J is for Jar
Christian
Thursday, November 3, 2011
When Ana and I planned our reception at the Mile High, I was so thrilled at the prospect of announcing our marriage, I didn't give much thought to the details of the reception.
Anastasia, on the other hand, wanted personal mementos from the occasion. So in addition to a photographer and videographer, she thought of another way to remember the occasion, and I'm so pleased she did.
At Ana's direction, a small blank card and envelope were tucked behind each guest's place card. In lieu of gifts, we requested guests use the card to offer anonymous tips for marital harmony.
While the advice was anonymous, I did recognize the handwriting on some of the cards, and most of the advice was directed at me. Our guests determined Anastasia needed no advice, but I required a shit-ton.
Elliot: Master the art of eating pussy, bro. That's the secret to keeping a woman happy.
Because Elena demanded constant cunnilingus, the act became a turn-off for me, and as a consequence, I never pleasured my subs in that way. But with Ana, I can't go down on her enough. Her taste and fragrance fuel my arousal. Lell doesn't need to tell me to eat Ana's pussy, because I have no intention of ever stopping.
When I saw a card with my divorced CPO's handwriting, I paid special attention.
I certainly don't want to end up in his situation.
Taylor: Don't fart or use the shitter in front of your wife. In the beginning she won't mind so much, but eventually it becomes a deal breaker.
I've never known the cause of Taylor's divorce, but apparently his lack of sphincter control is the reason little Sophie gets bounced between her parents. Ana may well get tired of me, but it won't be due to lack of control over my bodily functions. For damn sure, those his-and-her toilet stalls in the new house will be sound-proof and have adequate ventilation.
In my father's familiar handwriting, I found the well-worn admonition to never go to bed angry. My mother suggested "I love you" be the last things we say each night. In fact, most of the advice we received centered on bedtime rituals.
Flynn: No TV in your bedroom, and set strict boundaries for technology.
Ros: Begin and end each day with a kiss.
Grandmother: Only positive talk in bed. Pillow talk should always be sweet.
Grandfather: Always go to bed together at the same time each night. This seems like a small thing, but it pays large dividends.
All this bedtime advice has been most helpful to the two of us and we've embraced it. Since marrying Anastasia, my life has changed in many ways, both large and small. But if I had to choose one single change, the one with the most impact has been our shared bedtime routine.
All my life I've fought sleep. Instead of equating sleep with restoration, I'd associated it with nightmares. As a child, I hid under my quilt, book in hand, with a little reading lamp clamped to the cover. I stayed awake until I could no longer fight sleep.
When I reached adulthood, the book was replaced by a laptop or tablet. Eventually exhaustion would overtake me and I would drift off. The nightmares would time their arrival four or five hours in. I would awaken, unable to sleep, and I'd play my piano until it was time for my morning run with Taylor. I never knew the refreshment of a good night's sleep until I met Ana.
These days, Anastasia and I are usually in bed by nine. We don't turn off the lights until well after ten. In that last magical hour of our day, we read, we talk, we fuck. Not necessarily in that order, but a comforting pattern has developed.
Everything we've heard says our sexual connection won't last, and while I disagree with that assessment, for now we can't get enough of one another. We have sex every single day. Most often it's twice a day, and three times daily on weekends. Some couples say good night with a kiss, and we do that, too. But we've added a required good night fuck to the ritual, and most days there's also a good morning fuck.
All this sex is new territory for the two of us. Ana never had sex before me, and truthfully, I rarely had intercourse with any of my submissives.
On weekends with my submissives, it was lots of blow jobs or jerking off in their faces, along with at least one round of anal. Orgasm denial was a favorite punishment. I'm sure Ana imagines a very different picture of what went on within the walls of my apartment, but there was barely an illusion of intimacy, and the only ones who showed any vulnerability were the subs.
Besides Elena, there were only a half dozen or so subs with whom I ever shared vaginal penetration. I usually selected subs with a high pain threshold, those who liked the whip more than the dick. Vaginal intercourse was rare, used only as a reward for meeting contract milestones, and when it did occur, I entered from behind.
There was no face-to-face interaction with subs, nothing that might resemble love-making, because that might send the wrong idea. Many got the wrong idea anyway.
Of course, everything is different with Ana. She's more than a physical release. Every sexual encounter is a strengthening of our bond.
We're both proud of our special connection, and we do everything we can to enhance it. I suppose that's why we were both so enthused when we opened the envelope containing a very intriguing bit of advice.
Put a dollar in a jar each time you have sex. Earmark the money for a special "sex" savings account. On your twentieth anniversary, put the money toward something you can share.
The idea captivated both of us.
The ritualism of the jar was a romantic lure for Anastasia.
"It's a marital collection plate, a way to affirm and invest in our love," she said.
At heart I'm nothing more than an ambitious bean counter, so being able to attach a concrete monetary value to our sex life appealed to me.
Anastasia found a half-gallon Mason jar in an antique shop. I sent Olivia to the bank for several stacks of ones. We've packed the jar more than once already, and we have over three hundred dollars in our special fund. The account and what it represents are priceless to me.
XXXXXXX
My wife gives me a foamy toothpaste grin as she dances in front of her bathroom sink. The way she moves her toothbrush is reminiscent of the way she sucked my dick just minutes earlier. As I scrub my lower molars, I eye her in wonder.
How did I ever get so fucking lucky?
Our spit and rinse is perfectly in sync, just like the two of us.
Ana takes off running and I chase her. She lets me catch her. I toss her on the bed and pepper her neck with kisses.
"It's your turn tonight," she says reaching inside the nightstand drawer.
She hands me a crisp new dollar bill. I roll it tightly and drop it into the jar, sending up a thank you to whichever deity made this life possible.