I squeezed out a fake laugh. “Ha ha. She is always talking about her latest conquests, right?”

My less-than-authentic laugh, dilated pupils and body language must have given me away instantly, because she was already getting out her phone as I was stuttering through my response.

“I’m WhatsApping her right now to ask for the truth.”
“Please don’t app her. Let’s talk about this like adults.”
“So, it is Naomi?”
“Yes. I’ve been sleeping with Naomi.” Surprisingly, I was able to control my voice and it felt kind of good to have it out there. “Please don’t app her right now.”

This could have gone either way, but my wife put away her phone. We were now in uncharted waters. Would she scream? Cry? Walk out? I took her hand. She didn’t pull away. Good sign!

She turned to the pretty waitress that had started this whole shit show. “May we have the check please?” Then she turned to me. “I think we should have a drink at the Marie Heinekenplein and talk about this.”

We ended up at barca. A place that will always be special to me. It is where our relationship became stronger and better, at a time when it could have all come crashing down around us.

All of this is pure truth and there is more to come. Please follow me to read about the electronic music festival where I made my MDMA-high confession, the aftermath of this dinner date, how I actually got to fucking Naomi in the first place and what it all meant for the relationship with my beautiful wife.
Also, don’t bother trying to Facebook us. The names I used are (obviously) fake.
- Some Guy, sregydk@gmail.com
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