Congratulations on Getting Her Out of That Sex Swing!

You love your wife. A lot. That’s why you let her sleep with other men: if you didn’t care about her you’d tell her to just find a new place to live and wallow in whiskey, but you love her so god damn much that you can deal with her fucking around as long as she comes home to you happy.

There’s only one rule, one critical rule, that you ask her to abide by: that she never fuck anyone with herpes. That means she usually has to vet her sex partners pretty carefully. But she’s been itching to get fucked by a guy with a sex swing for a good long time now and when she finally finds someone on OkayCups who has one set up and digs her weird asexual mermaid tattoo (it’s a fish with a fish’s head and a fish’s body but a person’s emotions as illustrated by a word bubble with the Seinfeld logo in it) she’ll beg you to accelerate the process and just let a phone interview pass muster. You’ll get into a fight about it and compromise by having angry sex and arranging to have his STD test results rush mailed to your house.

Those results will arrive today which, by a convenient narrative twist, will be the first day that your wife has arranged to sleep with her new gentleman caller. They’ll arrive in a manila envelope from the “totally legitimate STD test result agency” labeled as “Boner Speckle Test Results” and they’ll actually just be a form letter with a portion that lists off the STDs that the testee tested positive for.

You’ll have read more than your fair share of these letters over time so you’ll rush past the filler text to the good part: the list of diseases that your wife’s new toy has on offer. On the top of the list, in big bright red letters, will be the sum of all your fears: herpes.

When you see that word your heart will drop down from your chest into your stomach. You won’t even bother to put on your shoes you’ll be out the door so fast, letter and keys in one hand, cellphone clutched in the other. You’ll dial her with one hand, your Prius’ motor humming as loudly as it hums (not very loud) as you race to the apartment she arranged to have this latest stranger meet her at. Each ring of the phone will echo in your head as you calculate in your head the time it will take her to finish her customary glass of wine, to undress herself and then get in the swing. She won’t pick up.

You’ll be cutting it close – too close for comfort – when you pull up to the address she gave you you’ll leap out of the car, your feet pounding pavement, soles burning as you rush up to the door bearing the number she told you and slam your shoulder into it. It’ll give out after the second hit, caving before your weight and sending you careening into the room where your wife will sit, spread eagled in a sex swing, staring expectantly at you.

“What’s wrong, honey?” she’ll ask. Her eyes will dart from your face to the paper clutched in your hand, then back to your face.

“Test results came in,” you’ll pant.

Horror will creep across her face. Her lover will turn around, a look of shock on his face as he struggles to pull up his pants from his ankles. He won’t manage to get them halfway up before your cross the space of his apartment and plant your bony little fist right in his eye. He’ll go down with a soft little whine and roll up on the floor, leaving you to hold your hand out to your wife, ever the gentleman.

She’ll take your hand and delicately disentangle herself from the sex swing. She’ll dress calmly, double check to make sure she has her things and leave without speaking to the man she was about to sleep with. On her way out of the room she’ll kiss you on the cheek and whisper in your ear.

“Thanks.”

Congratulations on Getting Her Out of That Sex Swing!