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Years ago, one Saturday, my ex-wife’s friend came down from the DC suburbs. They very tearfully talked for a couple of hours. My ex reported the gist of the conversation, about how the friend’s husband was into kink, but she wasn’t.  The handcuffs during sex did not excite her.

I had visited their house  a couple of times. What struck me as odd was the comprehensive and well-maintained collection of Playboy magazines. They were on shelving, sorted by year, in the basement.   The husband was paunchy with skinny arms and a goatee. Really creepy looking, like he was sporting this Dominant Look that didn’t really suit him.

The really weird thing was all this talk about handcuffs and rough sex got my ex totally turned on. She was hot; we went to bed in the middle of the afternoon. She begged me for anal intercourse and I complied. It was a very passionate, unforgettable encounter. And, yes, she did have an orgasm.

I was dumb then. I didn’t really talk with her at length about this whole experience. Was there a need she wanted fulfilled?  I didn’t really see this as an opening to explore her sexuality in a way that would enrich our marriage. I was selfish and fearful of change.  There is no doubt that these are two of the reasons why she became an “ex-wife”.

The years went by. We had been divorced over twenty years when she died of cancer last Fall.  Our incomplete relationship went to the grave, or in this case, the crematorium.  And I deeply regret that incompletion.

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