So I’m at the bar last night with this guy I barely tolerate—more of a “charity hangout” than a friendship—and I decide to bring a little excitement to the conversation by mentioning that my wife and I are into wife swapping. Not even as a suggestion, just sharing something spicy to liven up the dead air. And the second I say it, this guy freezes like I just asked him to donate a kidney.
I go on to explain—because I thought I was talking to an adult—that it’s not some trashy one-night thing. It’s a two-week, structured arrangement. Exciting. Great for the marriage. But instead of responding like a normal human being, he starts gripping his beer like it’s an emotional support animal and sneaking weird glances at my crotch. Repeatedly. I don’t know if he thought there was some kind of “equipment requirement” for this discussion, but it was downright unsettling.
Here’s the kicker: I wasn’t even hinting at involving him (because, spoiler alert, I wouldn’t), but he clearly thought I was. He got all nervous and immediately tried to change the subject to the Lions’ defense—because nothing screams “I’m handling this conversation well” like pivoting to the NFL’s saddest franchise. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking, “Buddy, even if I was offering, there’s no way I’d touch your wife.” She’s enormous. Lovely personality, I’m sure, but she looks like she bench presses vending machines for fun.
And while he’s babbling about zone coverage, I can see what’s really happening. He’s totally fantasizing about my wife—because, let’s face it, she’s stunning—and probably thinking this is his one shot at improving his life. But let’s be real: my wife would chew him up, spit him out, and still have time to make it home for Pilates. The guy looks like he’d cry if someone called him “buddy” a little too harshly.
The best part? He tries to act like he’s “too good” for it, as if he’s taking some moral high ground. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there, watching a man in cargo shorts sip light beer, knowing full well he’s going to go home, Google “how to wife swap without embarrassing yourself,” and then stare at his wife, wondering why he can’t stop thinking about my crotch.
This guy. Have fun on “Missionary Monday” I guess. Weird deal.
I go on to explain—because I thought I was talking to an adult—that it’s not some trashy one-night thing. It’s a two-week, structured arrangement. Exciting. Great for the marriage. But instead of responding like a normal human being, he starts gripping his beer like it’s an emotional support animal and sneaking weird glances at my crotch. Repeatedly. I don’t know if he thought there was some kind of “equipment requirement” for this discussion, but it was downright unsettling.
Here’s the kicker: I wasn’t even hinting at involving him (because, spoiler alert, I wouldn’t), but he clearly thought I was. He got all nervous and immediately tried to change the subject to the Lions’ defense—because nothing screams “I’m handling this conversation well” like pivoting to the NFL’s saddest franchise. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking, “Buddy, even if I was offering, there’s no way I’d touch your wife.” She’s enormous. Lovely personality, I’m sure, but she looks like she bench presses vending machines for fun.
And while he’s babbling about zone coverage, I can see what’s really happening. He’s totally fantasizing about my wife—because, let’s face it, she’s stunning—and probably thinking this is his one shot at improving his life. But let’s be real: my wife would chew him up, spit him out, and still have time to make it home for Pilates. The guy looks like he’d cry if someone called him “buddy” a little too harshly.
The best part? He tries to act like he’s “too good” for it, as if he’s taking some moral high ground. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there, watching a man in cargo shorts sip light beer, knowing full well he’s going to go home, Google “how to wife swap without embarrassing yourself,” and then stare at his wife, wondering why he can’t stop thinking about my crotch.
This guy. Have fun on “Missionary Monday” I guess. Weird deal.
