One man in particular carried on a lengthy murmured conversation with my girlfriend. That she gave him that much time indicated she had sized him up as U.S. Prime. One look at his freshly-pressed Armani suit, broadcloth shirt, silk tie and Tissot wristwatch confirmed that. I knew what was coming and readied myself for it. Dianna stood and turned to me.
"Baby," she offered carefully, "do you remember what we talked about over dinner?"
I nodded bravely and forced a smile.
"Good," she responded. "Ken and I are going to go next door for a bit and get... better acquainted. Will you be okay here by yourself?"
She and I both knew what she meant was: would I be okay with her going out to fuck this man? We had discussed it; at dinner and again in the car. She had been open and honest about it, pointing out this was what she was and she wasn't going to change. She had also assured me that no matter how much or how big a cock she got, she would always come home to me - and share the details of the men she had had. Susan hadn't done that; instead, she had snuck around behind my back with one man in particular, then (finally) come home, pretending nothing had happened. I had professed to Dianna I would rather be with her than Susan, knowing Dianna would be with men, sometimes several nights a week. Now, I had to step up and take myself at my word.
Something else occurred to me. Once again, I was thinking in terms of Dianna fucking men, not other men. What was happening to my self-image? I had only to look in the mirror behind the bar to answer that question. I gazed at the reflection – my reflection - dressed all in lavender suede and sheer black blouse with a full, fluffy head of blonde hair and overdone makeup. It wasn't like I had gone down kicking and screaming, either. How could I possibly still think of myself as a man?
Just let go....
I squeezed her hand reassuringly, even if I didn't feel it myself. My smile was a bit less forced.
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